The Night Crew (16 page)

‘‘He sold the stuff to Jacob and his friends. He didn’t know Jacob, but he described the whole bunch of them.’’

‘‘Jason?’’

‘‘He had no idea who Jason was.’’

‘‘Maybe he was lying,’’ Anna said.

‘‘No. Christ, he was bragging about it. I asked him if he’d seen the kid who tried to fly off the Shamrock, and he was laughing about it in the elevator. You know what he told me? He sold to the kids because ‘That’s my market.’ That’s what he said, like he was some kind of toy-company executive.’’

‘‘Ah, God.’’

‘‘ ‘That’s my market,’ for Christ’s sake. That was in his room—that’s when I hit him in the face. He was still smiling when he went down.’’

‘‘Jake . . .’’

‘‘I feel like I should have strangled the miserable little motherfucker,’’ Harper said bitterly, as they got to the car. He looked back up the street.

‘‘I wish I’d killed him.’’

‘‘So why’d you want the ambulance?’’

He looked at her, shook his head: ‘‘Because I’m fucked up.’’

fifteen

Back on the street, moving quickly, Harper still shaky: ‘‘You drive,’’ he said, tossing her the keys. ‘‘I’m not functioning too well.’’

‘‘All right.’’ She opened the car, climbed in, adjusted the seat. As she pulled away from the curb, she heard the siren: There was usually a siren somewhere in the L.A. background, but this one was closing in. As they pulled away, she saw the flashing lights a few blocks down Pico, headed toward the hotel.

‘‘Ambulance,’’ Anna said. She looked at Harper. ‘‘If that makes you any happier.’’

‘‘I dunno.’’ They spent the next five minutes in a ragged silence, Harper staring out the passenger window, away from her. She took the time to think, working over the logic of a connection between Harper’s son, a high school kid from the southeast burbs, and Jason, a street kid from Hollywood and UCLA. Where was the connection? And it would have to be a massive coincidence . . .

The lightbulb went on.

‘‘I’ve given you a hard time about this connection between
your son and Jason,’’ she said. Harper turned toward her; he was still off track, almost uninterested. ‘‘I couldn’t see how there could be a connection. But I let you do all the thinking about it. I had too much other stuff to worry about.’’

‘‘Has to be a connection,’’ he said. ‘‘The paper was torn, and it matched—I saw the two ends, I put them together.’’

‘‘There
is
a connection,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s been staring us in the face.’’

‘‘What?’’ Now he turned to her.

‘‘When your son jumped, Jason was right there, almost underneath him. I didn’t see it, because I was in the hotel, but Jason was close. A few yards away. He was hanging out before your son jumped, he was planning to ride with us all night. But right afterwards, he couldn’t wait to get away from us. Like something had happened in that few minutes. Like he got some drugs.’’

Harper thought about it, then closed his eyes and said, ‘‘Goddammit.’’ And then: ‘‘We’ve got to look at the tape.’’

‘‘You’ve seen it?’’

‘‘I saw it a half-dozen times before Ellen called and said it was Jacob. The tape was all over the TV, I didn’t know, just some jerk flying off a building.’’

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Anna said, aware of the hollowness of the sentiment:
this was what she did.
‘‘Look, I’m gonna call Louis. I never really looked at the raw tape. I was busy selling while Louis did the editing. I looked at Jason’s at the time, but didn’t see anything unusual.’’

‘‘So where does Louis live?’’

She slowed, looked at him carefully: ‘‘You sure you want to look at this stuff?’’

‘‘I have to.’’

‘‘If there’s something on the tape, it means . . . I mean, there’d be no
real
connection. So my problem wouldn’t have any connection with yours. Or you.’’

He smiled, just faintly, then leaned a little closer and patted her on the leg, just once: ‘‘
We’ve
got a connection now. Whatever’s on the tape. You’re not sliding away that easily.’’
Louis’ apartment was a nerd’s nightmare—or maybe a dream—a jumble of Domino’s pizza boxes, empty Fritos bags, a fat blue plastic garbage can marked ‘‘Aluminum only’’ with a backboard behind it, half-f of Diet Coke cans.

A projection TV sat in the middle of the front room, showing a severed power cord sticking out from beneath it, like a rat’s tail. The longest wall was dominated by industrial gray steel racks full of stereo, computer and telephone equipment, all of which seemed hooked together.

Louis met them at the door wearing a ketchup-stained t-shirt, gym shorts and a stunned look. He’d been up all night, he said, working, and had just gotten to sleep when Anna called.

‘‘I got the tape set,’’ he said. He kicked through the litter in the front room. ‘‘You guys want some Fritos? I got some somewhere. I got coffee going.’’

‘‘Coffee,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Wash the cups.’’

‘‘I already did,’’ he said, unconvincingly. He was back a minute later with the coffee, saw the cut cord on the projection TV and said, ‘‘Oh, shit. I forgot about that. I’ll have to put it up on a monitor.’’

‘‘What happened to the cord?’’ Harper asked.

‘‘I needed a plug last night,’’ Louis said. ‘‘I mean, it was convenient, and it’s easy enough to put back on. If you’d rather see it on the big screen . . .’’

‘‘Monitor’s fine, probably better,’’ Anna said. To Harper: ‘‘You’re sure you want to watch?’’

‘‘I’m sure.’’

• • •

Louis pulled the drapes to sharpen up the monitor, and started the tape. He caught the last few minutes of the animal rights hassle, the guy knocked over by the pig, then a few random spacing shots inside the truck, then suddenly the bouncing run across the patio of the hotel. Anna caught a glimpse of herself running toward the entrance, and then the lens steadied, swung up and fixed on Jacob. They could see his face, a confused smile, the boy’s head bobbing as the camera tried to orient itself.

‘‘Aw, Jesus,’’ Harper said, involuntarily turning away, closing his eyes.

‘‘Get out of here,’’ Anna said.

‘‘Naw.’’ He turned back, transfixed, as Jason zoomed in on Jacob’s face. The camera hung there, staying with the face, suddenly pulling back to get some perspective, then closing in again, getting tight, catching expressions.

Professional, Anna thought: very, very good.

At one moment, Jacob looked as though he might be dreaming. At the next moment, he seemed confused, or happy. He reached out once and Anna thought, ‘‘Here it comes,’’ but he leaned back, seemed startled to find a wall behind him, and Anna blurted, involuntarily, ‘‘No, no . . .’’

Harper stared. The kid started talking, maybe back to the window he’d climbed out of. The camera view pulled back: yes, he was talking to the window. He looked down at the pool, then back at the window. A pale schoolboy face appeared at the window, then a girl’s face, then the boy again, and the kid looked at the pool again.

‘‘He thinks he can make the pool,’’ Harper said.

The camera closed in on his face, and suddenly, Jacob shook his head, said something, and the first faint wrinkle of fear crossed his face. He turned to the window, and one hand went out, touching the wall behind him. He took a step back to the window, but his right leg had to pass his left, and there
was nothing out there, and suddenly, he was leaning over empty space: he was falling, and at the last possible instant, he tried to jump, to propel himself out toward the pool . . .

Jason stayed tight, the face and the trailing body, so close, the feet almost behind the head as Jason stayed with it . . .

‘‘Stop!’’ Anna shouted.

Louis cut the tape, looked at her.

‘‘Back it up, rerun in slow motion. Look at his right hand.’’

In slow motion, Jacob almost seemed to be swimming in the air. And at one point, a white, almost formless shadow seemed to pass out of his right hand. It stayed in view of the camera for only an instant, but it was coming at Jason, possibly passing over his head.

‘‘That’s the paper,’’ Anna said.

‘‘You can hardly see anything,’’ Harper said shakily.

‘‘There’s something there,’’ Anna said positively. To Louis: ‘‘Let’s see Creek’s stuff.’’

Creek had been further away, going for a longer perspective—but the paper coming out was clearer. The paper itself was no longer than a dollar bill, and only half as wide, and it fluttered, twisted, and landed behind Jason’s leg.

Jason stayed with the body for five seconds, zooming close; and Creek was still on the scene when Jason turned, almost stumbled, looked down, looked up and around, then stooped to pick something up.

‘‘That’s it,’’ Harper said. He stood and turned away from the television and said, ‘‘There’s no connection: none. We’ve been chasing a wild goose. Goddammit, I’m dumb.

Goddammit.’’

‘‘God,’’ Louis said. ‘‘We should’ve looked . . .’’

‘‘No connection. I didn’t see how there could be no connection. I thought Jacob had to be part of something bigger, that it couldn’t be that simple, that he just took some bad
shit and flew off a ledge . . .’’ The words were coming in a bitter torrent. ‘‘He was
my
son. If he was dead, it had to be
important
. Instead, it’s just . . . this fucking everyday ratshit life. No reason, no plot, nothing important, he’s just fucking dead.’’

‘‘Ah, God, Jake.’’

‘‘What can I do? I thought I wanted to kill the guys involved, and it turns out, nobody really even knew what they were doing. So I break a guy’s legs . . . Fuck it,’’ he said. ‘‘Let’s go see Creek.’’
Creek was dopey, but awake. He smiled, a lopsided smile, and mumbled something.

‘‘He’s much better,’’ Glass said, almost domestic. Anna thought he still looked caved-in. They sat for a while, Anna and Pam talking at Creek like he was a child. Harper sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Anna wasn’t sure how much Creek understood of what they were saying, and she was as worried about Harper as she was about Creek. When Creek drifted off to sleep, they left.

In the hall, Harper said, ‘‘I’m sorta impressed by Pam. She’s really taking care of him. How long had she known him? Couple days?’’

‘‘Creek makes an impression,’’ Anna said grudgingly. She didn’t want to, but she was starting to like Glass, brittle as she was.

Harper said, ‘‘What next?’’

Anna shrugged. ‘‘Well . . . I don’t know.’’

He picked up her tone and said, ‘‘Listen. I’m sticking with you. No way you’re gonna get rid of me.’’

‘‘You really don’t have any obligation . . .’’

‘‘Yes, I do.’’

‘‘No, you don’t.’’

‘‘Look, if you don’t know what I’m talking about, then
you’ve really got your head up your ass,’’ he snarled at her.

She thought about that a minute and then said, ‘‘We go to BJ’s and start tracking the sex story. But that’s later on—it doesn’t get started until late. Until then, I don’t know. I’m numb.’’

‘‘So am I.’’

‘‘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.’’