By the light of the moon

man by making a come-on gesture,
stepped aside almost too late, and kicked him in the knee.
    Crocker sprawled, rapped the pavement with his forehead, and
found it less accommodating than a car window. Nevertheless, his
fighting spirit proved less breakable than his face, and he pushed
at once onto his hands and knees.
    Dylan drew courage from the volcanic anger that he'd first felt
upon seeing the beaten boy shackled to the bed in that room divided
between books and knives. The world was full of victims, too many
victims and too few defenders of them. The hideous images that had
passed into him from the wad of cash, sharp images of Lucas
Crocker's singular depravity and cruelty, still ricocheted through
his mind, like destructive radioactive particles. The righteous
anger that flooded Dylan washed before it all fear regarding his
own safety.
    For a painter of idyllic nature scenes, for an artist with a
peaceful heart, he could deliver a remarkably vicious kick, place
it with the accuracy of any mob enforcer, and follow it with
another. Sickened by this violence, he nonetheless remained
committed to it without compunction.
    As Crocker's broken ribs tested how resistant his lungs were to
puncture, as his smashed fingers fattened into unclenchable
sausages, as his rapidly swelling lips transformed his fierce grin
into the goofy smile of a stocking doll, the drunk evidently
decided that he'd had enough fun for one evening. He stopped trying
to get to his feet, collapsed onto his side, rolled onto his back,
lay gasping, groaning.
    Breathing hard but unhurt, Dylan surveyed the parking lot. He
and Crocker were alone. He was pretty sure that no traffic had
passed in the street during the altercation. No one had seen.
    His luck wouldn't hold much longer.
    The keys to the Corvette gleamed on the pavement near the car.
Dylan confiscated them.
    He returned to the bloodied, gasping man and noticed a phone
clipped to his belt.
    In Crocker's boiled-ham face, cunning little pig eyes watched
for an easy opportunity.
    'Give me your phone,' Dylan said.
    When Crocker made no move to obey, Dylan stepped on his broken
hand, pinning the swollen fingers to the blacktop.
    Cursing, Crocker used his good hand to detach the phone from his
belt. He held it out, eyes wet with pain but as cunning as
before.
    'Slide it across the pavement,' Dylan directed. 'Over
there.'
    When Crocker did as instructed, Dylan stepped off his injured
hand without doing further damage.
    Spinning, the telephone came to rest about a foot from the wad
of currency. Dylan went to the phone, plucked it off the blacktop,
but left the money untouched.
    Spitting out broken teeth or window glass along with words as
mushy as his smashed lips, Crocker asked, 'You aren't robbing
me?'
    'I only steal long-distance minutes. You can keep your money,
but you're going to get one hell of a phone bill.'
    Having been sobered by pain, Crocker was now bleary-eyed only
with bewilderment. 'Who are you?'
    'Everybody's been asking me that same question tonight. I guess
I'll have to come up with a name that resonates.'
    Half a block north, Jilly stood beside the Expedition, watching.
Perhaps, if she'd seen Dylan getting his ass kicked, she would have
come to his aid with a can of insecticide or aerosol cheese.
    Hurrying toward the SUV, Dylan glanced back, but Lucas Crocker
made no attempt to get up. Maybe the guy had passed out. Maybe he
had noticed the bats feeding greedily on the moths in the
lamplight: That spectacle would appeal to him. It might even be the
kind of thing he found inspiring.
    By the time Dylan reached the Expedition, Jilly had returned to
the front passenger's seat. He got in and shut his door.
    Her psychic trace upon the steering wheel felt pleasant, rather
like immersing work-sore hands in warm water enhanced with curative
salts. Then he became aware of her anxiety. As if a live electrical
wire had been dropped into the hand bath. With an act of will, he
tuned out all those vibrations, good and bad.
    'What the hell happened back there?' Jilly asked.
    Handing the phone to her, he said, 'Get me the police.'
    'I thought we didn't want them.'
    'Now we do.'
    Headlights appeared in the street behind them. Another
slow-moving SUV. Maybe the same one that had earlier drifted by
well below the speed limit. Maybe not. Dylan watched it pass. The
driver didn't appear to be interested in them. A true professional,
of course, would conceal his interest well.
    In the backseat, Shepherd had