'You're lucky,' said another one. 'If he'd just wanted to take you home, he could've hit you with a sap, dumped you in the trunk of his car and nobody would've known what happened. But he tried to talk to you.'

'It's love,' said the first cop. 'Saved by love.'

Anna slept on the way home, drifting in and out. When they pulled up outside her house, Harper got out, his gun at his side. He looked around the yard, then came back and opened the car door, led her to the house, waited while she unlocked the door, then led the way inside. He checked the ground floor, the doors, the windows, then the second floor.

'Should be okay,' he said. 'But the guy's tracking us. He picked us up somewhere along the way, and followed us right out to the range. If we stay here, we'll be sitting ducks.'

'Unless it was just the Pasadena neighborhood pervert.'

'You don't believe that,' he said.

'No. He knew my name.'

She left Harper downstairs, moving furniture, the better to repel boarders, and went upstairs and looked at herself in the big bathroom mirror. Scuffed up, she thought. Beat up. She shivered, thinking about it: and about the man's sweat on her, about the semen on her pants.

She pulled off her blouse and bra, slipped out of the scrub pants, wadded them, threw them toward the waste basket and then growled after them. She surprised herself with the growl, a harsh, guttural snarl. The guy had been controlling her life for a week. Had gone after people she'd known, people she loved, had come after her.

She looked at herself again in the mirror, a slender dark-haired, beat-up elf in a pair of blue Jockeys for Her.

The guy was just trying to corner her, control her, possess her.

She stretched, stuck out an arm, twisted: hurt a little bit, but not that much. Looked at herself in the mirror again, and suddenly the anger came back, and she tottered with it, put her hands on the counter and closed her eyes, trying to keep her balance. She snarled again: she wanted to kill something.

Let the feeling ebb. Brushed her teeth, stood in the shower for ten minutes, steaming out, then pulled on a robe and went back down the stairs.

Harper was sprawled on the couch, looking at the TV, which he hadn't bothered to turn on. He was barefoot, tired.

'Hey, Jake,' she said.

'Yeah?'

'We were gonna go to BJ's tonight.'

'We're never gonna get there,' he said, shaking his head. 'We're cursed.'

'Tomorrow,' she said.

He nodded: 'How're you feeling?'

'I gotta get some sleep: I'm wrecked.'

'So go to bed: I got it covered down here.'

'I wanted to tell you. When you told me this afternoon that if I didn't know why you were hanging around, I must have my head up my ass.'

'Yeah?'

'Maybe I do, sometimes,' she said. 'I'm nervous about relationship stuff. But before the driving range thing. I was sort of planning to take you upstairs tonight.'

He thought about that for a second, and a pleasedlook crossed his face. 'That would have been nice.'

'I'm still gonna do it, if you're around,' she said. 'But todaytoday was a little too much.'

'I know. I willbe 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 wasfrightenedbut 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 pianistbut 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.

Chapter 17

The two-faced man was covered with bloodhis own bloodrunning 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 bitealthough 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 goneto 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.

Chapter 18

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 floorand 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, she reached up to scratch, and felt the stitches.

Jeez. The guy had done a number on her.

She went to the bathroom, read the label on an ibuprofen that warned against taking more than two, took four, steamed herself out in the shower again, and, as an afterthoughta Harper thought?shaved her legs. The hot water felt good, and as it poured down on her neck and back, she thought about what had happened so far.