Free By the Light of the Moon by Dean Koontz Page A

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 it?”
    Nervously surveying the night, expecting the black Suburbans to reappear with a roar at any moment, Dylan said, “I’m not a serial killer, a rapist, a kidnapper, bank robber, mugger, pickpocket, cat burglar, embezzler, counterfeiter, shoplifter, or jaywalker! I’ve had two speeding tickets, paid a fine on an overdue library book last year, kept a quarter and two dimes I found in a pay phone instead of returning them to the telephone company, wore wide neckties for a while after skinny ones were in fashion, and once in a park I was accused of not picking up my dog’s crap when it wasn’t even my dog,
when in point of fact I didn’t even have a dog!
Now you can get in this truck and we can scram, or you can stand here dithering about whether I do or whether I don’t look like Charles Manson on a bad- hair day, but with or without you, I am getting out of Dodge City before those stunt drivers come back and the bullets start to fly.”
    “You’re amazingly articulate for an artist.”
    He gaped at her. “What’s
that
supposed to mean?”
    “I’ve just always found artists far more visually than verbally oriented.”
    “Yeah, well, I’m plenty verbal.”
    “Suspiciously so for an artist.”
    “What, you still think I’m