by Jacqueline Freimor
I’ve been watching him watch her for almost fifteen minutes, and I know he’ll make his move as soon as the train pulls out of the station. He: late thirties, big head with glossy black hair; she: maybe twenty, a rabbity strawberry blonde.
As for me, I’m in my midfifties, tanned and quite bald, but I’m not in this story yet; I’m an observer, as both my profession and my avocation have trained me to be.
Sure enough, as soon as we start moving, he rises from his window seat, squeezes past my knees and heads to the aisle. The first red flag.
“Excuse me?” he says, his voice deep and smooth. She’s sitting in our row at the window on the other side of the train, hunched down, attached to her phone by earbuds. There’s an open book in her lap. Her body language clearly states Leave me alone, but he’s decided to ignore it.
Red flag #2.
“Excuse me?” he says again. “Miss?”
She looks up warily and plucks out the earbuds. “Yes?”
His formfitting tank top and thin jogging pants show well-defined arm muscles and a lean physique. He bounces a little on the balls of his feet like a boxer and points to the aisle seat next to her. “Do you mind if I sit here? I’m at the window there—” he gestures vaguely “—and it’s making me claustrophobic.”
Red flags #3, too much information and #4, false information. Claustrophobic at the window? Not likely.
The train from Union Station to Newport News this evening has a number of empty seats. And yet he’s chosen the one next to her—red flag #5.
Honestly, how many warnings does she need? But she has no doubt been brought up to be polite, which is another way of saying she’s been trained to be prey. If I were her father, I would have made sure she understood the possible consequences of that kind of passivity.
“No problem,” she says, but she shrinks into herself even further. She puts her earbuds back in and looks down at her book.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and sits, manspreading into the aisle on one side and into her space on the other. A tattooed tiger snarls on his biceps.
He stares at his screen, pretending to read, then scrolls down with a spatulate thumb and grins. He chuckles. “Aw,” he says and then repeats himself: “Aw.” He angles his body toward her. “Sorry to interrupt, but do you like animal videos? You have to see this.”
Completely fatuous. Who doesn’t like watching a half-drowned baby squirrel being nursed back to health? A one-armed spider monkey befriended by a cat? You’d have to be a sociopath not to respond.
Reluctantly, she detaches her earbuds once more, lips compressed into a thin smile that looks more like a grimace. I can see her entire body sigh. So can he, I know. He just doesn’t care.
“Sure. I like them,” she says flatly.
He holds up his phone and leans toward her. Whatever they’re watching is engrossing. They both laugh, and little by little, she leans toward him, too. She’s softening. She closes her book and puts it in the mesh pocket of the seatback in front of her.
I’m impressed. He’s a quick worker, having accomplished steps one through five of the Request Assistance Scenario—identify the target, enlist her help, invade her space, establish a common interest and get her to mirror you—in record time.
After that, he’s got her. He introduces himself—Tony, like Tony the Tiger, ha, ha, ha—and quickly establishes that her name is Megan, she’s a student at George Washington University, and she’s joining friends in Virginia Beach for spring break. They don’t know she’s coming. She didn’t have enough money for the trip, but her parents surprised her with cash for her birthday, which was just last week.
I keep listening and watch them out of the corner of my eye. Here’s his opening. “Hey, happy birthday!” Tony says. “Let me buy you a drink.”
Megan reddens. “No, no, you don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
“No, that’s okay. Really.”
“Come on. We have to celebrate.”
He stands and crooks his finger, and after a moment, she stands, too, grabs her backpack and hoists it over her shoulder. Slick. He’s established a pattern in which his wishes override her objections.
Tony steps into the aisle and retreats a foot or two, gesturing for Megan to precede him.
After a moment’s reflection, I find that I, too, have developed a powerful thirst and, grabbing my newspaper, follow him following her as we lurch toward the café car.
Once we arrive, we line up at the counter—Tony tall, broad, meaty; Megan short, thin, insubstantial. Now that I’m close to her, I see she has pale orange eyelashes and a charming overbite. She’s wearing black leggings and a too-big GWU sweatshirt into which, I can tell, she likes to disappear.
“May I help you, sir?” says the blue-aproned attendant, whose nameplate identifies her as Trisha.
Tony points first to himself and then to Megan. “Champagne for two.”
The attendant says, “I’m sorry, we don’t carry Champagne. But we do have a lovely California Chardonnay.”
“That’s fine,” Tony says without consulting Megan. It’s clear from the look on her face that she’s never had Chardonnay. Maybe she doesn’t even know what it is.
Trisha says, “I’ll have to see the young woman’s ID.”
In full blush now, Megan fumbles in her backpack and pulls out a card. Trisha gives it a cursory glance. “Thank you.”
When Trisha turns her back and does a deep-knee bend to retrieve the wine from the half-size refrigerator, Tony glances at Megan’s ID, and, heads together, they laugh softly. They keep their voices down, so I’m only guessing they’re murmuring about Megan’s fake ID, which she may even have procured specifically for this spring break. Now the two of them share a secret. They’re Bonnie and Clyde, bucking an unfair system. Next on the checklist: he’s going to get her drunk.
It never ceases to amaze me how unsuspecting young women can be, despite daily reminders of the world’s dangers. In any city you visit in the United States, you’ll see flyers headlined Missing taped to storefronts and telephone poles. Even in Town Center, near my home in Virginia Beach, a few still broadcast the search for an Old Dominion student who disappeared eight years ago. Hasn’t Megan seen flyers like these? Or does she think nothing like that could ever happen to her?
Involving myself in this kind of scenario was not on my agenda when I boarded the train, but now I think I’m going to tell Megan Tony’s not the good person he’s pretending to be. I’ll take the opportunity when—if—he goes to the lavatory. Until then, I can only wait.
Trisha sets a half bottle of wine and two plastic glasses on the counter, deftly peels the foil, inserts a corkscrew and pops out the cork. As she pours, Tony pulls cash—of course—from his pocket, licks his thumb and counts out the bills. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you, sir. Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” he says. Megan nods.
Tony picks up the glasses and slides onto the blue vinyl seat of the nearest booth. Megan sits across the table from him. He hands her a glass and lifts his in a toast. “Here’s to you. Happy birthday.”
She clicks her cup against his. “Thank you.”
“And here’s to new friends.”
“To new friends,” she echoes.
Over the next sixty minutes, I sit in the booth across from theirs, sipping ginger ale and pretending to read my newspaper. The café is doing a brisk business in beverages, sandwiches and microwavable pizza, and a steady stream of people pass. They provide cover for me while I track the progress Tony is making with Megan.
Both are now leaning their backs on the window, their legs on the seats. His are outstretched in front of him, crossed at hairy ankles; hers are bent at the knee, sneakers flat on the vinyl.
From this angle, I can see him only in profile, as he’s looking straight at her and making her the focus of all his attention. She looks mostly at him and occasionally turns her head to stare into space—in my direction, but without seeing me.
One half bottle of wine has turned into two, and Megan’s doing most of the drinking, especially since Tony’s also bought pretzels to make her thirsty. Tony himself takes small sips and keeps topping up her glass.
I can hear snatches of their conversation whenever the flow of passengers thins. I learn she’s from Roanoke and majoring in art history at GW, and he lives in Newport News, where he’s a software developer. This is almost certainly a lie. Had she said she was studying computer science, he would have said he owned an art gallery or was a Realtor. They make small talk about movies and TV shows and what they like to do in their spare time, etc. I turn the page of my paper and wait, sensing a shift in the atmosphere.
Tony ostentatiously clears his throat. “So, first spring break, huh?” he says. “Excited?”
“Yes!” she says.
“You’re going to have a great time. But you know this train doesn’t go all the way to Virginia Beach, right? You have to transfer to a bus at Newport News.”
“I know.” But she sounds uncertain.
He laughs. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get on the bus.”
She picks up a pretzel and nibbles on it. “Thank you. That’s so nice of you.”
Here it is. He’s going in for the kill.
“Wait a minute,” Tony says, and actually smacks himself on the forehead. “My car’s at the station in Newport News. I can give you a lift.”
Her eyes widen. “To Virginia Beach? But isn’t that, like, two hours from there?”
He shrugs. “Nah. It’s an hour fifteen. An hour, if you drive like me.” He grins.
She shakes her head. “I can’t ask you to do that. It’d be totally out of your way.”
He shrugs again. “Not really. Plus, my girlfriend lives at the Beach. It’ll be great to go meet her for a drink.”
“But—”
He lifts a finger to shush her and picks up his phone. “I won’t take no for an answer.” He stabs at the screen, scrolls down and taps a number. He lifts the cell to his ear and winks at Megan. She smiles faintly.
“Hey, baby,” Tony says. “How you doin’?” He waits a beat. “Great. Yeah, listen. I’m going to be out your way tonight. Want to—?” He laughs. “That’s what I was going to say. How about—” he looks at his watch “—11:00?” He waits. “You got it. See you then.”
He hangs up and smiles at Megan. “See? It’s all good. I’ll drop you at your friends’ house and go meet my honey after.”
She hesitates, then gulps her wine. “I guess that’d be okay. I mean, as long as you don’t mind.”
He raises his glass to her. “Not at all. Anything for a friend.”
She heard what he wanted her to hear. He’s already taken. He has no designs on her.
They’re just friends.
Nicely done, Tony. Very nicely done.
I give them a few minutes to return to their seats before following suit. When I sit down, they’re talking quietly, apparently about Tony’s nonexistent girlfriend. I put my newspaper in my briefcase, then lean back and close my eyes. If I’d had lingering doubts about Tony’s plans for Megan, they’re long gone. It’s time for me to step in.
My chance arrives when Tony finally stops prattling and says, “Excuse me for a minute. I have to use the facilities.”
“Sure,” Megan says. I hope she doesn’t take the opportunity to visit the restroom herself.
I hold my breath. I hear the sound of soft footfalls and feel a slight whoosh of air as he moves past me. I wait a beat, open my eyes and turn my head to see Tony hesitate at the lavatory—it must be occupied—and then open the connecting door between cars. When it slides shut with a bang, I hurry into Tony’s seat, warmed by his body.
Megan rears back in alarm. “What—?”
“I’m sorry to frighten you,” I say in a low voice, “but this is important. I’m a psychologist, and I’ve been listening to your conversation with this man. I feel obliged to warn you. His intentions toward you are not good. He’s not going to drive you to Virginia Beach. He’s going to abduct you and...force himself on you. I’m sorry,” I say again. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”
Her eyes are wide with shock and fear, her freckles standing out against her white skin. “What? What are you talking about?”
I scan the car for Tony. I hope there’s a long line for the lavatory.
Quickly, I repeat what I’ve just said and pull a business card from my wallet. “Here. I have a practice in Virginia Beach. I specialize in sexual deviance.”
She takes the card and stares at it—James McIntyre, PsyD, and my office address—and then at me. She’s trembling.
“When we stop at Newport News,” I continue, “get on the bus to Virginia Beach. You can’t miss it. It’ll be waiting at the station. Whatever you do, do not get into a car with Tony. Do you understand?”
She nods mutely. Then, in a small voice, “How do you know—?”
“I have patients with this paraphilia who have described exactly this scenario. There’s no time to explain.”
“Paraphilia?”
“It’s—never mind. I know you have no reason to believe me, but please. Don’t get in the car.”
Quickly, I stand up and reclaim my seat across the aisle. Just in time. The sliding door opens, and Tony saunters in. I glance at Megan and see her stuff my business card into the front pocket of her backpack, pull the hood of her sweatshirt up and curl up against the window, her face mostly hidden.
“So listen, I—” Tony says when he reaches our row. He stops when he sees Megan. She murmurs something unintelligible, as though half-asleep.
“Whoops! Sorry,” Tony whispers. He takes out his phone and gently eases himself into his seat. He gives Megan a long, hard look and then turns to his screen. She’s fooled him; he thinks she’s sleeping.
Good girl.
The remainder of the trip is uneventful. Megan sleeps, or at least pretends to, and Tony also nods off. I feel the need to stay alert, even though there’s nothing else I can do. The rest is up to Megan.
The conductor announces we’ll be arriving at Newport News in just a few minutes. Passengers traveling through to Virginia Beach must transfer to the Amtrak Thruway Motorcoach waiting at the station.
Tony awakens, yawns hugely and nudges Megan. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he says. “We’re almost there.”
She starts and sits up. “What? Oh.” She turns her head to look at me, then past me and back at Tony. There’s a large red mark on her cheek where it was mashed against the window.
“Are you okay?” he says.
“Mm-hmm. Just tired. And my head hurts. You got me drunk.” She says this with just enough flirtatiousness for him to think she’s teasing, but I can see a flicker of anger in her eyes. Again she looks at me and then away.
“Guilty.” He laughs. “But that’s spring break, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
With a shriek of the hydraulic brakes, the train pulls into Newport News, and the gathering of belongings obviates further conversation. A pulse beats in my throat, and I realize I’m nervous. I think I know what Megan’s going to do, but will she be strong enough to go through with it?
Tony and Megan detrain first and stop midway between the tracks and the bus idling in front of the station house. The night air is chilly, blustery, bracing, and as I walk past them, I see Megan’s long red hair blown into wild shapes that look like the flames of a bonfire. I take a seat on the bus and watch their silent interaction under the bluish glare of the parking lot lights. Is she refusing his offer?
She’s refusing, all right. At first, her body language is submissive—crossed arms and legs, slumping to make herself even smaller than she is—and his is puzzled, then cajoling. He’s pleading with her, arms outstretched, palms up, but as she gradually unwinds herself and stands her ground, his posture becomes more aggressive and threatening. He spreads his feet apart and puts his hands on his hips. Then he reaches out and grabs her wrist. Even through the thick window glass, I can hear her scream, and she tries to yank her arm away. He won’t let go. Then, before I or any of the other men around can intervene, he sneers and shoves her backward, releasing her. She staggers but doesn’t fall. She races around him toward the bus.
“You’re not that hot, bitch,” he bellows after her, so loudly that I can hear every word. “Fuck it! Fuck you! Fuck YOU!”
“Hey!” says the burly bus driver, lurching from his seat and lumbering down the steps and onto the pavement. “What’s going on?”
I watch from the window. “I have to get on the bus,” I hear Megan say through the open door. “Please. I have a ticket.”
The bus driver points to Tony, who’s now backing away with his hands raised. “Is this guy giving you any trouble?”
“I’m okay.”
“Go ahead, honey,” he says, and moves to let her pass.
Tony’s still retreating. “Sorry,” I hear him call out. “Sorry.”
The bus driver shakes his head in disgust. “Get outta here before I call the police.”
Tony doesn’t need another warning. He turns, hurries into the darkest recesses of the parking lot and disappears.
When I turn away from the window, I see Megan making her way down the aisle, rubbing her wrist. When she sees me, she drops into the seat next to mine. She’s shaking.
“So you were right,” she says. The corners of her mouth are turning down as though she’s going to cry and, sure enough, one tear drops, then two.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a package of Kleenex. “Here.”
“Thanks.” She plucks out a tissue and hands the package back. She scrubs at her face, and when she looks up again, she’s gotten herself under control. “I mean, I tried to be nice about it. I just told him I changed my mind and wanted to take the bus. I didn’t mention you or tell him what you said—” good “—but it didn’t matter. He went crazy anyway.”
I take a deep breath. “If he really was a nice guy offering to help you, your turning down a ride wouldn’t have set him off. That little display—” I nod at the window “—shows you he cared too much about the outcome.”
“I guess,” she says dully.
“Look,” I say kindly, “you’ve had a shock. But Tony’s gone. He can’t hurt you. And we’ll be in Virginia Beach before you know it.”
“Okay.” She gives me a watery smile. “Thanks.”
We spend the short trip chatting. I’m happy to see Megan relax as we increase the distance between her and the train station. By tacit agreement, we don’t discuss what happened. Megan seems to want to put it all behind her as quickly as possible. Which is fine with me.
By the time the bus deposits us at the small shelter at Nineteenth and Pacific, it’s almost 10:00, and it’s even colder by the ocean than it was in Newport News. The other passengers are either being picked up or walking to their cars. As usual, there are no cabs. Megan sets her backpack on the pavement and looks around anxiously.
It’s crucial I get this part right.
“Well, good night, Megan,” I say casually. “Despite everything, I enjoyed talking to you. I hope you have a lovely vacation.”
Her voice wobbles. “Thank you. I enjoyed talking to you, too.”
I start to walk away. I go ten steps, then twenty, with bated breath. Can it be that I’ve misread her?
“Dr. McIntyre?”
I exhale. No, I haven’t. I stop and turn. “Yes?”
She huddles inside her sweatshirt. “Do you know where I can get a taxi?”
I act taken aback. “You don’t have anyone meeting you?”
She shakes her head. “My friends don’t know I’m coming. It’s a surprise.”
I let a note of impatience creep into my voice. “Well, can’t you call and ask them to pick you up?”
“They don’t have a car.” She bites her lip.
I walk back toward her. “What’s the address?”
She picks up her backpack and unzips the front pocket. She pulls out a piece of paper and shows it to me. Her friends’ house is five blocks from where we’re standing.
I furrow my brow. “Hmm. That’s a good two, three miles away. You can’t walk it. You’ll freeze.”
She gazes at the deserted streets and looks forlorn. “Oh, no.” This is it. It’s important that it be her idea.
I look at my watch. “I hate to leave you here all by yourself, but I have to get home. My wife is expecting me.”
The words “all by yourself” and “wife” do the trick. Megan puts her hand on my arm. “Please, Dr. McIntyre. Is your car around here? Could you give me a lift?”
I pretend to ponder this, then say, “Sure. I’m just around the corner.”
Relief washes over her face. She slings her backpack on her shoulder. The unzipped front pocket gapes, and I see my business card. I make a mental note to retrieve it. Afterward.
“Thank you so much,” Megan says, when we’re snug and warm inside my car. “I hope this isn’t taking you out of your way.”
Having successfully activated the Provide Assistance Scenario, I now activate the automatic door locks and smile. “Not at all. What are friends for?”