The Night Crew

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