He picked up her tone and said, 'Listen, I'm sticking with you. No way you're gonna get rid of me.'

'You really don't have any obligation.'

'Yes, I do.'

'No, you don't.'

'Look, if you don't know what I'm talking about, then you've really got your head up your ass,' he snarled at her.

She thought about that a minute and then said, 'We go to BJ's and start tracking the sex story. But that's later onit doesn't get started until late. Until then, I don't know. I'm numb.'

'So am I.'

'The tape. God, Jake, I'm so sorry.'

'Yeah. I wonder, if you don't mind. could you drive me somewhere?'

'Anywhere,' she said.

'I want to hit some golf balls.'

'What?'

He didn't look at her, just bobbed his head: 'Yeah. That's what I want to do.'

Chapter 16

Anna drove to a range east of Pasadena, a dusty place on the side of a mountain where, Harper said, 'You can hit from real grass.'

'That's important?'

'Essential,' he said.

The parking lot was up the hillside from the range itself, and they walked down a flight of stairs to the small clubhouse. The owner was a high-school friend of Harper's, happy to see him.

'This is Larry,' Harper said to Anna. 'Larry, this is Anna.'

'Pleased to make your acquaintance,' Larry said, his eyes shifting from Anna to Jake with some private amusement. He wouldn't take money for the range balls: offered as many as Harper wanted to hit.

'Do you want to hit a few?' Harper asked Anna.

'No. I'll get a coffee and sit and watch.'

There were a dozen golfers at the range, banging luminescent yellow balls down three hundred yards of sorry grass and desert rut. A fifty-foot-wide strip of longer, slightly healthier turf made up the teeing area. Larry got a plastic chair and a cup of coffee for Anna, and she settled in as Harper began hitting the balls. He hit a six iron for fifteen minutes, one ball after another, like an automaton, his swing seemingly slow, almost lazy. Easy as it seemed, the balls rocketed away in long, soft, left-curving parabolas.

As she watched him, she realized he 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 carpush this trunk button on the keythere'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 as 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 unconsciousshe was afraid he'd do thatbut 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 never quite escape.

As they continued the violent scram in the space between the carsit seemed to have gone on forever, but actually couldn't have been more than a few secondsand 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 cheekbones 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.