By the light of the moon

murderers in the name of justice. These were times
still hammered by the Utopian schemes that had nearly destroyed
civilization in the previous century, ideological wrecking balls
that swung through the early years of this new millennium with
diminishing force but with sufficient residual power to demolish
the hopes of multitudes if sane men and women weren't vigilant.
Dylan O'Conner understood this turbulent age too well, yet he
remained profoundly optimistic, for in every moment of every day,
in the best works of humanity as in every baroque detail of nature,
he saw beauty that lifted his spirit, and everywhere he perceived
vast architectures and subtle details that convinced him the world
was a place of deep design as surely as were his own paintings.
This combination of realistic assessment, faith, common sense, and
enduring hope ensured that the events of his time seldom surprised
him, rarely struck terror in him, and never reduced him to
despair.
    Consequently, when he discovered that Jillian Jackson's friend
and traveling companion, Fred, was a member of the stonecrop family
of succulents, native to southern Africa, Dylan was only mildly
surprised, not in the least terrified, and encouraged rather than
despondent. Dealing with any other Fred, not a plant, would almost
certainly have entailed more inconvenience and greater
complications than would coping with the little green guy in the
glazed terra-cotta pot.
    Mindful of the three black Suburbans circling the motel, a trio
of hungry sharks cruising a sea of asphalt, Jilly hurriedly packed
her toiletries. Dylan loaded her train case and her single suitcase
in his Expedition, through the tailgate.
    Commotion of any kind always distressed poor Shepherd, and when
anxious, he could be at his most unpredictable. Now, cooperative
when cooperation might have been least expected from him, the boy
climbed docilely into the SUV. He sat beside the canvas tote bag
that contained a variety of items to occupy him during long road
trips, on those occasions when he grew bored after hours of staring
into empty space or studying his thumbs. Because Jilly insisted
that she would hold Fred on her lap, Shep had the backseat to
himself, a solitude that would moderate his anxiety.
    Arriving at the Expedition with the pot in both hands, for the
first time appearing free of the lingering effects of anesthesia,
the woman had second thoughts about getting into a vehicle with two
men whom she'd met only minutes ago. 'For all I know, you could be
a serial killer,' she told Dylan as he held open the front
passenger's door for her and Fred.
    'I'm not a serial killer,' he assured her.
    'That's exactly what a serial killer would say.'
    'It's exactly what an innocent man would say, too.'
    'Yes, but it's exactly what a serial killer would say.'
    'Come on, get in the truck,' he said impatiently.
    Reacting sharply to his tone, she said, 'You're not the boss of
me.'
    'I didn't say I was the boss of you.'
    'Nobody in my family's been bossed in any recent century.'
    'Then I guess your real last name must be Rockefeller. Now will
you please get in the truck?'
    'I'm not sure I should.'
    'You remember those three Suburbans that looked like something
the Terminator might drive?'
    'They weren't interested in us, after all.'
    'They will be soon,' he predicted. 'Get in the truck.'
    '"Get in the truck, get in the truck." The way you say it is so
totally serial killer.'
    Frustrated, Dylan demanded, 'Do serial killers generally travel
with their disabled brothers? Don't you think that would get in the
way of doing a lot of grisly work with chain saws and power
tools?'
    'Maybe he's a serial killer, too.'
    From the backseat, Shep peered at them: head cocked, wide-eyed,
blinking in bewilderment, looking less like a psychopath than like
a big puppy waiting to be driven to the park for a session of
Frisbee.
    'Serial killers don't always look crazy-violent,' Jilly said.
'They're cunning. Anyway, even if you're not a killer, you might be
a rapist.'
    'You're a wonderfully cordial woman, aren't you?' Dylan said
sourly.
    'Well, you might be a rapist. How would I know?'
    'I'm not a rapist.'
    'That's just what a rapist would say.'
    'For God's sake, I'm not a rapist, I'm an artist.'
    'They aren't mutually exclusive.'
    'Listen, lady, you approached me for help. Not the other
way around. How do I know what you are?'
    'One thing for sure, you know I'm not a rapist. That's not
anything men have to worry about, is