Curing Erica’s Phobia

When Erica woke up, she couldn’t see and she sat up in a panic. A damp, cold washcloth fell into her lap and she realized it had been over her eyes. She stared at it for a few moments in confusion, before she finally realized that other people were around her. She was on the couch in the main room of the apartment. Eric was pacing near the front door. Joann was sitting in the chair next to the couch and took the damp cloth from her lap, offering her a glass of water instead. Erica turned to put her feet on the floor. She could see John doing something in the kitchen and the other man – what did he say his name was? – speaking softly on his cell phone. He glanced at her from time to time, so she figured she was the topic of conversation. She could also see a stack of papers on the dining table. Her papers? She forced herself to focus on Joann.

“What happened?”

“You fainted.”

She shook her head. “I don’t faint. I have panic attacks. I have phobias. I have a shitload of things. But I don’t faint.”

“I think you had a memory,” Joann said softly.

“Of what?” Erica said in exasperation.

“Of Doctor Templar. Doctor Max.”

Erica could feel herself go pale. “Doctor Max,” she repeated in a whisper. There was something there, tickling at the back of her mind. It just wouldn’t come forward. The new party member finished his call and turned toward her. Something about him… She stood and moved around Joann and the chair. She was vaguely aware of Eric stepping up behind her, as if expecting to have to catch her again. She stepped cautiously toward the stranger. He obligingly stood perfectly still, letting her set her own speed. She stopped just out of his reach and stared at his eyes. The irises were a peculiar color, almost a teal, and that tickle was becoming an itch, but still refused to be drawn forward.

“Do you know me?” he asked softly.

Erica took a step back, almost colliding with Eric. She pressed the heels of her palms against her forehead. “Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” he continued in the same soft voice.

Erica shook her head furiously, refusing to look at him.

“What name did I call you when you knew me?”

“Stop it!” she cried, backing away again and running up against Eric. He did his best to block her way without physically holding her.

Templar didn’t move closer, but his soft voice wrapped around her, holding her in place and binding her attention. “You seem to remember me. If you remember me, it may be that I treated you at one time, perhaps in California. But I need to know what your name was then. Then I can search through my old records, help you remember more. Help you remember your mother.”

Her head snapped up. “You don’t know my mother!” she snarled at him.

“You are the one who does not know,” he said, his words harsh but soft in the silent room. “If you help me, I can help you remember her.”

“She left me. She didn’t love me. She didn’t care so I don’t want to remember her. I don’t want to remember anything!” She spun around trying to push Eric out of her way.

“You wanted to see your records, this morning,” Eric reminded her. “You wanted to remember. You want to trust,” he said, pointedly looking down at her hands on his chest as she tried to push him back. She gave one final, futile shove then turned toward the kitchen, since he was obviously determined not to let her flee to the cocoon of her bedroom. She felt Eric start after her and saw the psychologist wave him back out of the corner of her eye. In the kitchen, she dug to the back of the fridge until she found a bottle of wine and turned to John for an opener. He looked to the doctor for permission, before taking the bottle and opening it to pour a glass.

“Perhaps we should all get to know each other, eat dinner together, then it will be easier to delve into difficult subjects,” John suggested, looking almost beseechingly at the others.

“Playing the good cop again?” Erica said snidely.

He didn’t take offense, just shrugging. “It’s what I majored in,” but his eyes were still on the psychologist, seemingly asking him to back off and give her space.

“Sorry,” Erica muttered. “Makes you an easy target.”

“I’m okay with it if it helps you cope,” he said softly. His eyes were still on the psychologist, though, and Erica would have sworn he breathed a sigh of relief when Templar nodded slightly. She took her wine and rounded the kitchen counter to sit at the table, in front of the stack of papers. Eric was there instantly, moving them to the kitchen counter.

“They’ll be right here when you are ready to talk about them. Like John suggested, let’s just talk for right now.” He sat down next to her as the psychologist sat across and Joann took the fourth seat. John remained in the kitchen, apparently on dinner duty.

Erica stared at her hands, which were playing nervously with each other. “I’d rather just listen, if you don’t mind.”

“Then as the newbie here, let me start,” Templar said. “As I said, my name is Dr. Maxwell Templar.” He paused a moment, watching for a reaction, then continued, “I am a psychologist. I work for the FBI now, but initially practiced in California, first as a state employee, then for a few years in private practice. My specialty is childhood trauma.”

“I’m not a child,” Erica muttered petulantly, realizing belatedly that she sounded very childish indeed.

“I know that, Erica,” he said in that soft voice. She couldn’t decide if it was condescending or just intended to be gentle and non-threatening. “Most of the cases that I am called to consult on now do involve children, such as kidnap victims, witnesses to crimes or terrorism, sometimes for natural disasters. I’m not a therapist, per se. I help children cope with the immediate trauma. To put it bluntly, I help children be useful to the FBI so they can resolve their investigation. I follow up by getting the child to a proper therapist who can help them in the long term. That is why I say I am not here to pick you apart and put you back together again. I leave that work to someone else.”

She finally looked up and met his eyes. “I told you, I’m not a fucking child,” she said angrily. There. That didn’t sound nearly as childish.

She noticed Eric tense, but Templar simply continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “I am also called in when an adult is suspected of having undergone childhood trauma that is affecting that adult’s ability to assist the FBI in their investigation.” Erica’s eyes dove back to her nervous hands. “There is reason to believe that may be the case here, so I was asked to assist, if for no other reason than to determine if, indeed, a childhood trauma contributed to your current difficulties to participate in the investigation.” He paused again, but Erica remained silent. “It is my understanding that, when you have received treatment recently to retrieve memories, it led to nightmares, but no recovered memories?”

When Erica refused to acknowledge the question, Eric said, “That is what she told us.” She could feel him looking at her, daring her to deny or amend his statement.

Templar continued. “I would be inclined to guess that the person you saw tried to use techniques like regression, hypnosis?” He paused again, but Erica was resolutely silent. “These techniques can lead to repressed memories. They can also lead to repressed dreams. In other words, real memories of past dream events, not waking events. This is where false memories come from. False memories can be very damaging and yet are somewhat common. Especially if you have a Freudian bent to begin with,” he added. “Like when daughters accuse their fathers of sexual abuse.”

Erica’s fingers stilled and her breathing sped up. Eric and Joann both shot the psychologist a warning look, but he was studying Erica. “Mind you, sometimes fathers do abuse their daughters. And sons. Sometimes mothers do. Or participate. Or stand by.

“Erica, I’m going to tell you an ugly truth. About myself, about my job, to be specific. It’s not something I’m proud of. In fact, it’s something that regularly horrifies me.” She couldn’t help herself. She looked up at him, just slightly, watching his face through her eyelashes. Satisfied he had her attention, he continued. “I push. I push really hard. Like I did with you earlier. That’s because, almost invariably, time matters. Time creates more victims. My ugly truth is; I’m willing to deepen your trauma, in order to save someone else the same trauma.”

Her eyes fell to her hands and she realized they were betraying her anxiety. She dropped them into her lap, where they continued to torment each other. “I’m listening,” she whispered.

“Fair enough,” he said agreeably. “When you first came back into the apartment, you gave no sign of recognizing me as anything other than yet another psychologist that you didn’t want to see. Am I right, so far?”

She just shrugged. “We know that Juan had you see a psychologist and that led to nightmares. Your foster youth records indicate you intermittently saw a psychiatrist while in the care system. Did you have nightmares from those visits?”

Erica snorted, then realized that even that much communication involved her in the conversation, because when she glanced up at Templar, he was smiling very faintly. She conceded a modicum of defeat. “He only prescribed drugs to make me more manageable.”

“And I suspect you didn’t take them, given your school performance.” She looked up sharply and stared at him, thinking he was ridiculing her. But then she saw his warm, sympathetic smile.

She lowered her eyes, but only slightly. “They made me feel sleepy, and…”

“Stupid?” He asked when she didn’t finish.

She was staring at him openly now. “Yes.” She answered softly.

“A common complaint,” he said with a shrug. “So, when you were placed with a family, you just let everybody think you were being compliant and bottled up your feelings, controlled your outbursts.” He paused.

She shrugged nonchalantly. “I started running. Whenever I felt the need to scream or break something… or cut myself, I would run. I would run until the feeling passed.”

“I commend your resourcefulness.”

She stared at him again, wondering if he was mocking her, but his face showed nothing but genuine admiration. He locked eyes with her. “Erica, everything, throughout your life, has been coping mechanisms for something, some trauma, maybe even many traumas that you have suffered. That is all we extensively, and expensively, educated doctors can offer you; ways to cope. But you scraped together your own solutions, mechanisms. Some have worked well for you. Some not so well. If you understand nothing else, you must understand this, and I think you know it all ready. There is no cure for trauma. There is only coping. I differ with many of my colleagues on this. They want to believe that confronting a traumatic memory enables one to move on; beyond. And I do believe that the event or events must be confronted. But that is not a cure or a solution. It is only a way to determine how best to cope. Like grief, we do not and should not forget a grievous loss. We need to incorporate it, cope with it, find ways to function despite it. The one thing that does not and never will work for any length of time is denial. Denial that an event occurred, denial that it was a loss.” He paused as John set plates of Chicken Alfredo for everyone. John set his own at the counter, just behind Erica and, at a nod from Templar, poured her some more wine.

“I would like to talk about your coping mechanisms,” the psychologist continued, “because I don’t think you are ready to talk about the trauma. Am I right?” He asked, trying to pull her back into the conversation. She only shrugged, but it still constituted a response, so he plunged ahead. “All right. You drink.”

“Only wine,” she pointed out. “It helps me sleep. And Juan only allows me to have one glass.” Templar didn’t say anything, only cocking an eyebrow at her. “Guess I don’t have to obey him anymore,” she muttered, mutinously taking another drink of her wine.

He continued. “Your panic attacks. If you’re busy trying to breathe, to not vomit, you don’t have to think about what you experienced that threatened to bring a memory to the surface.” She stared at her fingers, willing them to be still.

“Your fainting…”

“It was only that one time,” she protested.

“Because your other mechanisms haven’t been working so well. You were trying out a new one. To avoid remembering me and why you knew me.

“We’ve talked about your running, and I think that is an excellent response to the pressures that build inside you. What causes those pressures to build are memories threatening to break through.” Erica’s eyes flicked to Eric. When she had seen his closet full of whips and straps, she had fled and run all night. At the time, she thought it was memories of her time with Juan that drove her to run, but those weren’t repressed memories. Eric didn’t say anything, but from his face, she thought he might be pursuing the same line of questions she was. He was looking at her openly, encouragingly, a fork of food stalled in transition to his mouth.

Templar observed their silent interaction, giving it time to play out before he continued. “Another coping mechanism you have is the fear of being too close to another person. What an anthropologist or sociologist would deem an invasion of your ‘personal space.’ Most of us deal with this infringement by making exceptions for, say, a hand shake, or toleration on a crowded bus for the duration of the ride, or by stepping back when someone comes too close or even a blunt statement to back off. Irritation is the natural response. Yours is fear. You don’t know who might bring you pain, so you maintain a safe distance from every person you meet. If pressed, you explain it away as a phobia. That way, you don’t have to think about why a stranger would cause you pain. Do you remember when you developed that fear reaction? The records that we have right now indicate it was in place when you entered the foster system.”

She shrugged in what she hoped was an ‘it doesn’t really matter,’ sort of way. Another part of her was delving back, cautiously, surreptitiously, trying to remember when it started, without success. She was playing with her food, twisting the fettuccini about her fork without actually eating any of it. A totally aside part of her mind knew without even looking at him that Eric wanted to order her to eat something. She felt a small delight to know he was irritated with her.

“I don’t remember,” she said. It was her pat answer to pretty much anything, any questions that came up about the time before she entered the foster care system. She had learned it from all the other kids in the system, some of them had been there for as long as they had memories. Anything an adult asks you, you answer ‘I don’t remember’ and they don’t really want to know, so they gladly accept that answer. This psychologist, this Doctor Max was different. Why the hell was that name twitching inside her brain? Why the hell wouldn’t he accept a simple answer?

“You’ve chosen not to remember,” he stated flatly. Erica gave him a glare, but she couldn’t hold it long under his penetrating, teal-eyed gaze. “Let’s be clear,” he stated, then amended, “Let’s be clearly honest with one another…”

“Meaning I have to be honest with you, but no quid pro quo,” she stated flatly, but firmly. It actually seemed to take him aback. He stared at her in silence for a moment, as if reassessing.

“I want to be honest with you, Erica,” he said after a long silence. “But you have to help me. I think you recognized me. Maybe my eyes, because they are an unusual color. Maybe ‘Doctor Max,’ the name I use when treating children. I had my medical records from California searched for your name, after your reaction to the sight of me. There was nothing. But that would not be surprising if you entered the foster care system with an assumed identity, to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” she demanded sullenly, still twirling pasta about her fork without eating.

“From people who would want to kill you,” he said as bluntly as possible. Her fork stopped twirling. She seemed frozen in place. “Is that so surprising?” he asked. “You already believe that this Juan wants to kill you.”

Erica looked toward Eric. She could feel the beginning of a panic attack coming, and for some unfathomable reason, she sought comfort, support, help from him. He reached out and grasped her hand. She didn’t even flinch. “Who else?” she asked Templar, but her eyes were locked on Eric’s.

He took his time, observing the interaction before he answered. “Your father,” he stated expressionlessly.

Erica was beginning to gasp for breath. “I don’t remember my father.” Her eyes were still locked with Eric’s.

“Really?” Templar asked with deep skepticism.

Eric’s eyes flew to him even before Erica turned to stare at him. “You really mean to ask her that?” Eric demanded. “Put that suggestion in her head? Why don’t you just fabricate a whole memory for her?”

“I can only work with the information I’m given,” Templar stated stiffly. “You were the source of a great deal of that information, if I might be so bold as to remind you.”

Erica’s eyes swung back to Eric. “What is he talking about?” she demanded.

“Tell her,” Templar told Eric, and she suddenly realized that she had been drug into the very conversation she didn’t want to have. Hell, run full blast through the door. Now it was Eric who was reluctant, holding back. He squeezed her hand gently.

“Please tell me,” she whispered, then more strongly, “If you’re going to force me to remember, then give me all of it. Every dirty, ugly little secret.”

“That’s the problem, Erica. We can’t give your memories to you. You have to give them to us. All we have are hints that may or may not help you,” Templar said gently. She glared at him, well aware he was trying to play her with his seemingly mercurial interactions; one moment being soothing and gentle, the next being stern, even demanding. He was trying to keep her off balance, keep her panic attack at bay by forcing her to react to him with a variety of emotions.

“Well then, give me the fucking hints and let’s get this over with,” she exclaimed, throwing her napkin on the table. It was torn where her restless fingers had worked through the fabric. She stared at the small hole. She went from anger to chagrin; zero to sixty in a nanosecond. Or perhaps sixty to zero. She shoved away from the table and grabbed the papers that Eric had moved to the counter. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eric glance at the doctor, who gave a slight shake of his head. Erica started reading about herself, and as she read she sat back down without even realizing. Everyone at the table was silent, watching her. Some small part of her mind equated it to a crowd watching and waiting for a building to be demolished by implosion. When she reached the end of the paperwork, she knew they were going to be sorely disappointed.

“This is worthless,” she snapped, tossing the papers on top of the napkin, starting a pile. “All the names are redacted. Even my original name. There’s no hints there.”

“Did you learn anything you didn’t know before,” Templar asked, using his stern voice. She peered at him. Was he trying to sound like a father? If he was trying to sound like her father, he wasn’t even close. Wait. Where had that thought come from? Erica ducked her head, lacing her hands through her hair, holding her head like it might explode. Or implode.

“Erica?” He was waiting for an answer, still stern, unrelenting. He didn’t want to give her time to think things through, but she needed to. She realized belatedly that they had boxed her in at the table, with Eric to one side of her and John at the counter, blocking the escape route to her bedroom. “Did you learn anything?” he asked again. She took her wine glass in both hands, cradling it as her only solace.

“That I had been abused? Duh. You don’t get this fucked up because someone took your teddy bear away. That I was taken from a place where criminal activity was occurring,” she shrugged slightly, uncertainly. “Maybe they didn’t arrest everybody and that’s why they changed my name?” The last was spoken as a question and she looked at Eric for confirmation.

He nodded. “It could be that, or there might have been a lot of notoriety about the case. They were definitely trying to protect you from something if they moved you to another state.”

She frowned. “Where did you see that? All I saw mentioned was Washington.”

“Something you said the other night,” he confessed.

“Then I think it’s time you told me what I said. What I remembered.”

“I will,” he agreed, “If you will eat some of your food.”

She looked down at her untouched food. “I’ll try,” she said.

“That’s all I ask. And it’s important that you keep in mind, what you said to me may not be real memories. Like Max said, they could be dream events.”

“How would I know the difference?”

“That’s our job,” Templar said. “You give us the breadcrumbs, the clues, and we’ll follow the trail, figure out where it leads.”

She looked dubious, but shrugged. When no one said any more, she realized they were waiting for her to eat something, and she pulled the plate closer. The food smelled delicious, but her stomach was tied in knots. She just hoped for their sake they would grant her a clear route to the bathroom if it decided to all come right back up. She took a tentative bite and looked expectantly at Eric. His eyes spoke volumes of concern as he searched for a beginning question.

“Do you remember ever living in Las Vegas?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I would think I’d remember that; the Strip, all the lights…”

“You may have been in a bedroom, in the basement of a house.”

“Like a dungeon?” she asked, taking another bite.

She saw Eric shoot a quick glance at the psychologist. “What?” she asked, glancing from one to the other. “I don’t mean like a castle dungeon. That would be a dream event, right?”

No one said anything and she frowned in annoyance. “What else?”

“What kind of dungeon were you thinking of,” Templar asked quietly.

“You know, like BDSM. Whips and chains and stuff.”

“Did Juan ever take you to a place like that?” Eric asked.

“No. I told you, just that one club. That was more like a theater, with stages.” She scowled as she put another bite in her mouth.

“Have you ever been to a place like that?” Eric asked.

“You know I haven’t been with anybody but Juan,” she said in exasperation, then blushed as she remembered she’d been with him, too. She wasn’t about to say that out loud though, no matter how much the others knew. She concentrated on the plate of food in front of her.

“We’re just trying to get a handle on where those memories may have come from,” Templar said.

“Anyway,” Eric added, “The memories you seemed to be having were before Juan.”

“Memories of what?” she demanded. “All you’ve told me so far is something about a basement dungeon.”

“What about someone you called ‘Da?'” Eric hurried on. He didn’t want her to dwell on the fact that she had automatically equated a basement bedroom with a dungeon.

Erica stilled. “Da,” she repeated softly, a tickle of memory taunting her. “It sounds like dad, doesn’t it?” Her brow furrowed. “Do you think I was talking about my dad?” she asked Eric.

It was Templar that responded. “What do you think, Erica? That’s what really matters.”

She scowled at him. “If I knew, you wouldn’t have to be here poking and prodding my memory, now, would you?”

“That’s why I asked you what you think, not what you know,” he replied, unfazed by her snappish response.

“Well, I’m sick of you people asking me what I think and what I feel. Nobody ever gives me answers. They just say; what do you think, what do you feel, how did you react to that. It would be really refreshing if some psychologist would just look me in the face and say ‘You know what? You’re really fucked up.'” She saw Eric ball his hands into fists, trying to control his temper. “Well, I am,” she snapped at him. She turned back to Templar. “You want to know what I think? I think I’m scared. You want to know what I feel? I feel scared. You want to know how I react? To everything? With fear. Every fucking human being I see scares the shit out of me. That should answer every question you have.”

“Did Da scare you?” Templar asked, as if he had heard none of her outburst.

“Of course he scared me. Didn’t you hear a word I said?”

“What did he do that scared you?” he asked quietly.

“He…” Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath except Erica, who was breathing fast but not in her typical panic mode. Her eyes were unfocused, looking off into a distance only she could see.

“Did he cause the pain?” Templar asked when it seemed she had become lost in memories.

She shook her head slightly. “He loved me,” she whispered. “He made the pain go away. He would be there when the pain became unbearable. And he would make me… He would let me… come,” she whispered. “But it always came back, the pain always came back, the men always came back,” she added sadly.

“What about when Da became angry with you?” Eric asked. “When you took too long with someone, or displeased someone?”

She turned toward him, but still with an unfocused look, seeing something else. Her brow furrowed. “Did I displease you that night? I tried, I really did.” Her voice was higher pitched, almost childlike. “But you never came back again. Is that why the pain came? Did Da find out? Did you tell him?”

“No, Honey,” he reassured her. “You told me that he was going to teach you a new way to please men.”

“Oh. Yes,” she said despondently.

“Honey? What was Da’s name?” Eric asked.

“Frank Reznick,” she replied dreamily. “He loved me,” she added again. “Not like Mama. He said she was a whore from the old country and didn’t know her place.”

John silently slipped off the kitchen stool and disappeared to the back room. Erica didn’t notice. She wasn’t noticing any of them anymore. “What name did your mama call you?” Templar asked.

She shrugged and her face softened. “When Da wasn’t around, she called me Katarina. He would get mad if he heard her and hit her,” she frowned. “He said we were in America and to be American, so she would call me Kate if he was around.”

“And your mama’s name?”

“He called her Wendy, but she told me the truth. It was really Wendelin. She was very beautiful. She would play school with me.” Her frown deepened. “He said she left me.”

“What do you remember?” Templar asked. “Do you remember her leaving?”

Erica cocked her head, looking into a far distance. “Men came. Da was with them. Mama told me to hide, but there was only one room. I ran into the bathroom, but the door was broken. It wouldn’t shut. A big man grabbed me and said Da wanted me to come home. He smelled of cigarettes. He took me back out into the apartment…”

“What did you see?” Templar prodded.

“Two men were holding Mama. I screamed for her, but the man holding me put his hand over my mouth. He had a glove on and I remember it tasted awful. Da turned toward me and said he needed to talk to Mama for a moment, then he would bring me home. The man carried me out of the apartment and I heard a loud noise. Then the other men were there and they took me home to Da’s.”

“A loud noise like a gunshot?” the psychologist asked.

Erica turned to him, her wide, scared eyes focusing on his face finally. “He told me she left me.”

“He lied,” Templar said with a shrug. She continued to stare at him, even as John came out of the back room, looking pale, and signaled to Eric and Joann. Erica wasn’t aware of them leaving. She continued to stare at Templar.

“I hated Mama for leaving me,” she said in a horrified whisper.

“You had no way of knowing. Nothing to go by except what he told you.” He paused. “Why did your mama take you away from him? Do you remember how old you were?”

Erica blinked rapidly, looking around. “I don’t remember,” she said, falling back on her pat answer.

“Don’t stop remembering now,” he said softly. “You’ve opened the door. Walk through it.”

“Where did they go?” she asked, ignoring him.

“Erica, the reason that you have nightmares is you’ve peeked in the door and seen bits and pieces. The dreams are your attempt to make sense of the bits and pieces. Once you have the full picture, you won’t need the dreams. It will make sense. An ugly, painful but whole picture of your past life. You won’t be able to move on with your future life until you resolve your past.”

“I thought your only job was to solve crimes,” she snapped, rising from the table to follow the sound of voices. The psychologist pulled out his cell phone and sent a text message off. Erica found the others in the back bedroom, their conversation coming to an immediate stop as she appeared in the door. Eric had been talking into John’s cell phone and looked around at her almost guiltily. “What?” she demanded.

Joann walked out to wrap her arm around Erica and pull her back into the main room. “We’re getting more information, but we want to have it all before we talk to you about it. Just be patient.”

Erica grabbed her wine glass and the bottle, refilling her wine before anyone could stop her. “Erica,” Templar said.

She took a deep, calming breath before turning to face him. “You went back there to find out more, yes?”

“Everybody is hiding things from me,” she snapped.

“Not nearly as much as what you are hiding from yourself. Why is it non-threatening to find out what they know, but so threatening to find out what you know?”

“I don’t understand what you are saying.”

“Yes, you do. You want someone else to unveil your past so that you can blame them for the ugliness. You’re afraid because you know you will blame yourself for shining a light on what you don’t want to see. That you will blame yourself for not leaving the shadows to hide in the dark. You shut down our discussion when you realized you had hated your mother for something she didn’t do. You blamed yourself for hating her, didn’t you?”

Erica scowled, but didn’t answer. “Blame the ugliness, not the light shining on it,” he told her.

“What if I’m the ugliness?” she hissed.

“Jesus, Erica, how could you even think that!” Eric exclaimed, just walking back into the room. Templar glared at him briefly.

“I hated my mama when she was only trying to help me escape,” she stated as if it was patently obvious.

“Escape what?” Templar asked quietly.

“What Da was doing to me. What she thought… What I told her… Oh, god! She died because of me!” she moaned as she sank to a puddle on the floor. “If I hadn’t said anything…”

Eric started to go to her to help her back up, but Templar raised a warning hand. He had to stand to see her where she sat huddled on the floor on the far side of the table. “Perhaps you’d like to blame yourself for Hurricane Katrina while you’re at it,” he suggested. She glowered up at him. “Blame the victimizer. Hate the victimizer. You are the victim, Erica. Get angry at someone besides yourself for a change.”

“Like you?” she snarled.

“I’d much rather you hate me than fear me.”

“Well, congratulations. Because right now I loathe you.”

Templar looked down at his phone and tapped it a few times then held the screen up, facing her. “Stand up, Erica. Look at this picture.”

She glared at him but gave in to her curiosity and stood, then stepped closer to view the picture of a young girl, perhaps ten, on his cell phone. She cocked an eyebrow at him. “That’s you. You remembered me because I treated you, back in California, when you were in hiding with your mother. When you gave me the Americanized names I was able to have the file service do a search of my records. Would you like me to read some of my case notes?”

Erica was still staring at the picture. It felt more like she was looking at a relative; a sibling or a cousin, maybe. She couldn’t feel herself ever being that age. She nodded slowly. “Why don’t we all sit down,” he suggested. She was still standing, staring, even though he had turned his cell phone back around and was calling up records that had been emailed to him. Eric sat and took her hand, pulling her down gently into her seat.

“I was in private practice at that time,” Templar explained, “But about half my cases were referrals from the Children and Family Services Division. My notes state that you and your mother were referred to them through a non-profit that specialized in helping Eastern European and Russian women who became victims of domestic abuse. Particularly immigrant brides. Victims of human trafficking. The non-profit and Social Services were helping your mother establish a new identity, secure proper visas, etc. They referred you to CFSD for therapy for your panic attacks. Sound familiar?”

Erica didn’t answer, though it was obvious to everyone at the table that she was building up to one of those attacks. Templar continued. “Apparently, you proved too much of a handful for their typical MSW therapists and you were referred to me. Erica, breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold.” Her eyes shot up to his.

“My mantra.”

“I’d like to claim it’s original with me, but that would be a lie, of course.”

“I like mine better,” Eric muttered.

Erica actually smiled at him. “Tick, tock.” He smiled back and she ducked her head shyly. Like a ten-year-old, he realized. But her breathing had returned to normal.

Templar observed the interaction, noting that Erica had slid back into her memories. He shot Eric a warning look, but the detective had already recognized the signs and nodded slightly. “Do you remember what we would talk about, Kate?”

Erica looked up, but her eyes were flitting about the room evasively. “Fear,” she said softly, in an even more childish voice than before.

“Do you remember what you were afraid of?”

She shook her head stubbornly. “Everything.”

“Yes, that’s what you told me the first time we met. When I asked you what things in particular, you said pain. Do you remember that?” Her eyes were still evasive, but she nodded. “I asked you what kind of things caused you pain.” He referred briefly to the document on his phone. “Do you remember what you told me?”

She shook her head again, tracing the grain of the table with one finger, concentrating on that rather than the question. “You told me that your Da caused you pain. And that missing your Da caused you pain.”

Erica nodded uncertainly. “You said that he didn’t mean to hurt you, when he did. That he hurt you accidently, because he was angry with your mama.” Erica made a motion that was somewhere between a nod and a shrug, her finger pushing along the grain of the table as if she could erase the lines there. “Kate, tell me about missing your Da. Tell me about the pain that caused you.”

She gave the ten-year-old shrug again. “He needed me. He told me that all the time. He needed me and I wasn’t there. He would have been a better man if I had been there.” If Erica hadn’t been concentrating on the woodgrain she might have seen the reactions around the table to her statement. Even Templar seemed surprised.

“How would he have been a better man, Kate?” She seemed even more enthralled with the wood grain. “Kate? It’s important. Please.”

“If I’d been there, he could hurt me. He wouldn’t need to hurt others. Just like he hurt me so he didn’t need to hurt my mama.”

“Is that what he told you? That if he didn’t hurt you, he would hurt your mother?”

“He didn’t want to,” she protested. “It would just happen, so if it happened to me, it wouldn’t happen to Mama.”

Templar took a deep breath, trying to center himself. “Kate, your mama told me you didn’t want to come and see me anymore. That you would have a panic attack if she made an appointment. She even had to take you to the hospital, once. Do you remember that?” Erica nodded reluctantly. “Why didn’t you want to see me anymore?”

“You didn’t understand,” she said with the bitterness of a ten-year-old. “You didn’t believe how he could hurt people, how many people he could hurt. You didn’t understand that I had to get back to him, so he didn’t have to hurt all those others. I had to get back!”

Templar stared at her. “Kate, did you call your Da? Did you tell him to come get you?”

Tears were falling down her cheeks now. “I had to. I had to use the secret number he gave me. I had to help him stop hurting others.” She burst into hysterical sobbing. “But then he said I was too old,” she sobbed. “I couldn’t help them. I couldn’t help the little girls. I waited too long, because I tried to get Mama to go away, somewhere safe. Away from the pain.” She buried her head in her arms, crying uncontrollably.

Templar reached across the table the laid his hands over her crossed arms. “Kate, you were right. I didn’t listen like I should have. I was wrong not to help you then, but I want to help you now. Please let me help you.”

“How?” she cried bitterly. “It’s all too late. Too late for Mama. Too late for the little ones. Too late for me.”

“No. It’s never too late,” he argued, “But I need you to come back to now. I need you to be Erica again. I need you to be strong like Erica. I need you to be angry like Erica. Can you do that?”

The stubborn ten-year-old was back, shaking her head, wiping angrily at her tears. Eric snatched one of her hands, trying to catch her attention. “Honey, do you remember the house in Las Vegas?”

“What?” she asked in confusion.

“The last time you saw Da? After he came back for you? After he told you, you were too old? After he taught you a new, even more painful way to please him?”

She shook her head frantically, sounding more like her adult self when she said, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Do you remember Da holding a gun to your head?” he persisted, with the information they’d been able to discover after she revealed his name. “Threatening to kill you when the police raided his house in Las Vegas? Do you remember him shooting at people with that gun, right next to your head? Your damaged hearing? The gun residue in your eyes? Your broken ribs where he held you so tight? You were Medevacked to Seattle because Da got away and it was too dangerous to take you to any hospital in Las Vegas; maybe even in California. You knew too much. His network was too large.”

She was still shaking her head furiously. “I don’t remember any of that!”

“Really? What about Da turning you into a pain slut. Like Pavlov’s dog, only instead of salivating at a bell, he taught you to come when you were being beaten, whipped; a whore for his sadistic clients who’d pay astronomical prices to beat a beautiful woman until she came, thrashing in orgasm even as they whipped her. If they were lucky, she’d beg for more and more pain.”

“No! Stop it! You’re making that up. You’re just jealous of Juan.” She swung her arm to slap him, but he easily caught her wrist.

“Where do you think Juan came from? Just out of the blue he ended up in Seattle on your campus as you were going to class? He was sent. To see what you remembered. To see if your training still held. He was sent by Da.” Templar was glaring furiously at Eric. He ignored the psychologist. “What’s the secret number Da gave you? He’s evil. He knew where you were. If he wanted to be a good man, to not hurt others, he would have come for you himself. He’s hurting more little ones even as we speak. Tell me the number so we can find him, Honey.”

“Don’t call me that!” she said struggling against his hold. “I’m not Honey!”

Eric sat back, though he still held her wrist and hand. “I know you’re not,” he said firmly but calmly. “You’ve moved beyond what you were. Beyond all the people you’ve been in your life. Now you need to become the strong one. The survivor. But you need to remember. To help us stop Da and Juan. That’s the only way you can save others from the pain you’ve endured.”