The Night Crew

by John Sandford

  ‘‘The tape . . . God, Jake, I’m so sorry.’’

  ‘‘Yeah . . . I wonder, if you don’t mind . . . could you drive me somewhere?’’

  ‘‘Anywhere,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I want to go hit some golf balls.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  He didn’t look at her, just bobbed his head: ‘‘Yeah. That’s what I want to do.’’

  sixteen

  Anna drove to a range east of Pasadena, a dusty place on the side of a mountain where, Harper said, ‘‘You can hit from real grass.’’

  ‘‘That’s important?’’

  ‘‘Essential,’’ he said.

  The parking lot was up the hillside from the range itself, and they walked down a flight of stairs to the small clubhouse. The owner was a high-school friend of Harper’s, happy to see him.

  ‘‘This is Larry,’’ Harper said to Anna. ‘‘Larry, this is Anna.’’

  ‘‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’’ Larry said, his eyes shifting from Anna to Jake with some private amusement. He wouldn’t take money for the range balls: offered as many as Harper wanted to hit.

  ‘‘Do you want to hit a few?’’ Harper asked Anna.

  ‘‘No. I’ll get a coffee and sit and watch . . .’’

  There were a dozen golfers at the range, banging luminescent yellow balls down three hundred yards of sorry grass and desert rut. A fifty-foot-wide strip of longer, slightly healthier turf made up the teeing area. Larry got a plastic chair and a cup of coffee for Anna, and she settled in as Harper began hitting the balls. He hit a six iron for fifteen minutes, one ball after another, like an automaton, his swing seemingly slow, almost lazy. Easy as it seemed, the balls rocketed away in long, soft, left-curving parabolas.

  As she watched him, she realized he was emptying his head, or trying to. When he failed, the golf balls, though their flight still looked perfect to her unknowing eye, were followed with muttered imprecations.

  Anna got up once for a fresh coffee: Larry was leaning on the counter, watching Harper hit. He called her ma’am, and then said, ‘‘He looks sorta sad. You two had some problems?’’

  Anna said, ‘‘His son died last week.’’

  Larry seemed to contract: ‘‘Aw, man.’’

  ‘‘He’s pretty messed up.’’

  ‘‘I knew something was wrong.’’ He looked out toward Harper and said, ‘‘He’s got the prettiest swing I ever saw, outside the pros. But he looks tight today.’’

  Ten minutes after Harper started hitting, Larry turned on the lights. Harper stayed with the six iron for a while, then switched to a fairway wood. When he finished with that, he put it away, grinned quickly at Anna and said, ‘‘Could you run an errand for me?’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’

  ‘‘In the trunk of my car—push this trunk button on the key—there’s a shoe box with a pair of brown golf shoes.’’

  ‘‘Be right back,’’ Anna said.

  She headed out to the parking lot, climbing the stairs, whistling tunelessly as she went. Harper was hitting balls again, a louder crack now, and she turned to look back, saw the balls bounding into the net at the end of the range. He was hitting them hard now, working at it.

  She walked up to the car, punched the trunk key as she walked up and saw the lid pop open and the light come on.

  There was no presentiment, no intuition, no sixth sense. She never saw the man or even suspected his presence. She was looking in the trunk of the car when he said ‘‘Anna,’’ and the hair rose on the back of her neck.

  He was ten feet away, moving toward her quickly, soundlessly, dressed all in black: she couldn’t see his face, and again, for an instant, thought he was black.

  Until she realized: nylon mask.

  But even then, the softness and reasonableness of the voice lulled her, ever so slightly. She knew , but she didn’t believe .

  ‘‘Get away,’’ she said, stepping sideways. ‘‘Anna, we need . . .’’

  ‘‘Get the fuck away,’’ she said, the fear rising in her voice. She lifted one hand, fingers spread in front of her face, to fend him off. With the other hand, she felt behind her, along the side of the car, as she moved backward.

  ‘‘Anna, it’s all right.’’

  She turned to run, got two steps, but he grabbed her arm and she twisted violently, and tried to scream. But he pulled her close, pulled hard, and the breath seemed to leave her: the scream died in her throat.

  ‘‘Anna, we need some time.’’ His voice was harsher than it had been before, a huskiness that seemed plainly sexual. ‘‘I’ve got my car . . .’’

  She could hear the words, but couldn’t process them. She slashed at him with the fingernails of her right hand, caught him across his face, tried to kick at him . . .

  And he hit her.

  Hit her with an open hand, on the side of the head. The blow knocked her off her feet, in the narrow space between the two cars. Again she tried to scream, but nothing happened. The man was standing over her. ‘‘Anna,’’ he said, ‘‘Anna, Anna, come on, Anna . . .’’

  She scrambled to get away, but he was pushing her down into the gravel. She kicked straight out, caught an ankle, and he fell on top of her, swearing, catching his weight on one hand. She tried to get up, get free, but he was clinging to her shirt.

  She was overwhelmed by her impressions of the man: He was strong, but his stomach was soft. He’d eaten onions, and not too long before. He’d perfumed himself with something; he was sweating.

  And he had an erection: as she tried to crawl forward between the cars, he was pressing his hips into her butt, and she felt him, distinctly. She twisted, and hit him in the face with one fist. She could see the wet spot on the nylon stocking, where his mouth was, and just the barest flash of eyes, but nothing else. He was like a dark psychotic snowman.

  She was still struggling for air and she got her hands on the front tires of the two cars and pushed back and up, got her feet beneath her. He chanted, ‘‘Anna, Anna,’’ trying to pin her over the car. He could have beaten her unconscious— she was afraid he’d do that—but for some reason, he’d only hit her once. He seemed to be making an effort not to hurt her badly, and that allowed her to resist, though never quite escape.

  As they continued the violent scrum in the space between the cars—it seemed to have gone on forever, but actually couldn’t have been more than a few seconds—and her breath began to come and she tried again to scream, but the sound came out as a groan, or a cry; not loud enough to be heard below.

  ‘‘Oh, no, Anna, you don’t do that, oh, no . . .’’

  He was right on top of her, his face riding up over her right shoulder. She turned quickly, almost as though to kiss him, but instead, she bit: and caught a fifty-cent-sized circle of flesh below his cheekbone and bit down hard .

  He shrieked, and pulled back, but she was hooked in like a leech, and her head came up with his, and she bit harder, felt her teeth cutting through tissue.

  And suddenly she was gone. She felt odd, floating, and realized that she was lying on the ground. She could smell the gravel and the dry earth beneath it, feel the gravel chips pressing into her cheeks . . . but she didn’t know how she’d gotten there.

  His voice seemed far away, and she pumped her legs once, trying to get under a car, but he was riding her again, one hand pulling at the zipper on her pants, and she could again feel his erection grinding into her.

  ‘‘You goddamn bitch . . .’’ He hit her on the head. ‘‘You bitch, you bit me . . .’’

  ‘‘Don’t,’’ she groaned. ‘‘Don’t do that . . .’’ He was thrusting at her now, a hard, heavy pumping, and she could feel his breath coming harshly into her neck as he continued to grope for the zipper. She bore down on his hand, trying to grind it into the gravel, and he tried to turn her. As he did, she snapped at him with her teeth again. He pulled back, and when he lifted away his face, lifted his chest high enough to get a full breath, she finally . . .
/>   Screamed.

  High, piercing, loud.

  Her attacker froze, then clouted her again, and again, then half stood.

  Dizzy, hurt, she tried to crawl, thought she heard somebody shout from below, ‘‘Hey . . .’’ and they were coming, running.

  She crawled away from him, trying to stand, and screamed again, and he said, ‘‘See you later.’’ He kicked her in the back and she pitched forward onto her face, catching herself with her hands, gravel biting into her.

  When he did that, kicked her, he turned, but she rolled and the anger had her by the throat now, and she went after him, as he ran across the parking lot toward the hillside. He saw her coming and said, ‘‘Get away,’’ and slowed to hit her. She dove under his arm and grabbed his leg in a football tackle. But he didn’t go down, like football players on TV. Instead, he took the impact, then hit her again, kicked her free and ran.

  There were more people coming now, men running up the hill. Her attacker was headed toward the hillside brush, and she was on her hands and knees and then on her feet, running, blind with the anger, no fear at all. She caught him again as he tried to climb and he said, ‘‘Jesus Christ,’’ and hit her again, clumsily. She was faster than he was, but couldn’t fight the longer reach and heavier weight. But if she could just hold on until Harper got there . . .

  She tried for his eyes and he hit her one last time, this time catching the side of her nose, and she fell back down the hill, too stunned to get up. But she tried, anyway, hearing him above her, tried to get her feet going . . .

  She was still trying when Harper arrived, three or four men with him, two of them carrying golf irons. ‘‘Oh, my God, Anna.’’ She felt no fear at all, barely heard him: but there was fear in his voice. He picked her up and said, ‘‘Oh, my God, she’s bleeding bad. Larry, we gotta get her to a hospital.’’

  But she was waving him off. She wasn’t hurt, though she had an odd stinging or burning sensation just above her hairline, and her face was numb, and part of her back. ‘‘No, no, no . . . let me go.’’

  She tried to tell them: they had to get him, get up the hill.

  ‘‘We’re going to the hospital . . . Where’d he go? It was the guy? Did you get his number?’’

  He confused her for a minute, then she understood: they thought there’d been a car. She shook her head and pointed at the hill. ‘‘He ran . . . that way.’’

  ‘‘Larry, call the cops, we got him on foot.’’

  Larry started back toward the stairway, but said, ‘‘Not for long. Basket Drive’s over there, and there’s an overlook. Bet that’s where he’s parked.’’

  Harper shouted at him, ‘‘Larry! Call the fuckin’ cops! Tell them . . .’’ And as he put her in the passenger seat and pulled the buckle over her, he asked, ‘‘Where’s the hospital, somebody?’’

  One of the other golfers, an older man with a short steelcolored crewcut and aviator glasses, said, ‘‘I’ll ride along, I can point you.’’

  ‘‘Get in.’’

  ‘‘I’m all right,’’ Anna protested feebly.

  ‘‘Bullshit.’’ Harper had piled in the driver’s side, the steelhaired man in the back, and she realized that Harper was frantic: ‘‘Hang on.’’

  The hospital was two minutes away. Harper insisted on carrying her inside, and as they came through the emergency room doors, a nurse behind the counter took one look and ran around and grabbed a gurney and pushed it toward them. Harper put her on it, the sheets stiff and starched beneath her, and the woman started asking questions and then . . .

  She drifted away. She could hear them talking, a noisy hash of words. Then another woman was there, in a suit, looking down at her face. She closed her eyes—couldn’t seem to help herself—and then she was rolling along a corridor, around a turn to the left. More voices, all women now, and something cool touched her face, wet.

  ‘‘Anna?’’ Woman’s voice.

  She opened her eyes. She was looking at a light on the ceiling. She tried to pull herself back together.

  ‘‘Yeah. I’m here,’’ she said.

  ‘‘How do you feel?’’

  ‘‘Not so bad.’’ She actually grinned. ‘‘I think I could walk out of here. But I’m tired.’’

  ‘‘I’ll bet.’’ Anna turned her head and saw the woman: she had an absorbent gauze pad in her hand, and it was soaked with blood. ‘‘Is that from me?’’

  The woman looked down at the pad and said, ‘‘Yes— you’ve got a scalp cut. Not bad, but they bleed like crazy. You’ll need some stitches. And you’ve got some smaller cuts on one of your arms.’’

  The doctor shined a light in her eyes, gently moved her head, her neck, compressed her ribs. Had her remove her blouse and jeans, found small cuts, scuffs and bruises on her arms, her side, one leg.

  ‘‘I think you’re okay,’’ the doctor said, conversationally. ‘‘I better put a few stitches on that scalp cut, though.’’

  ‘‘Go ahead.’’

  The doctor used a topical anesthetic, but the stitches still hurt. ‘‘Nice that you’ve got dark hair—they’ll be completely invisible,’’ the doctor said. ‘‘Your face was covered with blood when you came in, like a mask. Your friend thought you were dying.’’

  ‘‘He was pretty freaked out,’’ Anna said. Despite the stitching, she yawned, apologized, and said, ‘‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’’

  ‘‘Your system is closing down. You’ll need some sleep. With the adrenaline and the wrestling around, the blows . . . you had about two weeks’ wear and tear in two minutes. You’ll sleep for a while.’’

  Then she asked, ‘‘The gentleman who brought you in . . . he wasn’t involved in any way, was he?’’

  Anna was startled. ‘‘No, no, he was actually hitting golf balls, and I went out to the parking lot to get something. Some shoes, actually, and this other guy was waiting.’’

  ‘‘You’re sure? You can tell me.’’

  ‘‘I know what you’re getting at,’’ Anna said. ‘‘This guy . . . he’s okay.’’

  ‘‘All right.’’ The doctor dropped her hands to her lap. ‘‘All done—except the part where you pay.’’

  They were at the hospital for two hours: when it appeared that Anna would be all right, Harper sent the elderly golfer back to the range in a cab, then sat next to the bed where they put her.

  Two uniformed cops came by, spoke to her for a few moments, then an L.A. County detective showed up. The detective took her through the attack, then said, ‘‘Uh, could you, uh, stand up . . .’’

  She stood up and he turned her by the shoulder and said, ‘‘Yeah.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ She tried to look over her shoulder.

  ‘‘We’re going to have to take your jeans,’’ he said; he seemed embarrassed. ‘‘The guy, uh . . . ejaculated on you . . .’’

  ‘‘Ah, God,’’ Anna said. The doctor said, ‘‘I’ll get you some scrubs.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ the detective said, ‘‘but we can get a DNA trace—we might even get lucky and get a cold ID.’’

  ‘‘Fat chance,’’ Harper said.

  The detective shrugged: ‘‘It’s been done.’’

  The doctor got her some green scrub pants, and Anna gave her jeans to the detective, who put them in a plastic bag. ‘‘Pasadena’s got some guys going over the parking lot,’’ he said. ‘‘If we could get you back there for just a few minutes, we’d appreciate it.’’

  ‘‘Can I go?’’ Anna asked the doctor.

  ‘‘Yes—but you’ll be sore tomorrow,’’ the doctor warned. ‘‘Take some ibuprofen tonight and as soon as you get up in the morning.’’

  The owner of the driving range met them in the lot, where he’d been talking to a half-dozen cops. Things were happening now, Anna thought: the story was getting larger. But the range owner was thinking lawsuit . He was a worried man. Anna showed him a small smile: ‘‘Don’t worry about it,’’ she said. ‘‘We brought the trouble to you
.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Yeah, yeah.’’ Anna walked the cops through the lot, showed them where the struggle took place, where the guy ran. The scrub pants flapped around her ankles as she walked. The cops traced the flight path in the dark, up the hill through brush and shrubs, found a few scuff marks near the scenic overlook.

  ‘‘We’ll check the houses around, see if anybody saw a car,’’ one of the cops said. ‘‘I wouldn’t be too hopeful.’’

  ‘‘You’re lucky,’’ said another one. ‘‘If he’d just wanted to take you home, he could’ve hit you with a sap, dumped you in the trunk of his car and nobody would’ve known what happened. But he tried to talk to you.’’

  ‘‘It’s love,’’ said the first cop. ‘‘Saved by love.’’

  Anna slept on the way home, drifting in and out. When they pulled up outside her house, Harper got out, his gun at his side. He looked around the yard, then came back and opened the car door, led her to the house, waited while she unlocked the door, then led the way inside. He checked the ground floor, the doors, the windows, then the second floor.

  ‘‘Should be okay,’’ he said. ‘‘But the guy’s tracking us. He picked us up somewhere along the way, and followed us right out to the range. If we stay here, we’ll be sitting ducks.’’

  ‘‘Unless it was just the Pasadena neighborhood pervert.’’

  ‘‘You don’t believe that,’’ he said.

  ‘‘No. He knew my name.’’

  She left Harper downstairs, moving furniture, the better to repel boarders, and went upstairs and looked at herself in the big bathroom mirror. Scuffed up, she thought. Beat up. She shivered, thinking about it: and about the man’s sweat on her, about the semen on her pants.

  She pulled off her blouse and bra, slipped out of the scrub pants, wadded them, threw them toward the waste basket and then growled after them. She surprised herself with the growl, a harsh, guttural snarl. The guy had been controlling her life for a week. Had gone after people she’d known, people she loved, had come after her.