The Night Crew

way,’’ Wilson said.
    ‘‘Let me take a look,’’ Logan said. He squatted next to Creek, shined the light on his face and neck: ‘‘Three hits,’’ he said. ‘‘No arteries . . .’’ He pulled up Creek’s shirt. There were two small puckered blood entry wounds, one just outside Creek’s left nipple, another two inches above that.
    ‘‘Bad?’’ Creek mumbled.
    ‘‘The face isn’t bad, I don’t think, I can’t tell about the chest. The goddamn slugs can rattle around in there.’’ He pulled the shirt down. ‘‘Nothin’ to do but wait.’’ And to Anna, he said, ‘‘What’re you into, darlin’?’’
    Anna shook her head. ‘‘Cops think it’s a fruitcake guy, a nut.’’
    ‘‘Stalkin’ ya?’’
    ‘‘Yeah, something like that.’’ She screamed back down the street. ‘‘Where’s the fuckin’ ambulance?’’ And to Creek, ‘‘Hold on, Creek, God . . .’’
    More lights were flicking on, and a man shouted back: ‘‘On the way. Two minutes.’’
    Creek was flat on his back, his eyes half-hung, looking sleepy. She had him by the shirt, blood on her hands and jacket, Logan at his head, and she yelled at him, ‘‘Creek, c’mon, c’mon, hold on.’’

eleven

    Neighbors started leaking down the street, and built a ring around Creek and Anna. Then the cops arrived, two car lengths ahead of the ambulance, and the ambulance attendants dropped an oxygen mask on Creek’s face and lifted him onto a gurney.
    Anna, pushed away, stepped up next to the truck, felt the pistol against her leg. The cops were right there, the red rack lights banging off the houses, the neighbors gathering, everybody watching Creek.
    If the cops found the gun on her, they’d take it, they’d ask questions: might hold her until they checked the gun against slugs taken from Creek. She didn’t have that time. The truck door was right there, and she stepped up, and inside, toward the back. She opened the hideout box where they kept the Nagra, looked guiltily toward the open door, pulled the gun out and dropped it in the box.
    When she stepped back to the door, Creek was going into the ambulance, his eyes staring up at the night sky. Logan stepped over: ‘‘Blood pressure’s not too bad, that’s what they said.’’
    ‘‘Jesus, Logan.’’ She clutched his arm, let go.
    ‘‘If he’s not bleeding out, he’ll be okay,’’ he said. Logan was watching his hands: he wanted to pat her somewhere, but wasn’t sure exactly where, how she’d take the intimacy. ‘‘Once he hits the OR, they’ll handle it.’’
    The ambulance eased away from the sight, carefully working through side-stepping neighbors, then the driver hit the siren button and the ambulance disappeared down the block and around the corner. A uniformed cop walked over to them, one hand resting casually on his pistol. ‘‘Are you the lady who was with him?’’
    Anna nodded: ‘‘Listen, there’s a lot going on here. You’ve got to call Santa Monica, or L.A. County.’’ The cop put her in the back of his car, but left the door open while he and his partner worked the street, taking names and addresses of witnesses. Another cop car arrived, and two more cops began pushing people back toward their homes.
    Anna slumped in the back seat, her mind filled with Creek. He was a big man, almost overmuscled, hardened by life . . . but on the ground, looking up at her, he’d seemed almost frail, baby-like, dependent. Helpless.
    She turned to look out the back window and felt the cell phone in her pocket. The first two cops were down the block, and after a second’s thought, she found Harper’s card, took out the cell phone and punched in the number. Nobody home. She left a message and hung up, put the phone away.
    And she thought of the masked shooter. He was Harper’s size . . . but the voice? The voice hadn’t been right for Harper, as far as she could tell. Of course, the shooter had been wearing the stocking. But she’d heard it before. The voice was familiar somehow: tickled something in the back of her brain.
    Another cop car arrived, and after talking with the first arrivals, the two new cops came over to the car. ‘‘You say the man ran that way . . .’’ They pointed down Dell.
    ‘‘Yeah, and there’s a stocking . . .’’
    She showed them the nylon, and one of the cops asked, ‘‘You don’t wear nylons like this, do you? Just curious . . .’’
    ‘‘No. I wear nylons sometimes, but not this