No reason at all.

 

He finished his meal, laid down his cash, and walked past the cops without

looking at them. He closed the door behind him and reached his car. He drove

off, the night beginning to fill in all around him.

 

His wounded arm was healing nicely. There had been minimal infection. His new

jacket covered the bandage.

 

He drove east.

 

He did not need much sleep. He only stopped and rested now because he wanted to

get into the habit of doing so, like other people did. Rogers did not want to

stick out. He did not want to do anything that would make others notice him. And

he could do lots of things to make other people notice. But if people with

badges and guns took note, he was screwed. And he did not intend to be screwed.

 

Not ever again.

 

His hand reached up and rubbed the spot. He could still remember when it was

done. Over thirty years ago. Lots of things had been done to him at that time.

 

What he couldn’t stand were the thoughts that he had, and also the thoughts that

he no longer had. Like back in the alley when the woman had been pleading for

her life, Rogers had remembered something. It was just a fragment of a fragment