Would they remember?

He wondered.

There certainly was enough to remember.

"SIMPSON THE BABY-RAPER says fearful wife"

Headlines of a similar nature filled the hinterlands and the cities, with enough follow-up reports on national news to keep him up nights worrying about that one stray fool who'd actually remember…

And he'd had no doubt that somewhere, someday they would meet. No matter that there had never been a single shred of evidence against him that would stand for a moment on its own support in a court of law. No!

Never mind the fact that not a single eyewitness raised a voice against him.

Ignore his record of brilliance, of dedicated service to his profession, the long list of credits, his awesome credentials.

Who among the mad mob could recall any of those?

But the lurid details… the pictures of those poor children… The anguished cries of heartbroken mothers… The circumstantial evidence…

He knew there was no shortage of morbid ghouls spread across the entire land who soaked up precisely such facts as a way of life almost, trying to season the bland stew of their own dull existence with the blood and sweat wrung pitilessly from the pages of magazines, tabloids, non-fiction thrillers…

He had no stomach for it, and knew that ultimately the final disappearance would be necessary.

It had happened, precisely for the same reasons that he had managed to slip away unnoticed in the first place.

There were still a few, a very select few who believed in him, who knew of him, of his work, who even now were ready to lend whatever assistance they could manage.

No, Lucus Simpson was not without friends.

But he was without human contact. He had planned it that way, structuring his life so that it became a closed box, a sealed jar, a self sustaining system.