The Night Crew

of planning to take you upstairs tonight.’’
    He thought about that for a second, and a pleased look crossed his face. ‘‘That would have been nice.’’
    ‘‘I’m still gonna do it, if you’re around,’’ she said. ‘‘But today—today was a little too much.’’
    ‘‘I know. I will be around.’’ Back upstairs, she crawled under the quilt her mother made, and before she drifted away, thought about Jake: she liked him, a lot. She even liked watching him hit golf balls.
    On the darker side, she thought about the scene in Louis’ living room, when they looked at the tape.
    What did she do for a living? What was she becoming? And why wasn’t she more frightened? She was frightened— but above that, she was angry, and in some dark way, interested. My God , she thought: this is a good story. Gotta get right on it .
    She was supposed to be a musician, a classical pianist— but whatever anyone might think about the night crew, it was apparent from the Jacob tapes that they were very, very good at what they did. Watched a man dying, never lost the frame.
    And she ran the crew. She was better on the street, she thought, than she was at the piano.
    Then she was gone, asleep, a killer back in the dark drapes of her dreams; and with it, a hard little diamond of anger.
    She was gonna get him.

seventeen

    The two-faced man was covered with blood—his own blood—running down his face and arms. He licked at it, and the blood was both sweet and salty on his tongue; but his face was on fire.
    The wounds hurt, but didn’t really matter: what mattered was the failure. The explosion of his dreams.
    Anna didn’t want him.
    And he’d run like a chicken.
    He’d felt real fear: Anna had come after him like a madwoman, and he thought for a moment that she’d pull him down. If the others had gotten there, they would have lynched him.
    The humiliation hurt worse than the bite—although the bite hurt badly enough. He gagged in pain, pressed the palm of his hand to his cheek.
    Still. He would heal. But the memory of thrashing up the hill, being chased by this small woman . . . that memory wouldn’t go away. He’d remember that forever.
    He’d gone to her expecting recognition. He’d eliminated the others. Hadn’t that proven something? Didn’t that give him some rights? He’d expected resistance, but then, he thought, she’d see the fire, feel the steel, and she’d come with him.
    She’d slept with other men. He didn’t like it, but he accepted it. He also knew that the others didn’t love her: they simply used her. Jason O’Brien, Sean MacAllister, her driver, Creek. Users. Takers.
    He’d gone to her; virtually begged her . . . He flashed back to the sex: he’d bent her over the car, had been plucking at her pants, and suddenly, from the friction of the contact, the excitement, he’d ejaculated.
    He remembered that without pleasure; because he also remembered running frantically across the parking lot, his penis protruding from his pants, wobbling around like a crazed-comic compass pointer, leading him into the brush.
    He’d managed to tuck himself back inside before he hit the thorn trees, or he’d really have been hurt.
    Had she seen that? Were she and her bodyguard off somewhere, laughing about it?
    He closed his eyes: Of course they were. He could feel it. And quick as that, love turned to hate; as it had with his teacher, Mrs. Garner. As it had with a kitten that scratched . . .
    He’d have to get her, now. He’d have to erase her.
    The inner and outer faces agreed.
    She didn’t want him? Okay.
    First, he’d show her what fear was. He’d frighten her worse than she had frightened him.
    He licked at the blood on his arm.
    Then he’d cut her to pieces.
    Anna Batory was a dead woman walking.

eighteen

    One of the dreams, something unpleasant, woke her; the diamond of anger was there, like a pebble in her shoe. Unlike a pebble, she cherished it, nurtured it, willed it to grow . . .
    The clock glowed at her in the near-dark: six in the morning. She rolled over, tried to sleep, failed. Giving up, she swiveled to drop her feet on the floor—and needles of pain shot through her shoulders and ribs. She said, ‘‘Ooo,’’ silently, rolled her arms, then cautiously stood up. Her legs hurt, especially along the inside of her thighs; and she could feel the strain in her butt, where the big muscles connected to her pelvis, in her shoulders, and in her ribs. Her head itched: not thinking,