The Night Crew

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