By the light of the moon

chloroform till the Nembutal overdose kicked
in.'
    Dylan's shock gave way to anger, but not entirely a personal
anger arising from what this monstrous man had done to their
family. Indignation was a part of it, too, a wrath directed not
merely at Lincoln Proctor but at evil itself, at the fact of its
existence. All of humanity might be fallen from grace, but far too
many among humankind eagerly embraced darkness, sowed the earth
with cruelty and fed on the misery of others, falling farther
still, down and down, thrilled by the plummet.
    'I assure you,' Proctor told Blair O'Conner, 'your husband felt
no pain. Though he was unconscious, I took great care not to force
the intubation.'
    Dylan had felt this way on finding Travis chained to that bed on
Eucalyptus Avenue: sympathy for all the victims of violence and a
pure poignant rage on their behalf. Storming through him were
emotions no less overblown than those of the characters in an
opera, which he found as strange as anything else that had happened
to him, as strange as his new sixth sense, as strange as being
folded.
    'I'm not at all a good man,' Proctor said, indulging in the
smarmy self-deprecation that had been his style the previous night,
when he injected Dylan. 'Not a good man by any standard. I know my
faults, and I've got plenty. But as bad as I am, I'm not capable of
inflicting pain thoughtlessly or when it isn't absolutely
necessary.'
    As though Jilly shared Dylan's operatic wrath and painfully
affecting pity for the weak, the victimized, she went to the older
Shepherd, on whom her compassion could have an effect not possible
on the untouchable boy of this earlier era. She put an arm around
Shep, gently turned him away from Lincoln Proctor, from his mother,
so that he would not witness again what he had seen ten years
ago.
    'By the time I rigged the hose from the exhaust pipe,' Proctor
said, 'Jack was so deeply asleep that he never knew he was dying.
He had no sense of suffocation, no fear. I regret what I did, it
eats at me, even though I had no choice, no option. Anyway, I feel
better that I've had the chance to let you know your husband didn't
abandon you and your children, after all. I regret misleading you
till now.'
    To Proctor's self-justification and to the realization that her
own death was imminent, Blair O'Conner reacted with a defiance that
stirred Dylan. 'You're a parasite,' she told Proctor, 'a stinking
ugly worm of a man.'
    Nodding as he slowly crossed the room toward her, Proctor said,
'I'm all that and worse. I have no scruples, no morals. One thing
and one alone matters to me. My work, my science, my vision. I'm a
sick and despicable man, but I have a mission and I will see it
through.'
    Although the past would surely remain immutable, as unchangeable
as the iron hearts of madmen, Dylan found himself moving between
his mother and Proctor, with the irrational hope that the gods of
time would in this one instance relax their cruel laws and allow
him to stop the bullet that had ten years ago killed Blair
O'Conner.
    'When I took those diskettes off Jack's body,' Proctor said, 'I
didn't know he'd been given two sets. I thought I had them all.
I've only recently learned differently. The set I took from him
– he had intended to turn those over to the authorities. The
others must be here. If they'd been found, I'd already be in jail,
wouldn't I?'
    'I don't have them,' Blair insisted.
    His back to his mother, Dylan faced Proctor and the muzzle of
the handgun.
    Proctor looked through him, unaware that a visitor through time
stood in his way. 'Five years is a long time. But in Jack's line of
work, tax-law considerations are damn important.'
    Trembling with emotion, Dylan approached Proctor. Reached out.
Put his right hand on the pistol.
    'The federal statute of limitations in tax matters,' Proctor
said, 'is seven years.'
    Dylan could feel the shape of the handgun. The chill of
steel.
    Clearly, Proctor failed to sense any pressure from Dylan's hand
upon the weapon. 'Jack would have been in the habit of saving all
his records at least that long. If ever they're found, I'm
through.'
    When Dylan tried to close his hand around the pistol, to pull it
from the killer's grip, his fingers passed through the steel and
folded into an empty fist.
    'You're not a stupid woman, Mrs. O'Conner. You know about the
seven years. You've kept his business records. I'm sure that's
where the diskettes will be. You might not have realized they
existed. But now that you