The Night Crew

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