On Friday the 11th of October, nine days after the killing began, my brother who lives in suburban Washington stopped to get gas.

It was at the same place he always gets gas. Only this time, he looked up and around. This is what people had been doing in the D.C. area, as a sniper shot people day after day. They surveyed. He noticed a tree line to the west of the station.

Jeff paid for his gas and drove back to the trees. "This is crazy,'' he thought. Then, just as quickly, "No, it's not.''

There was nothing back there. As Jeff returned from that spot, he looked in his rearview mirror, surveying. A white Isuzu box truck was behind him.

My brother was a cop, in Maryland and Denver. He felt a rush of cop adrenaline. "I pulled over, so the guy could pass me and I could get his tag number,'' Jeff said. The truck pulled over, too, about 50 yards behind Jeff. Almost immediately, the driver of the truck made a U-turn. Jeff did the same.

The white Isuzu box truck led my brother into a neighborhood, then pulled into a driveway directly across the street from a high school.

"Oh, my god,'' my brother said.

It was only then Jeff noticed the lettering on the side of the truck: National Children's Center. The driver had come for a donation. He'd gotten lost. My brother drove downtown to work.

Strange times in Washington, D.C. Awful times, life led on an electric wire, 5 million people walking a tightrope in a thunderstorm. Until Thursday, they were sprinting into stores. They were zig-zagging as they ran, like Corey Dillon in the open field. "It looked weird,'' said Sue, my brother's wife, who ran. "I didn't care.''

If they weren't running, they were crouching low and walking as fast as possible while bent over at right angles. At gas stations, they kept a pillar between themselves and open spaces. They shopped and gassed up at twilight when, supposedly, it was harder for a killer to see. The idea, Jeff said was "to make less of a target of yourself.''

Jeff and Sue debated whether to shop at Target. Target is a mile from Interstate 70. Two quick turns. Woods on three sides. "I don't think it's a good idea, going there now,'' Jeff decided.

Authorities have two suspects in custody now. That doesn't bring back the 10 people they are suspected of shooting to death. It doesn't fix how fragile our freedom is, or how easily it can be disrupted. Random acts of murder make us debate ordinary life as if it were life and death. Ten people in a metro area of 5 million had been killed. Everyone felt threatened.

So much of who we are depends on good faith and civility, a social contract that is universally accepted and adhered to. Murder is awful and scary, yet seldom random. There are very often reasons for it, and definite ways to avoid it. When murder can be explained, we don't feel threatened. These murders have no explanation.

"Everybody's looking for answers,'' Jeff said Wednesday. "There are none.''

His staff at work watched CNN constantly. Information gave them a faÁade of control. After the shooting of a bus driver Tuesday, police shut down roads for two hours. They searched all vehicles, not just white trucks. Nobody mentioned civil liberties.

Staffers who normally arrive at work by 9 barely made it in by noon. "They're all haggard,'' Jeff said.

When they finished for the day, they ran to their cars, tacking like sailboats in the wind. They stopped at gas stations where giant tarpaulins draped the canopy over the pumps, so the shooter couldn't see in. They grabbed a coffee and a little peace of mind.

If they had kids, they wrapped them in a tarp, too. No going out. No trips to the mall. No high school football games: They were being played 100 miles away, in places known only to the parents of the players.

Would we behave differently here? How could we?

The walls of civility have been breached. Freedom's implied trust has been trampled. It's hard to trust again in quite the same way.

"When I'm out shopping or getting out of my truck at work, I scan 360 degrees, 100 yards out,'' my brother said.

The suspects are in custody, but Jeff's still on guard. He's surveying. His freedom suddenly comes with a leash.

E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com