By the light of the moon Read Free Page B

reacted to Dylan or to anyone, and when he
became obsessed with a jigsaw puzzle, this world seemed less real
to him than did the two-dimensional scene in the fractured
picture.
    With his calm right hand, Shep selected an ameba-shaped piece of
pasteboard from the box, glanced at it, and set it aside. At once
he plucked another fragment from the pile and immediately located
the right spot for it, after which he placed a second and a third
– all in half a minute. He appeared to believe that he sat
alone in the room.
    Dylan's heart knocked against his ribs as though testing the
soundness of his construction. Every beat pushed a pulse of pain
through his clubbed skull, and in sickening syncopation, the rag in
his mouth seemed to throb like a living thing, triggering his gag
reflex more than once.
    Scared to a degree that big guys like him were never supposed to
be scared, unashamed of his fear, entirely comfortable with being a
big frightened guy, Dylan was as certain of this as he had ever
been certain of anything: Twenty-nine was too young to die. If he'd
been ninety -nine, he'd have argued that middle age began
well past the century mark.
    Death had never held any allure for him. He didn't understand
those who reveled in the Goth subculture, their abiding romantic
identification with the living dead; he didn't find vampires sexy.
With its glorification of murder and its celebration of cruelty to
women, gangsta-rap music didn't start his toes tapping, either. He
didn't like movies in which evisceration and decapitation were the
primary themes; if nothing else, they were certain popcorn
spoilers. He supposed that he'd never be hip. His fate was to be as
square as a saltine cracker. But the prospect of being eternally
square didn't bother him a fraction as much as the prospect of
being dead.
    Although scared, he remained cautiously hopeful. For one thing,
if the unknown assailant had intended to kill him, surely he would
already have assumed room temperature. He had been bound and gagged
because the attacker had some other use for him.
    Torture came to mind. Dylan had never heard about people being
tortured to death in the rooms of national-chain motels, at least
not with regularity. Homicidal psychopaths tended to feel awkward
about conducting their messy business in an establishment that
might at the same time be hosting a Rotarian convention. During his
years of traveling, his worst complaints involved poor
housekeeping, unplaced wake-up calls, and lousy food in the coffee
shop. Nevertheless, once torture opened a door and walked into his
mind, it pulled up a chair and sat down and wouldn't leave.
    Dylan also took some comfort from the fact that the sap-wielding
assailant had left Shepherd untapped, untouched, and untaped.
Surely this must mean that the evildoer, whoever he might be,
recognized the extreme degree of Shep's detachment and realized
that the afflicted boy posed no threat.
    A genuine sociopath would have disposed of poor Shepherd anyway,
either for the fun of it or to polish his homicidal image. Crazed
killers were probably convinced, as were most modern Americans,
that maintaining high self-esteem was a requirement of good mental
health.
    Locking each sinuous shape of pasteboard in place with a
ritualistic nod and with the pressure of his right thumb, Shepherd
continued to solve the puzzle at a prodigious pace, adding perhaps
six or seven pieces per minute.
    Dylan's blurry vision had cleared, and his urge to vomit had
passed. Ordinarily, those developments would be reason to feel
cheerful, but good cheer would continue to elude him until he knew
who wanted a piece of him – and exactly which piece was
wanted.
    The internal timpani of his booming heart and the rush of blood
circulating through his eardrums, which produced a sound
reminiscent of a cymbal softly beaten with a drummer's brush,
masked any small noises the intruder might be making. Maybe the guy
was eating their takeout dinner – or performing