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, 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 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 steel colored 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 steel-haired 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 eyescouldn't seem to help herselfand 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, 'Yesyou'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 hairthey'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 doneexcept 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 tracewe might even get lucky and get a cold ID.'

'Fat chance,' Harper said.

The detective shrugged: 'It's been done.'

The doctor got her some green scrub pants, and Anna gave her jeans to the detective, who put them in a plastic bag. 'Pasadena's got some guys going over the parking lot,' he said. 'If we could get you back there for just a few minutes, we'd appreciate it.'

'Can I go?' Anna asked the doctor.

'Yesbut you'll be sore tomorrow,' the doctor warned.

'Take some ibuprofen tonight and as soon as you get up in the morning.'

The owner of the driving range met them in the lot, where he'd been talking to a half-dozen cops. Things were happening now, Anna thought: the story was getting larger. But the range owner was thinking lawsuit. He was a worried man. Anna showed him a small smile: 'Don't worry about it,' she said. 'We brought the trouble to you.'

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' he said.

'Yeah, yeah.' Anna walked the cops through the lot, showed them where the straggle took place, where the guy ran. The scrub pants flapped around her ankles as she walked. The cops traced the flight path in the dark, up the hill through brash and shrubs, found a few scuff marks near the scenic overlook.

'We'll check the houses around, see if anybody saw a car,' one of the cops said. 'I wouldn't be too hopeful.'