Spotting the target, the black Escalade hit the gas, spun around and came to a swift halt. The peppery-haired driver in Fatigues opened the passenger side, aimed toward a fit woman with a ponytail jogging on a quiet two-lane road. When she froze, he hopped out the driver’s side and dashed toward her. He descended upon her like a predatory bird on a mission. She didn’t have a chance.
Ninon Gage reminded herself that one must never be taken to a second location. A worse fate would await her there. Time to fight! When he snatched her arm in a cruel grip, she punched with her free hand and then dropped to the ground, hoping to make things harder for the large man. In that position, she kicked him with her pink Converse so that he’d hopefully let go to protect himself from the strikes. She wished she had sharp heels on, realizing this might have been a bad move. Though he let go of her arm to her relief, he then snatched her foot and started dragging her toward the running vehicle. He stopped once to tap her across the face as a warning and then continued. At that moment, a Volvo stopped on the road and a clean-cut man in a gray suit frantically got out of his car, gesturing wildly.
“Hey, leave her alone!” the appalled businessman yelled, causing the abductor to size up the frantic man who held up a cell phone as a warning.
The assailant dropped hold of the woman and hopped into his running vehicle, quickly hitting the gas and barrelling out of there. It happened so fast that the witness was still trying to process what had happened and what he should do. His attention reverted back to the jogger who was slowly getting to her feet.
The witness called out to the stunned woman, saying, “You are okay now! Help is on the way!”
Facing him, she looked him up and down, assessing his neatly trimmed Van Dyke and elegant stature. Instead of being thankful, the disarrayed brunette with a bloody scrape from the pavement glared at him before dashing toward the treeline. She didn’t know if cops would be showing up. That was the last thing she needed.
“Wait!” he called out. “I can call an ambulance or the police!”
But as the Escalade headed one way, she continued in the other, not caring that the man in the crisp suit tried to provide assistance. Maybe she was too traumatized, he reckoned. But he didn’t want to leave her out here all alone. He tried calling 911, but didn’t get any reception in this dead spot. Cursing to himself, he decided to get to an area with better coverage. He knew a spot ten minutes away. Better yet, he knew there was a police station nearby.
Spying from behind a hand to block the sun, the woman in black jogging shorts and hoodie saw that the Volvo finally left, so she scurried further into the woods before crouching in the dirt and trying to compose herself under the soothing setting sun, but the shaking wouldn’t subside. Breathing hard, she leaned against an oak tree for support and tried to stand. That’s when she noticed her legs. She surmised there must have been some specks of glass on the pavement.
Wiping away a few streaks of blood, which only reappeared, she applied pressure for a few minutes. She spit on her hands and tried to remove the drying redness as much as she could. All was well again. Then biting insects tormented her.
“I’m getting too old for this,” she muttered as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of chalk. She wrote the letter H on the tree followed by the number 179. Then she returned the chalk to her pocket.
When enough energy came back, she stumbled toward the embrace of the night's oncoming darkness in an effort to make her way back home. In case anyone was watching and waiting, she remained cautious. After scanning both directions, she darted from hiding while keeping panic at bay. Running through the Suburban streets, she felt so alone. Once she reached a familiar row of cozy houses, she felt safer, but her muscles ached more and more each moment. An inner drive propelled her even as her feet threatened to fail her. Worn sneakers pounded against hard pavement as her pace slowed and she started to wither.
For needed inspiration, she pulled earbuds from her hoodie, put them in her ears, and listened to 80’s music to motivate her. As if prepared to cross a finishing line, she gave it her all. Though on wobbly legs and with breathing turning to gasps, she neared the bend where she lived. Safety awaited just three houses to the right. With a trembling hand brushing away the dripping sweat from her eyes, she paused, noting the Escalade with familiar Virginia plates parked in her driveway. Just then, a faintly familiar song entitled The Great Commandment by a German band called Camouflage got her attention.* She found the lyrics hauntingly beautiful. Something lulled in the back of her mind that she couldn’t quite reach. It captivated her. She felt called to something. Then, when a phrase “reeducation of infants” played in her ear, she fell down and started convulsing.
Hill Montgomery relayed the strange tale to the Virginia State Police, detailing how the jogger chose to flee instead of accepting his help. After considering the details, the dark featured officer with a high and tight haircut opined that the woman might not have felt comfortable with a man coming to her aid if she was indeed fleeing an attempted sexual assault. Perhaps, she was too overwhelmed and in shock. The lawyer considered that and nodded.
“I’ll send one of my guys out there to check out the area and see if we can locate her,” the trooper told him in a deep voice. “What else can you tell me about her?”
“Now that I think about it, she looked familiar,” Hill told the stiff man in blue. “There is a barista at The Brew Box who looks a lot like her. She has very pale skin and very dark hair. Really delicate features and very pretty. Hard to miss. That is probably why I noticed. And she wears pink Converse too, as well as a pink scrunchie in her hair.”
“We’ll check out that lead,” the stern man with a very angular face assured him. “If we can’t find her in the woods, we’ll visit The Brew Box, ask the manager about her, and see if we have the correct victim and go from there.”
“I just hope she is okay,” Hill said with a helpless gesture, “I know it traumatized me just witnessing it.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll do our best to find her and get this sorted out.”
Hill nodded and continued, “I’m just glad that I showed up when I did.”
The trooper clacked some keys and stared at the monitor.
“Tell me about the assailant.”
“He was dressed in Fatigues, at least the pants, and a white T-shirt,” Hill explained, going over the details in his mind. “Kind of buff. A bully, the way he treated her. Maybe late 50’s. Skin looks leathery from the sun. Kind of had a flat nose like he’s been punched before. I’m not certain of much else.”
“And you are sure that he drove an Escalade? Any distinguishing marks?”
“Not really. It was black, kind of newish. Like I said earlier, I was in shock, not sure what I was witnessing. It was chaotic. I didn’t know what to do, kind of froze for a moment before I jumped out of my car to help her. To be honest, I was kind of afraid. I didn’t know if he had a gun, but he never brandished one.”
The trooper made some more notes, printed out something, and then shut the folder, probably knowing that it would never amount to much.
“Thank you for reaching out to us and reporting it, Mr. Montgomery.” State Trooper Rick Harland told him, rising to shake his hand. “Call me if you remember any more details about the man, the woman or the vehicle in question.”
The well-dressed man gave him a nod and a firm grip before heading to the door with the trooper’s card in hand. Then he headed to his car while contemplating if he should stop by the coffee shop himself. Unfortunately, he had appointments awaiting him, which he was already late for. He checked his watch and grumbled.
On the initial search, the troopers didn’t find anything on the street that Hill described. They hiked through the patch of woods and came up empty handed. For what it might be worth, Rick and his burly partner, Nigel Hanks, decided to check out the coffee shop in question the next day. It was located in a strip mall in a busy section. Traffic here was usually snarled. Not sure if the tip would check out, they parked nearby so that their car wasn’t noticeable and peeked inside. There, they found an ethereal looking beauty in shorts, probably in her thirties, filling cups of coffee. Like Hill had described, she wore pink Converse and had a pink scrunchie holding back waves of shiny brunette hair. Petite and in good shape, she fit the profile. With a red mark on her face and scraped up legs, that seemed to indicate that they might have the right person. This woman had gotten into a recent scuffle.
When they asked to speak to her, she seemed embarrassed, but eventually complied to have a word with them. For more privacy, they moved to a place outside by a few skinny trees on a strip of dirt covered by mulch. A bench sat beside it, but she chose to stand. With her arms crossed across her chest, she kept her distance. She gave her name as Ninon Gage, but didn’t offer up much more than that. With little eye contact and a nervous demeanor, it raised red flags, but she insisted that she wasn’t a victim. That it was all a misunderstanding, but she didn’t say more than that. They left a card with her and headed out, but State Trooper Harland wasn’t about to let it go. She was hiding something. He couldn’t in good conscience not follow up on it.
Back at the station, he pulled up any files that he could find. After skimming through them, his eyes widened in disbelief. What he found disturbed him. The fact that nothing ever was done about it horrified him. And then this strange encounter happened. But oddly enough, higher-ups didn’t seem too keen on opening that can of worms. He glanced at the FBI’s phone number, which he never liked to use, wondering if he should make a call. He hated involving them.