Michael Prescott: In Dark Places

There was another smack against the windshieldthe assailant with the gun must have hit it againand then the Saab's front end thudded into him and knocked him reeling. She powered forward while a nasty scraping noise rasped along the rear of the car.

The intersection was still empty of traffic. She tore through it and around the corner, slamming the door shut as she took the turn, keeping her head down out of some unsuspected combat instinct. A block away she cut into the parking lot behind the building where she worked, pulling alongside a huge sport-utility vehicle that concealed her from the street. With a shaking hand she shut off the CD player.

There was a cell phone in her purse. She ought to call the police. But she couldn't do it right now. She had to know if they were still after her.

They had been out for blood. That was certain. Any possible doubt had been removed by that second impact to the windshield. It had not been another strike by a blunt object. It had been a gunshot, one that had punctured the glass with a neat round hole, surprisingly small. The bullet itself was lodged in the headrest of the driver's seat. If she hadn't ducked amp;

"But you did," she told herself. "So it's okay."

A lie. There was nothing okay about any of this. Since when had a morning drive to work become an exercise in survival?

She waited another couple of minutes, the Saab's engine idling, gearshift thrown into reverse. If the two menboys, they were boysappeared, she was ready to back out of the parking space at top speed.

But they hadn't pursued her. How could they, when they were on foot? They had no way of knowing where she worked, no way of knowing she was still in the neighborhood. They had given up on her, moved on to another victim, easier prey.

She shut off the engine and got out of the car. Her knees briefly failed, and she had to lean against the open door. The scraping noise she'd heard as she sped away had been the sound of the crowbar leaving a long, ugly groove in the trunk lid. A parting gift from the lead attacker.

Gonna mess you up, kitty cat.

She could ask the obvious question Why me ?but she already knew the equally obvious answer. There was nothing personal about it. She was not any special target. They had simply spotted her, a woman alone in an expensive car, a Saab 9-5 sedan, and they'd decided to make their move. They would have beaten her or raped her or killed her because she had money and they didn't, or because she took too long to comply with their orders, or because it would be fun.

Just kids. Two of them. How many more were out there? And how many other kids, a few years younger, would be following in their footsteps?

You can't save the world, Robin , her mother used to say.

She had always answered, You can try .

She restarted her car and parked in her reserved space. When she was ready, she took the cell phone from her purse and called 911.

During the next hour, two squad cars patrolled the neighborhood in search of young males matching the descriptions she'd given the 911 operator, while a third patrol unit was dispatched to take her statement and examine the Saab. One officer took photos of the damage with a pocket camera. His partner dug the expended round out of the headrest and bagged it as evidence.

"Shouldn't a forensics team do that?" Robin asked.

Both cops looked at her as if she'd been watching too many crime dramas on TV. They were in their late twenties, a decade younger than she was, trim and tanned with buzz-cut hair and dark glasses.

"Dr. Cameron," the first cop said, "there are two or three hundred incidents per day in this division. If we brought out the crime-scene guys for every violent crime, they'd never get anything done."

"This isn't just any violent crime. It's attempted murder."

"Just be glad it was an unsuccessful attempt. You know, it's not worth losing your life to protect your vehicle."

"I told you, I was trying to cooperate, but they didn't give me enough time. I think they were on something. Amphetamines or cocaine."

"Unfortunately most of the lowlifes around here are high most of the time, so that doesn't exactly narrow it down."

"If you want my advice," the second cop added, "move your office to a better neighborhood. You're in a real bad section here, Doctor. VFW territory."

"VFW?"

The cop looked uncomfortable. "Never mind. Just an expression. Thing is, you're too close to downtown. Why not move to West LA or the Valley?"

"I need to be near downtown. That's where many of my clients come from."

"They live downtown?"

"They live in the county jail."

The two patrolmen exchanged a glance, and then the first one got it.

"Ohyou're that doctor."

"Right."

"The psychiatrist. The one who works with cons."

"That's me."

"Didn't you get an award from the city or something?" He seemed impressed.

She tried not to show her pride at being recognized. "A few months ago, yes. For my work with prisoners."

"You try to rehabilitate them by putting wires in their heads."

"Something like that."

"Huh." His tone changed. Suddenly he was accusatory. "Well, lemme ask youyou think the two jackers who tried to pop you today can be rehabbed?"

She held her ground. "I think anybody can be rehabilitated."

"Do they deserve to be?"

"Everyone deserves a chance in life."

"How about their victims? What kind of chance did they get?"

"There would be fewer victims if we could reduce the recidivism rate."

"The work you do just gives the system an excuse to put these pukes back on the street."

"In most cases they're going to be back on the street anyway. The only question is whether they leave prison reformed or more dangerous than before."

"So you'd try to reform the gangbangers that tried to clip you today?"

"I would."

He shook his head. "It'll never work. Some people are just scum. They never change."

"I hope to prove you wrong."

"You need to learn more about the bad guys, Doctor."

Her voice was low. "I already know more than you might think."

They told her that a detective would be in touch within forty-eight hoursmore or lessand that she might be asked to look at mug shots of known offenders whose MOs fit the crime.

"You're sure you don't require medical attention?" the lead cop asked for the second or third time that morning, before climbing back into the squad car.

"I'm okay." She managed a smile. "A stiff drink wouldn't hurt."

"All right, Doctor. Well, you keep working to make the streets safe your way, and we'll keep doing it our way. Maybe together we can fix things so your morning commute isn't so stressful in the future."

The patrol car pulled away, giving a little bloop of its siren as a parting salute.

She stared after it, trying not to think about the rampant, random violence of this city. There was crime in Santa Barbara, but not like this. Meg was always saying she wanted to go to public school. No way.

Robin went back inside the building and wandered through her office suite. Well, suite might be overstating it a little. She had a small waiting room with a pile of magazines that were nearly current, and a second, larger room that served as her office, with an adjoining kitchenette. She had no receptionist or assistant. Voice mail was adequate for handling her routine calls when she couldn't get to a phone. In emergencies, her patients were instructed to call her cell phone number, which was printed on her business cards. She always carried the phone or kept it close.

Yes, she'd taken pains to prepare for her patients' emergencies, but she'd given little thought to an emergency of her own.