The Night Crew

by John Sandford

  Waiting for bed, Anna trailed by the Steinway, touched a few keys, yawned, flipped through the sheets for Liszt’s Sonata in B Minor. She’d been trying to clarify the fingerwork in the fast passages.

  She didn’t sit down—her head wasn’t quite right yet. She put the music on the piano, said hello to a couple of plants, enjoyed the quiet. Went into the utility room and got a plastic watering can and filled it.

  Barefoot, humming to herself—something stupid from Les Mise ´rables that she couldn’t get out of her mind—Anna took the watering can out to the porch, and started watering the potted plants. Geraniums, and some daisies: plants with an old-fashioned feel, bright touches in the shade of the jungle.

  Back inside, she refilled the can and walked through the house, checking with two fingers the soil in a hundred more plants: some of them were named after movie stars or singers, like Paul, Robert, Faye, Susan, Julia, Jack. Most were small, from a desert somewhere.

  On a broken-down Salvation Army table, the first piece of furniture she’d bought in California, she kept a piece of Wisconsin: a clump of birdsfoot violets, dug from the banks of the Whitewater River, and a flat of lilies-of-the-valley. Just now, the lilies-of-the-valley were blooming, their tiny white bell flowers producing a delicate perfume that reminded her of the smell of dooryard lilacs in the Midwestern spring.

  Behind the California tan, Anna was a Midwestern farm kid, born and raised on a corn farm in Wisconsin.

  The farm was part of her toughness: She had a farm kid’s lack of fear when it came to physical confrontation. She’d even been in a couple of fights, in her twenties, in the good old days of music school and late-night prowls down Sunset. As she climbed into her thirties, the adrenaline charge diminished, though her reputation hadn’t: The big guys still waved to her from the muscle pen on the beach, and told people, ‘‘You don’t fuck with Anna, if you wanna keep your face on straight.’’

  The toughness extended to the psychological. Farm kids knew how the world worked, right from the start. She’d taken the fuzzy-coated big-eyed lambs to the locker, and brought them back in little white packages.

  That’s the way it was.

  Anna finished watering the plants, yawned again, and stopped at the piano. Liszt was hard. Deliberately hard. Her home phone rang, and she turned away from the piano and stepped into the small kitchen and picked it up. This would be the sign-off from Louis and Creek: ‘‘Hello?’’

  ‘‘Anna: Louis.’’

  ‘‘All done?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, but I was talking to a guy at Seventeen about the animal rescue tape. I don’t know what they did, but it sounds a little weird.’’

  ‘‘Like how, weird?’’ Anna asked.

  ‘‘Like they’re making some kind of cartoon out of it.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ She was annoyed, but only mildly. Strange things happened in the world of broadcast television.

  ‘‘He said they’ll be running it on the Worm,’’ Louis said. Channel Seventeen called it the Early Bird News; everybody else called it the Worm.

  Anna glanced at the kitchen clock: the broadcast was just a few minutes away. ‘‘I’ll take a look at it,’’ she said.

  She went back to the piano and worked on the Liszt until five o’clock in the morning, then pointed the remote at the TV and punched in Seventeen. A carefully-coiffed blonde, dressed like it was midafternoon on Rodeo, looked out and said, ‘‘If you have any small children watching this show, the film we are about to show you . . .’’

  And there was the jumper, up on the wall like a fly.

  Anna held her breath, fearing for him, though she’d been there, and knew what was about to happen. But seeing it this way, with the TV, was like looking out a window and seeing it all over again. The man seemed unsure of where he was, of what to do; he might have been trying, at the last moment, to get inside.

  Then he lost it: Anna felt her own fingers tightening, looking for purchase, felt her own muscles involuntarily trying to balance. He hung there, but with nothing to hold on to, out over the air, until with a convulsive effort, he jumped.

  And he screamed—Anna hadn’t seen the scream, hadn’t picked it up. Maybe he had been trying for the pool.

  Anna and the night crew had been there for the pictures, not as reporters: Anna had gotten only enough basic information to identify the main characters. She left it to the TV news staffs to pull it together. At Channel Seventeen, the job went to an intense young woman in a spiffy green suit that precisely matched her spiffy green eyes:

  ‘‘. . . identified as Jacob Harper, Junior, a high-school senior from San Dimas who was attending a spring dance at the Shamrock, and who’d rented the room with a half-dozen other seniors. Police are investigating the possibility of a drug involvement.’’

  As she spoke, the tape ran again, in slow motion, then again, freezing on the boy’s face—not a man, Anna thought, just a child. He hung there in midair, screaming forever on Jason’s tape. The Madsons, from Tilly, Oklahoma, were also shown, but their faces at the window were cut into the jump, so it appeared that the Madsons were watching—as they had been, though not when the tape was shot.

  At the end of the report, the tape was run again, and Anna recognized the symptoms: They had a hit on their hands.

  Too bad about the kid, but . . . she’d learned to separate herself from the things she covered. If she didn’t, she’d go crazy. And she hadn’t seen the jump, only the aftermath, the heap of crumpled clothing near the pool. Less than she would have seen sitting at her TV, eating her breakfast, like a few million Angelenos were about to do.

  Anna drifted away from the television, sat at the piano and started running scales. Scales were a form of meditation, demanding, but also a way to free herself from the tension of the night.

  And she could keep an eye on the television while she worked through them. Five minutes after the report on the jump, the blonde anchor, now idiotically cheerful, said something about animal commmandos, and a version of the animal rights tape came up.

  The tape had been cut up and given a jittery, silent-movie jerkiness, a Laurel-and-Hardy quality, as the masked animal rights raiders apparently danced with the squealing pig, and dumped the garbage can full of mice. Then the Rat was bowled over by the pig—they ran him falling, crawling, knocked down again; and falling, crawling and knocked down again: they had him going up and down like a yo-yo.

  The guards, who’d come and gone so quickly, had been caught briefly by both Creek and Jason. Now they were repeatedly shown across the concrete ramp and up the loading dock; and then the tape was run backward, so they seemed to run backward . . . Keystone Kops.

  The tape was funny, and Anna grinned as she watched. No sign of the bloodied kid, though. No matter: he’d get his fifteen seconds on another channel.

  ‘‘Good night,’’ Anna said, pointed the remote at the television and killed it.

  She worked on scales for another ten minutes, then closed the lid of the piano, quickly checked on the back to see that the yellow dehumidifier light wasn’t blinking and headed up to the bedroom.

  In the world of the night crew, roaming Los Angeles from ten o’clock until dawn, Anna was tough.

  In more subtle relationships, in friendly talk from men she didn’t know, at parties, she felt awkward, uneasy, and walked away alone. This shyness had come late: she hadn’t always been like that.

  The one big affair of her life—almost four years long, now seven years past—had taken her heart, and she hadn’t yet gotten it back.

  She was asleep within minutes of her head touching her pillow. She didn’t dream of anyone: no old lovers, no old times.

  But she did feel the space around herself, in her dreams. Full of friends, and still, somehow . . . empty.

  three

  The two-faced man hurried down the darkened pier, saw the light in the side window, in the back. He carried an eighteeninch Craftsman box-end wrench, the kind used in changing trailer-hitch balls. The heft was
right: just the thing. No noise.

  He stopped briefly at the store window, looked in past the Closed sign. All dark in the sales area—but he could see light coming from under a closed door that led to the back.

  He beat on the door, a rough, frantic bam-bam-bambambam.

  ‘‘Hey, take an aspirin.’’ The two-faced man nearly jumped out of his shoes. A black man was walking by, carrying a bait bucket, a tackle box and a long spinning rod.

  ‘‘What?’’ Was this trouble? But the fisherman was walking on, out toward the end of the pier, shaking his head. ‘‘Oh, okay.’’

  He must’ve been beating on the door too hard. That’s what it was. The man forced a smile, nodded his head. Had to be careful. He balled his hand into a fist and bit hard on the knuckles, bit until he bled, the pain clearing his mind.

  Back to business; he couldn’t allow himself to blow up like this. If there were a mistake, a chance encounter, a random cop—he shuddered at the thought. They’d lock him in a cage like a rat. He’d driven over here at ninety miles an hour: if he’d been stopped, it all would have ended before he had her.

  Couldn’t allow that.

  He tried again with the door, knocking sedately, as though he were sane.

  Light flooded into the interior of the store, through the door at the back. The man knocked again. Noticed the blood trickling down the back of his hand. When did that happen? How did he . . . ?

  The door opened. ‘‘Yeah?’’

  The boy’s eyes were dulled with dope. But not so dulled, not so far gone that they didn’t drop to his shirt, to the deep red patina that crusted the shirt from neckline to navel, not so far gone that the doper couldn’t say, ‘‘Jesus Christ, what happened to you?’’

  The two-faced man didn’t answer. He was already swinging the wrench: the box end caught the boy on the bridge of the nose, and he went down as though he’d been struck by lightning.

  The two-faced man turned and looked up the pier toward the street, then down toward the ocean end. Nobody around. Good. He stepped inside, closed the door. The boy had rolled to his knees, was trying to get up. The man grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the back.

  Jason was wrecked. As in train wreck. As in broken. As in dying.

  Even through the layers of acid and speed, he could feel the pain. But he wasn’t sure about it. He might wake up. He might still say, ‘‘Fuck me; what a trip.’’ He had done that in the past.

  This stuff he’d peeled off the slick white paper, this was some bad shit. A bad batch of chemicals, must’ve got some glue in there, or something.

  He wasn’t sure if the pain was the real thing, or just another artifact of his own imagination, an imagination that had grown up behind the counter in a video store, renting horror stories. The horror stories had planted snakes in his mind, dream-memories of bitten-off heads, chainsaw massacres, cut throats, women bricked into walls.

  So Jason suffered and groaned and tried to cover himself, and frothed, and somewhere in the remnant of his working brain he wondered: Is this real?

  It was real, all right.

  The two-faced man kicked him in the chest, and ribs broke away from Jason’s breastbone. Jason choked on a scream, made bubbles instead. The man was sweating and unbelieving: Jason sat on the floor of the shack, his eyes open, blood running from his mouth and ears, and still he said nothing but, ‘‘Aw, man.’’

  The man had been hoping for more: he’d hoped that the doper would plead with him, beg, whimper. That would excite him, would give him the taste of victory. That hadn’t happened, and the heavy work—kicking the boy to death— had grown boring. The boy didn’t plead, didn’t argue: he just groaned and said, ‘‘Aw, man,’’ or sometimes, ‘‘Dude.’’

  ‘‘Tell me what it’s like when you fuck her,’’ the man crooned. ‘‘Tell me about her tits again. C’mon, tell me. Tell me again what it’s like when you do the thing .’’ He kicked him again, and Jason groaned, rocked with the blow, and one arm jerked spasmodically. ‘‘Tell me what it’s like to fuck her . . .’’

  No response: maybe a moan.

  ‘‘Tell me about Creek: he looks like a monster. He looks like Bigfoot. Tell me about Creek. Was he with you two? Were all three of you fucking her? All three at once?’’

  But the doper wasn’t talking. He was in never-never land.

  ‘‘Fuck you,’’ the two-faced man said, finally. He was tired of this. He could hear the ocean pounding against the pilings below them, a rhythmic roar. He took a long-barreled Smith & Wesson .22 revolver from his coat pocket and showed it to the bubbling wreck on the floor.

  ‘‘See this? I’m gonna shoot you, man.’’

  ‘‘Dude.’’ Jason was long past recognizing anything, even his own imminent death, the killer realized.

  He squatted: ‘‘Gonna shoot you.’’

  He pointed the pistol at the boy’s forehead, and when the roar of the surf started to build again, fired it once. The boy’s head bumped back. That was all.

  The two-faced man waited for some sensation: nothing came.

  ‘‘Well, shit,’’ he said. He’d been having more fun when the doper was alive. Had he really fucked her? Anna? He had all the details. So maybe he had.

  He stood up, pulled open the window on the ocean-side wall, and looked down. Deep water. Everything dark, but he could hear the water hissing and boiling.

  Just like it should be, he thought, looking out, for this kind of scene.

  four

  At a little after one o’clock, Anna stirred, then woke all at once, aware first of her pillow, then the room, then the faint whine of a jumbo jet blowing out of LAX. She lay in bed for a few minutes, rolled over, looked at the clock, yawned, sat up and stretched.

  Showered, washed her hair.

  Anna liked dresses, a little on the hippie side, small flowers and low necklines, when she wasn’t working, or working out.

  For work, she had a carefully thought-out uniform, designed to make her fit in as many social slots as possible. The uniform consisted of cream-colored silk or white cotton blouses with black slacks, expensive black boots, and one of several linen or light woolen jackets, depending on the season. She had three Herme`s silk scarves, and always carried one or another in a buttoned inside pocket, along with a pair of gold earrings. If she dumped the jacket in the truck and rolled the sleeves on the blouse, she was hanging out. If she wore the coat, she was all business, still casual, but working. If she added the scarf and earrings, she could get by at anything short of a formal affair. Even at a formal affair, she could pass as a caterer.

  Any of the looks might be necessary in a night’s work, doing reconnaissance before the cameras lit up, especially if the work scene involved cops or security people allergic to publicity.

  She also needed a more formal look if she’d be on-camera herself. She didn’t like going on-camera—anonymity made everything easier—but sometimes an interviewer was necessary. When there was no choice, she needed the right look.

  For the camera guys, appearance didn’t matter: there was no way to camouflage the video lights.

  Now, out of the shower, she dried her hair, pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and laced her running shoes. Stopped in the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, bracing against the wall to loosen her calves as she drank it.

  The day was fine, cool, with blue skies and a light breeze from the ocean. The beach was a half-mile away, and she loosened up as she walked over on Venice Boulevard, then took a finger street down to the beach.

  A very large black man, who’d once been a second-string linebacker for the L.A. Raiders, was doing pull-ups on a rack set into the sand. He lifted a hand to Anna, continuing the pull-up with only one hand. Anna waved back and continued on to the water’s edge, turned right and started running. Six miles: three miles up, three back. She ran along the surf, through the shore birds, a quarter mile behind another runner, feeling the sun.

  When she started running, her brain was empty
. The further along the beach she got, the more it filled up: Maybe go south tonight, haven’t been south for a while. Wonder what happened to that burned kid, at that house fire, the last time we went south? Kid was trying to save a cat, wasn’t he? Could be a feature on his recovery? It’d have to be the first item on the run. Louis could get a phone number . . . On the other hand, it might be a bone to throw to Channel Seventeen . . .

  Six miles, a little over forty-two minutes. When she got back, the linebacker was sitting on the bottom bench of the basketball bleachers, putting braces on his knees.

  ‘‘Hey, Dick,’’ Anna said. ‘‘How’re the knees?’’

  ‘‘Snap-crackle-pop, just like cornflakes,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Rice Krispies,’’ Anna said.

  ‘‘Yeah, whatever; ain’t been gettin’ nothing but worse.’’

  ‘‘Gonna have to decide,’’ Anna said.

  ‘‘I know.’’ He pushed himself up, hobbled around the edge of the court. ‘‘So stiff I couldn’t walk down to the water.’’

  ‘‘Take the knife, man,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Anything’s better than this.’’

  ‘‘Scared of the knife. They put me to sleep, I don’t think I’ll wake up. I’ll die in there.’’

  ‘‘Oh, come on, Dick . . .’’

  They talked for another five minutes, then Anna headed home. As she left, the sad linebacker said, ‘‘If I could run half as good as you, I’d still be playing.’’

  The cell phone was chirping when she got home. Louis again, ready to set up for the new night? A little early for that. ‘‘Hello?’’

  Not Louis.

  ‘‘This is Sergeant Hardesty with the Santa Monica police.’’ He sounded a little surprised to be talking with someone. ‘‘Is this Anna Batory?’’ He pronounced her name ‘‘battery.’’