By the light of the moon

he's
talking more, too. And talking more directly to me. Now that I look
back on it, he's been changing ever since this happened.'
    She knew what Dylan was thinking and what he dared not say, for
fear of tempting fate: that by virtue of the injection, with the
aid of the mysterious psychotropic stuff , Shep might find
his way out of the prison of his autism.
    Negative Jackson might be a name she'd earned. Perhaps at her
worst she was, as well, a vortex of pessimism, never regarding her
own life and prospects, but often regarding the likelihood that
most people and society in general would always find a hellbound
hand-basket in which to be carried to destruction. But she didn't
think she was being pessimistic – or even negative –
when she looked upon this development with Shep and sensed more
danger in it than hope, less potential for enlightenment than for
horror.
    Staring down at the tiny red point of inflammation on his foot,
Shepherd whispered, 'By the light of the moon.'
    In his heretofore innocent face, Jilly saw neither the vacant
stare nor the benign expression, nor the wrenching anxiety, that
had thus far pretty much defined his apparent emotional range. A
hint of acrimony colored his voice, and his features tightened in a
bitter expression that might have represented something more
caustic than mere bitterness. Anger perhaps, rock-hard and
long-nurtured anger.
    'He said this before,' Dylan revealed, 'as I was trying to get
him out of our motel room last night, just before we met you.'
    'You do your work,' Shep whispered.
    'This too,' Dylan said.
    Shepherd's shoulders remained slumped, and his hands lay in his
lap, palms up almost as if he were meditating, but his clouded face
betrayed an inner storm.
    'What's he talking about?' Jilly asked.
    'I don't know.'
    'Shep? Who're you talking to, sweetie?'
    'You do your work by the light of the moon.'
    'Whose work, Shep?'
    A minute ago, Shepherd had been as connected to them and to the
moment as she had ever seen him. Now he had gone away somewhere as
surely as he had stepped through the wall to California.
    She crouched beside Dylan and gently took one of Shep's limp
hands in both her hands. He didn't respond to her touch. His hand
remained as slack as that of a dead man.
    His green eyes were alive, however, as he stared down at his
foot, at the floor, perhaps seeing neither, seeming to gaze instead
at someone or something that, in memory, profoundly troubled
him.
    'You do your work by the light of the moon,' he whispered
once more. This time the suggestion of anger in his face was
matched by an unmistakable raw edge to his voice.
    No clairvoyant vision settled upon Jilly, no vivid premonition
of terror to come, but ordinary intuition told her to be alert and
to expect deadly surprises.

26
    Shepherd returned from his private moonlit place to
the realization that he still needed to shower.
    Although Jilly retreated to the bedroom, Dylan remained in the
bathroom with his brother. He didn't intend to leave Shepherd alone
anytime soon, not with this latest herethere complication to worry
about.
    As Shep pulled off his T-shirt, Dylan said, 'Kiddo, I want you
to promise me something.'
    Shucking off his jeans, Shep made no reply.
    'I want you to promise me that you won't fold here to there,
won't go anywhere again like that, unless you clear it with
me.'
    Shep skinned out of his briefs. 'Nine minutes.'
    'Can you make me that promise, Shep?'
    Sliding the shower curtain aside, Shep said, 'Nine minutes.'
    'This is serious, buddy. None of this folding until we have a
better understanding of what's happening to us, to all of us.'
    Shep turned on the shower, gingerly slipped one hand in the
spray, adjusted the controls, and tested the temperature again.
    Often people made the mistake of assuming that Shepherd must be
severely retarded and that he required far more assistance to take
care of himself than was in fact the case. He could groom himself,
dress himself, and deal successfully with many simple tasks of
daily life other than food preparation. You should never ask Shep
to make a flaming dessert or even to toast a Pop-Tart. You didn't
want to hand him the keys to your Porsche. But he was intelligent,
and perhaps even smarter than Dylan.
    Unfortunately, in his case intelligence remained isolated from
performance. He had come into this world with some bad wiring. He
was like a Mercedes sports car with a powerful engine that had not
been connected to the drive train; you