Curing Erica’s Phobia

Eric sat in a chair at the end of the bed, his legs straight out and spread apart on the bed. Erica lay on the bed, her feet resting in the space between his legs. He’d given her his best foot rub, he’d told her his boringest stories, he’d shushed her repeatedly when she tried to start conversations, offered her pills that the psychologist had conjured from a doctor friend of his, done everything he could think of to help her sleep. The door to the outer room was ajar, and though it was dark out there, he knew John was on duty, watching the parking lot and street, monitoring PD radio traffic, scouring the internet for information. The full moon was shining in through the bedroom window. Erica wouldn’t let him pull the curtains. Even now, he could see the sliver of light reflected in her open eyes as she stared at the ceiling, or gazed out the window.

He sighed, conceding defeat. Her determination to avoid the demons that awaited her in dreams was far greater than his meager offerings to induce sleep. “Erica?” he said softly, and saw her head turn toward him, though she didn’t say anything. He assumed that was in retaliation for all the times he had shushed her earlier in the night. “When you… come, climax, you hum. What is the music? I don’t recognize it.”

She was silent for a long moment, then she began humming so softly he wasn’t sure it wasn’t just an echo from earlier in the evening. She hummed longer, more tunefully than he’d heard before, though still so softly, he could barely make it out, and had no hope of recognizing it, though a vague plan formed in his mind to search through her playlists and he set his mind to remember the nuances of the tune. When her humming faded softly, slowly away, she spoke quietly and he strained to hear. “I don’t know. Something very old, I think. I can almost hear the words, and yet…”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said quickly, afraid he’d given her something else to obsess about instead of sleeping. She abruptly sat up and he groaned inwardly. “Really, it doesn’t matter. I know you don’t want to do any more remembering tonight. I was just curious…”

But she was staring off into the distance, one side of her face bathed in the white moonlight. “A song, a lullaby that mama would sing, in the old language.” She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, curling into what he’d come to recognize as a defensive ball. She was trying to keep the memories at bay, and she wouldn’t uncurl until she’d opened the door and let them in.

“Do you remember any of the words?” he asked, hoping to let the memory gently unfurl. Instead, her brow furrowed and she began breathing fast and shallow.

“Da didn’t allow those words. They were bad words,” she added in her little girl voice. He was trying to imagine a vulgar lullaby, until she added, “Bad, old words! Get my whip!”

“No, Kate,” he said in a rush. “You didn’t say the bad words. You were a good girl.”

“Mama?” she called. Then screaming, “Mama! Please don’t die! Mama!” she cried, and began crawling across the bed.

He caught at her arms. “Mama’s okay, Kate. She’s fine.”

“No,” she moaned, struggling weakly against his grip. “I have to protect her. Mama, I’m coming. Don’t hurt her anymore. Hit me! I was singing. I sang the bad words. Hit me! Da, please! Hit me!”

Eric twisted onto the bed and pulled her into his lap, holding her tightly despite her struggles. “Da can’t hurt your mama anymore, Erica. Your mama is gone. Da can’t hurt you anymore. We’re going to see to that. You’re not dreaming. You’re not having a nightmare. You are remembering. But those memories all happened in the past. This is here and this is now. And you are strong enough to fight your way through to a new life.”

Her breathing was still way too fast, but she gradually stopped struggling and it was Erica’s voice that finally said, “I’m okay. But I want to remember,” she added softly. “I want to relearn that song.”

“Done. I have a friend who’s a whiz with any software, and I know there’s stuff out there that can recognize a song from just a few notes.”

“Can we call him tomorrow?” she asked, with a trace of the little girl voice.

“You got it. If you promise to sleep.” He felt her tense up. “Try. If you promise to try to sleep. Deal?”

She shook her head against his chest. “I can’t, I won’t. I’m sorry,” she added sadly.

“You’ve slept before, when I’ve held you.”

She nodded. “You keep me from flying apart. When the pressure builds,” she whispered.

He sighed, but he curled his arm under her legs and lifted her, moving to the head of the bed and settling her back into his lap. She snuggled against him and fell asleep.

****

Erica awoke to the sound of quiet voices in the outer room. Eric was softly snoring, still leaning against the headboard. She carefully pulled his arms away and crawled off the bed, trying not to wake him. She tiptoed into the outer room. The psychologist was back, discussing something with Joann at the table. They both looked up at her, and Joann rose. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

Erica raised a finger to her lips, then noticed Joann’s eyes flick over her shoulder. She turned to find Eric standing right behind her, grinning. “You were asleep,” she insisted. “I heard you snoring.”

He shrugged. “Do you want real food for breakfast or that squirrel food?” he asked.

“I’ll have granola, thank you.” He gave a dramatic shudder, but went to get it for her.

“We have pictures we’d like you to look at,” Templar said from his seat at the table. Erica eyed him warily. She hadn’t gone any closer since stepping out of the bedroom and didn’t really want to, but Joann was putting a coffee cup in her hand and using it to tug her toward the table. She went along, more to follow the aroma of the fresh coffee than any desire to go through more memory testing. Templar pulled a file folder over in front of him. “Now these pictures…”

Erica shook her head emphatically. “No! First you tell me about Juan. Did you find him? Catch him at the airport? Something? Please tell me he’s not still out there.”

There was silence in the room and Erica backed up a step from the table. “She’s right,” Eric said, looking slightly puzzled. “They must know something by now.” He started to pull his phone out, but Joann laid a hand on his arm.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said quietly. “Can you get Erica her granola?”

For once, Eric looked even more annoyed than Erica. “What have we heard,” he said softly, though the demand in his voice was unmistakable.

Joann looked at the psychologist, who looked at Erica. “Please sit down.”

“You’ll tell me?” she bargained.

“Yes. And you will be calm and listen.” Erica frowned but sat, pulling her coffee cup closer. Templar was watching her closely as he spoke. “There was an FBI agent on the plane. Young, blonde, looked like you, at least to a degree.”

“I was told the plan,” Erica said impatiently.

“They found her body an hour ago. In an alley in Dubai.” Eric’s hand was suddenly resting on her shoulder, offering comfort. Erica had gone pale, but said nothing, staring at the tabletop.

If Templar was waiting for her to break the silence, he finally gave up. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

“Do you really?” she snapped bitterly, without looking up from the table.

“You’re thinking she’s dead because of you. You’re thinking you should have been the one on that plane.”

“And what should I be thinking?” Erica demanded.

“That you would be the body in the alley if you’d been on that plane.” Erica rolled her eyes and tried to stand, but Eric’s hand on her shoulder gripped tighter, holding her gently but firmly in place.

“Hear him out,” he murmured.

“What? So he can tell me I did the right thing getting some poor girl killed in my place?” She was gesturing wildly, so he rescued her cup holding it aside.

“I’m not going to tell you that,” Templar said. “And I’m not going to tell you that she knew the risks, or that it was her job to put her life on the line. You don’t need platitudes or rationalizations from me. And I don’t need for you to hear them. I need for you to help me put this asshole away for good. Starting with these pictures.”

“Yeah, that’ll have him behind bars in no time,” she drawled. “Where’s my fucking granola?”

Eric’s hand tensed on her shoulder, but then he retrieved the bowl and set it and the coffee cup in front of her. Templar selected a picture and slid it across the table toward her. Erica tossed it back at him. “That’s Juan. You mean to tell me you weren’t even sure what he looked like? Fucking A!”

“Please look at it again,” Templar suggested, sliding back toward her. Erica shrugged, spooning up her granola. “This was taken four years before you met him on the university campus.”

“So?”

“What’s different?” he asked patiently.

She sighed. “He was a lot leaner then. And he wore his hair short and spikey with light streaks. Now it’s more like a shaggy mop. He thinks it makes him look artistic if he doesn’t comb it.”

“Yet you recognized him instantly.”

“Well, yeah,” she said, with just a tiny doubt creeping into her voice.

“Like maybe you had seen him when he looked like this?” he suggested, tapping the picture. Erica frowned at the picture and gave an uncertain shake of her head. “Let’s put this one over here for a moment,” he said, sliding it to one side of the table. Erica concentrated on her granola again as he pulled another picture out. “I will tell you right up front that some of these pictures you would have no reason to recognize. What we call an experimental control.”

“Like a police lineup,” she said impatiently. “Just get on with it.”

He put another photograph in front of her. It was of an older man, wearing a suit. Her brow furrowed, then she shook her head. “I don’t know him,” she said, sitting back with her coffee cup.

“You looked like you were remembering something,” he said.

“You’re trying to influence my answers? Doesn’t that throw your controls out the window?” she challenged.

Templar smiled. “Call it doctor privilege.”

“I doubt a defense lawyer would see it that way.”

His smile faded somewhat. “Just look again, please.”

Erica sighed and sat forward, looking again, then closing her eyes. “I see books,” she said softly.

“Like accounting books?” Templar asked.

“Just books,” she replied impatiently.

Eric sat at the end of the table. “The man who brought you books? That you hid under your bed?” Templar threw him a dirty look, but Erica only shrugged.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Look. If these are supposed to be my customers, or whatever, I’m not going to be able to help you much. When I was ‘entertaining,’ the lights were dimmed and they were supposed to do me from behind. You know, like a bitch dog.” She threw a scowl at Eric even before he could reprimand her terminology. Templar pulled the photo away.

“Let’s look at some more pictures,” Templar suggested, and Erica wondered if his apparent irritation was real, or a calculated attempt to evoke a reaction from her. He stacked three more pictures in front of her that she just shrugged at. The fourth, though, froze her, even though the picture was grainy, like one caught from a surveillance video.

The silence hung in the air, until Erica finally pushed her granola away, still staring at the picture. “Da,” she whispered.

“This was from around the time you would have last seen him,” Templar said quietly.

Erica shuddered and closed her eyes. She stood suddenly, grabbing up her coffee cup. “I don’t know why you need me to remember this. You were there. Cops were everywhere. You knew more about what was going on than I did.” She pushed past Joann who was offering to get her more coffee and went around the counter to pour her own. She didn’t notice Templar discouraging Joann and Eric from following her, but the relief she felt as the distance from them increased eased her breathing, until she could turn and face them across the counter. “What do you want from me?” she asked plaintively.

“You’re right,” Templar agreed. “We weren’t there, specifically, but many people were. There were numerous reports that we can work from, to help you remember…”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because remembering this will help you remember other things, events where there weren’t other witnesses. People, associates of Reznick that might know where he is now. Places where he’s been that he might have gone back to.”

She glanced at the photo where it still lay on the table. “He never went back,” she said quietly, then frowned at her coffee and turned to look in the refrigerator for cream. She found a carton of mocha creamer and topped off the cup, then found a spoon to stir it. She was still stirring when Templar prodded again.

“What does that mean, ‘never went back?'”

“It’s what he would tell Mama. We could never go back to the old country, the old ways, the old language. He would tell me, always go toward the bigger, brighter, shinier. When I was little, each year, our Christmas tree had to be taller, each year he would add another string of lights, buy more decorations, even in bad years.” She fell silent as she stared back into a past only she could see. “Even after…” She closed her eyes in pain. “When he brought me back, when I was too old to please him, he would still bring my upstairs to show me the Christmas tree. How much bigger and brighter it was.” Her eyes flicked to Templar and quickly away again. “You should look for him in LA,” she said, entirely focused on her coffee once more. “Hollywood was the biggest, brightest place he could imagine.”

Templar moved the photo of Reznick over by the ones of Juan and the accountant. “Please, Erica. Come and look at more pictures,” he said.

She rolled her eyes, but slowly rounded the counter and sank back down in the chair, hugging her coffee. Templar slowly pulled each photo out, watching her reactions closely. Most of them, she simply shook her head at, one she gave a slight shrug and whispered, maybe. Templar put it aside with the other ones she’d picked out. Eric watched as she seemed to shrink in her seat. “What is it about that one?” he asked gently. “What are you remembering?”

“Pain,” she said faintly, refusing to look back at the photo. “I think maybe he was especially cruel.” She stared into her empty cup. “Some of them just, you know, hit me with things because Da insisted. I would have to… beg them to hit me harder, so that I could bear to be touched by them, after. But a few…” She couldn’t help it. Her eyes slid to the photo again and she cringed with a soft intake of breath. “Some, all they cared about was the hitting. The hurting. They didn’t even want to touch me, after.”

“Erica,” Templar said, calling her back to the present. “This one, he’s dead. He died in the shootout when they raided your Da’s place.”

“Good,” she snarled. “I hope he died painfully.”

Joann was prying her coffee cup out of her tight fingers. “Let me get you some more,” she said softly.

Erica shook herself and straightened in the chair. She looked at Eric. “When can we call your friend about the song?” she asked.

Templar interrupted. “I just have one more photo I want you to look at, for now. All right?”

Erica sighed dramatically and shrugged. Templar laid the last photo on top of the pile in front of her. Erica glanced at it, then did a double take. “I don’t understand,” she complained, pushing the whole pile away. “I thought this was about memories.”

“Do you know this person?” Templar asked, glancing at the back of the photo.

“It’s a friend of Juan’s,” she exclaimed, getting up to find Joann with her coffee. She rounded the counter as Joann handed her the cup. “Is that one of your experimental controls,” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“Erica, can you look again? More closely,” he asked, though there was a tone of command in his voice that annoyed her.

Eric took the picture and handed it across the counter to her as Joann moved away to give her more space. “His name is Victor or Vincent, something like that,” she said immediately handing it back. Eric read the back of the photo.

“This was taken six years ago,” he told her.

Erica shrugged. “He hasn’t changed much, then. He’s like, late thirties maybe. Older than Juan. He lives here in Seattle.”

“How did you meet him?” Eric asked.

She grimaced. “Juan took me to a party at his house. A BDSM party.”

“Where does he live?” Eric asked, trying to control the excitement in his voice.

She just shrugged, more intent on savoring her coffee. “I don’t know. Juan made me wear a blindfold on the way there, then a collar and leash when we were inside. He…”

“What?” Eric and Templar both prompted at once, though for different reasons.

Erica had just become aware of their inordinate interest in this recent memory and stared at them, trying to figure out the significance. “Just tell us about the party,” Joann said, sitting at the counter across from her, trying to capture her attention away from the men. Erica’s eyes drifted to her, then fell to the countertop.

“It was after the awful club we’d gone to. Juan told me he was going to take me to this party, and I started to have a panic attack. He hit me a couple of times, but that just made it worse, and finally, he promised me he wouldn’t let anybody touch me, if I would promise to behave. You know, like a slave. He said if I didn’t, he would take me anyway and tie me to a St Andrews cross and let everybody touch me.” She shifted restlessly from foot to foot. “So anyway, he had me strip and put on these stiletto heels and put my collar on. He loved to watch me lock a collar on my own neck and hand him the key,” she said with a shudder. “Then we went out to the car and he put the blindfold on me.”

“He drove you to the party naked?” Joann asked.

She nodded. “He liked to tell me about who was looking at me. Like that the guy in the next car was staring at me and jacking off. Things like that. I don’t know if it was true or he was making it up, but…” she shrugged helplessly. “So, at the party, he took the blindfold off. I made sure I followed behind him and kept my eyes down and called him Master, knelt next to him when he sat, all of that. I was afraid if I wasn’t perfect, he’d, well…” She glanced around the room as if looking for an escape, but eventually settled back on Joann’s sympathetic eyes and continued the story.

“Sometimes he called me his pet and fed me little bites of food, but mostly he ignored me or he was showing me off to someone; making me… pose. I heard people ask how much he wanted, or if they could try me out, like at the club, but he kept his promise and always told them no. I heard more talk like that, about other women at the party. There was a lot a scening going on. I thought they were like, prostitutes, you know? Only into BDSM. But I guess, maybe, they were being sold, after what you told me about Juan.” She rubbed angrily at her eyes. “I was so stupid.”

“You had no frame of reference,” Joann said softly.

“Really? After everything you’ve made me remember?”

“Erica, memory or no, when you’re that deep inside something, you can’t possibly see the whole.” The men had gone unnaturally quiet, letting Erica focus on the only other woman in the room. “Can you tell us more about the party? When did you meet Victor or Vincent?”

She drew a deep breath. “He was there, off and on, all night. He spent a lot of time talking to Juan, very quietly. They often stepped away from me. That’s how I got a pretty good look at him. I would steal glimpses, when Juan’s back was to me. I guess, looking back, maybe they were discussing business,” she added doubtfully.

“What was he like?”

Erica scowled. “He would pat me on the head, like I was a dog, and then Juan would laugh when I’d try to control my reaction. I think it became a game with them, later in the evening, like Juan had asked him to try to provoke me into misbehavior.” She shook herself, trying to get back to the question. “He had a bit of an accent. Maybe Germanic or Eastern European. I don’t know. He and Juan always spoke English, but I know that Juan speaks some Eastern languages, so…” she shrugged. “There were a few times that Juan spoke Spanish, I think with men that he worked with, but I was afraid to look too closely.”

“Was he…” Eric started, but Joann raised a hand effectively silencing him.

“You said they might be discussing business. Did you get a sense of which one might be in charge?” Joann asked.

Erica’s brow furrowed. “I think they seemed like equals. That’s why I said they were friends, at first.”

“Okay, that helps. Can you tell me about the rest of the party?” Joann tried to capture Erica’s downcast gaze again, but Erica backed away, coming up against the other kitchen counter and staring at the floor. “It could help,” Joann offered.

Erica sucked in a deep breath. “The crowd slowly started to disperse. I’m not sure where they went, if they left or if they went to rooms. It was a very large house.” Her eyes were tracing the pattern of the vinyl flooring. “Juan was sitting, chatting with people, feeding me bites of food. He asked me what I would like.” She rubbed her palms against her yoga pants. “It was late, I was tired. I said ‘I’m thirsty, Master.’ I’m sure it’s not what he wanted me to say.” She straightened, gathering strength. “He picked up his drink, whiskey or something, and made me drink it all. Then he kicked another woman that was kneeling nearby and made her crawl to refill the glass. I was crying, trying not to cough. The alcohol burned my throat. She came back with another glass, and Juan handed it to Victor, Vincent, whatever, as he grabbed my head, forcing my mouth open while the other guy poured the whiskey down my throat.”

Erica closed her eyes. “I couldn’t help it. I coughed so hard, I threw up. Juan tied my hands behind my back with an electrical cord, then he and the other guy took turns face fucking me. I couldn’t breathe, I was trying to hyperventilate, and Juan kept saying ‘This’ll cure you.’ And then the other guy, Victor, was saying…” Her eyes flew open. “He was saying ‘You used to like this, bitch.'”

Her eyes were staring into the distance, but slowly, they sought out Joann. “‘You used to like this,'” Joann repeated. “He knew you from before.”

Erica snatched up the photo on the counter, staring at it. She shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know how I can ever hope to remember these faces. I obviously didn’t want to remember them before. And I don’t want to remember them now. I don’t want to remember any of it.” She threw the photo down so that it slid off the counter and to the floor.

Eric picked it up. “Maybe we’re going about this wrong.”

Erica simply sagged against the counter. “There’s a right way to dredge up this ugliness?”

“What happened after that party?” he asked, ignoring her question.

She shrugged. “Juan apologized. Profusely. He said he’d had too much to drink and I’d been so good and he never meant for all that to happen. Yada, yada, yada.”

“And you forgave him.”

She shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeah. He was really sweet afterward.”

“And you forgave Da for hurting you. When you were little. When he made others hurt you. When he showed you the Christmas trees.”

Eric put the photo of Victor down on the table. He picked up the photo of Juan. “You forgave him and you remembered him, even from back then.” Erica frowned. He picked up the photo of Reznick. “You forgave him and you remembered him.” He picked up the photo of the accountant. “You forgave him because he brought you books, he tried to help you, and you remembered him. You said some of the men just hit you because Da insisted on it. He was conditioning you to equate pain and pleasure. Maybe if we focus on those men, the ones that didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to hurt you, it will be easier for you to remember. And just maybe, they will be more willing to cooperate and bring him down.”

“Da? You think he’s behind all this?”

Eric smiled at her. “What do you do for a living, Erica.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “I’m an HR specialist. You know that.”

“Exactly. And who better than an HR person to perceive chain of command?”

She shook her head slightly, her puzzled frown etched deeper. Then her face cleared and she slapped her forehead. “Juan and Victor. Interacting like equals.”

“Indeed. Two upper-level management types with the same boss. Da. Like me and Joann.” He gave an exaggerated duck as she threw a scowl his way. “Okay, not quite equal,” he conceded with a grin. “But maybe we can expand our photo gallery to lower level and imprisoned people from the original ring. Maybe some of them are out now and active again. Or went into the Witness Protection program. What do you say?” Joann was still scowling, but she was pulling her phone out.

“Now, while she’s trying to track that down, let’s see if we can figure out that song,” he suggested, pulling out his own phone. He typed off a quick text to someone, and a moment later his phone beeped. He winked at Erica as he answered the call. “It works wonders when you tell them it’s a matter of life and death,” he confided.

“Yo, dude. Remember ‘Name that Tune?'” He paused and held the phone away from his ear. “It is. She’s gonna kill me if you can’t help. No, it can’t be just any app. The song is probably foreign. Like maybe Eastern European. She doesn’t remember the words. Okay, got it. Thanks man, you’re a life saver. No, really!” Eric looked at the phone’s screen and shrugged. “He hung up on me. How come people are always hanging up on me?”

“Three guesses,” Joann muttered as she waited on hold on her own phone.

Eric grinned as he began searching for the app with his phone. “Found it,” he exclaimed after a moment and started the download.

“I hope you’re not charging that to the task force,” Joann warned.

“Of course not. Not till I submit my expense report anyway.” A few minutes later, he was drawing Erica into the living room area. “I can’t wait to try this. All you have to do is hum the tune and it will figure it out.” Erica looked skeptical, but he was putting his phone up to her face and she rolled her eyes and began humming. A moment later, he looked at the list of potential songs the app provided and tapped one. “I bet it’s this,” he guessed, then hit his volume button. A hauntingly sad yet hopeful song filled the room.

Erica’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Mama,” she whispered. She had been picking restlessly at the gauze bandage on her hand, but Eric captured her hand and she haltingly began singing some of the words, barely above the earlier whisper. When the song finished, the room fell silent for a few moments.

“Can we run again this afternoon?” she asked softly, looking hopefully at Eric.

“You do know it’s raining, right?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

She just shrugged. “It’s Seattle.”

“We’ll see,” he said, and she looked at her lap, taking that for a ‘no.’ “Can you play then song again, then?”

He eagerly obliged.

****

Shortly after they’d eaten some lunch, Eric bargained with Erica to lay down for a while – she still refused to sleep – and in return, they would share what information they’d been able to garner from her memories. She had come back out of the bedroom at one point when several file folders were delivered to the apartment. Eric had steered her back, taking her into the bathroom to show her the dark circles under her eyes, and further explaining that they needed to review the information before they could share it with her. She had reluctantly laid back down, toying with the bed spread in boredom.

When she slipped back out of the bedroom a little later, John had returned to the main room and was pouring through the file folders that had been delivered. Eric shook his head at her in exasperation, but grinned nonetheless. Joann had disappeared, apparently back to the spare bedroom to rest, and the psychologist was on his cell phone in the back hall. Erica wondered if he was talking about her, or some other case requiring confidentiality. Either way, his deep voice was kept very low as he spoke.

She went to retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge and looked at Eric expectantly. “Let’s wait for Templar,” he replied to her unspoken question.

“Why? In case I freak out?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm and she knew the lack of sleep was taking its toll. She even contemplated taking the offered sleeping pills come night, but none of the pills the doctors had ever given her had worked as prescribed, and she had no reason to suspect that had suddenly changed. She scowled at no one in particular and slumped into a chair.

Eric sat down beside her. “Because he has given some thought to the best way to present the information. Me, I’d just throw it all in your lap and say ‘Take a gander.'” He gave a big grin, and despite herself, Erica felt a small answering smile spread on her lips. She turned and concentrated on the label on her water bottle, pulling at a corner of it. A few minutes later, Templar came back into the room and joined them. He looked at Erica sternly.

“You need to understand that what we are sharing here, is to help you remember other things, possibly to correct misinformation that we have. But much of this is very incomplete. In some cases, it is simply leads that were being followed, that may be completely false. It’s important that you don’t let what is here color your memories. Or worse, create memories.”

“I know,” she said impatiently.

He sighed. “Knowing is one thing. Erica, look at me.” He waited steadfastly until she complied. “The fact that you were able to hide memories of virtually your entire childhood from yourself, and frankly, from me when I first tried to treat your fear, indicates that you have a very strong mind, a powerful will. Just because you’re starting to remember now doesn’t change that.”

“I don’t feel strong,” she muttered. “If I’m so strong, why am I afraid all the time?” she demanded more firmly.

“Maybe you have good reason to be afraid. Fear isn’t a sign of weakness. Like fight of flight, fear is a coping mechanism. It can be a very appropriate mechanism. It can protect us. It protected you from terrible memories that you couldn’t do anything about, that you couldn’t fix, especially as a child. But now you have the means to fix things, in the form of these people here, the task force. Now, your coping mechanism needs to be remembering, as completely and accurately as possible.

“When you were a child,” he continued. “You went toward the pain, to try to fix it for others, to protect them from pain. Even with Juan, the pain fixed your fear, and you went toward it, toward Juan to fix it. Now, I want you to go toward the pain of your memories, and then we will be able to fix things. But I want you to understand one thing, Erica. You can say no. I won’t like it,” he conceded. “I think you are strong enough to do this. But you are the true judge.”

“Just do it,” she said abruptly, reaching for one of the folders. Templar grasped her wrist, gently but firmly.

“I have a process,” he explained. “Perhaps it is my hubris, but it seems to work well for others, so let’s try it here. I want to start with what might strike you as the darkest, most difficult memory, but also the one you can do least about. One that can’t be fixed in any resultative way.” She gave him a puzzled frown. “Your mother,” he supplied. “She is dead. Nothing we do here can bring her back to life. You didn’t witness her murder, so you can’t even bring the killer to justice. But you might be able to help.” He searched through the folders until he found the one he wanted.

“You were living in a small city south of Sacramento. We found the records of her murder, spoke to the police there. They had asked for help from the California Bureau of Investigation when they came up empty. By the time the CBI came in, the trail had gone cold, the case was never solved. They were quite excited by the potential to solve it, though, even after all these years. They’ve already dived back into the evidence they have. Anyway, it’s a quiet city, lots of migrant farm workers, that’s where they were looking at first, because of where you were living.” He pulled a picture out of the folder. “Like I said, these will be the hardest memories.” He laid the picture in front of her. It was a crime scene photo of the one room apartment, her mother’s lifeless body was mostly draped, her blonde hair spread over a dark stain on the rug, one arm reaching out. Erica touched the photo, the tip of her finger touching the lifeless hand.

“She was reaching toward me,” she whispered. “As he carried me from the room, she reached out, and called to me.” She closed her eyes, her face etched with pain. “It was her last act of defiance. She called me Katarina.”

Templar waited a beat, then said, “What else do you remember?”

Erica opened her eyes and blinked rapidly to clear the tears as she studied the picture. “Da was standing here,” she said, pointing. “And two other men were holding her, one kind of behind her and another holding her other arm.”

“Would you remember those men, if you saw them?”

“The one holding her arm, maybe. The other was hard to see.”

“What about the man carrying you?”

Erica shuddered. “He was often with Da. Da called him Jack.”

Templar pulled another photo from the file. “I called in a favor and had them scan this one, too. This is for you. It was in the apartment, when they were investigating.” He handed her a photo of her blonde mother, holding an equally blonde child.

“Me?” Erica asked in wonder.

“Yes. Katarina.”

Erica jumped to her feet and ran into the bedroom. Eric followed her more slowly. He found her sitting on the edge of the bed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. The print of the photo was set on the nightstand, carefully out of teardrop range. Eric sat beside her on the bed.

“As soon as things calm down, we’ll go and get a frame for it.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m not doing very well, am I?”

“Are you kidding? You’re doing great. You’ve already remembered more about that day. And Templar thinks this would be the hardest one for you. So, hey, it’s all easy from here on in.” He grinned and she just shook her head with a faint, if teary, smile.

“I still want to go for that run,” she said, ruefully, trying to dry her eyes. When he didn’t answer, though, she looked over at him and frowned. “What? What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s good news actually.” Her brow furrowed in puzzlement. “They’re taking you more seriously.”

“What?” she asked, now totally confused.

“About Juan,” he conceded. “That he might try to come here.”

“I don’t understand,” she exclaimed in frustration. “I thought he was in Dubai.”

“There was no evidence that he was ever there. We think the plan was, if you showed up, to put you on another flight, somewhere else, where he might have been waiting or where you would have been held. At some point, maybe after the plane landed, maybe even before it left Seattle, they knew our agent was a plant.” He took a deep breath. “There’s a chance Juan flew into Mexico today. They’re not sure yet,” he added quickly. “He sent an email just a bit ago. It bounced off a lot of servers, but they think it might have originated in Mexico.” She just looked at him. She didn’t have to ask the question. “All it said was, ‘I’m coming for you.'” He waited for her to blow.

“And if he can make it to Mexico, there would be nothing to stop him from getting here,” she concluded quietly. She suddenly stood up. “Let’s get back to it.” Eric watched with concern as she strode back into the outer room. This time, though, she went to the fridge and found a bottle of wine, staring defiantly at the psychologist as she poured herself a glass. He frowned slightly, but didn’t say anything, and when she sat back down at the table, all she said was “Next.”

Templar picked out another, much thicker folder. “This concerns something we have much more information on. The raid on the house in Las Vegas.” Eric came to sit beside her, putting one of his hands over her bandaged one.

“And why do you think this is one of the hardest memories for me?” she challenged.

“I think it’s when you stopped forgiving your Da,” he answered. “When you stopped remembering him. Children have a hard time letting go of their love for their parents, even the cruelest parents imaginable. You stopped remembering your mother, when your Da convinced you that she left you. That she never loved you. You stopped remembering your Da when he risked your life to save his own.”

“Oh,” she said softly.

“I want to ‘tell’ you the story of that night, a compilation of the reports, if you will. Then you can tell me if you remember more, or something different.”

She shook her head. “Wouldn’t that be like creating the memories for me? How could you trust what I say after that?”

“Normally, I wouldn’t,” he explained. “But this has all been settled in the courts. We have your statement taken that night, such as it was. You were already blanking things out. And frankly, even if you remembered other things without prompting, they probably wouldn’t stand up in court. To put it bluntly, a defense lawyer would have a field day with your ‘recovered memories’ versus what you testified to back then. So, let’s just assume from the get-go that whatever you remember here won’t make it to court. That doesn’t mean it won’t help us make a case that doesn’t require your testimony. But above and beyond all that, like I said, you have a strong mind and a powerful will. And I think you want to remember, now. That makes me trust you.”

Erica straightened in the chair, though her eyes were downcast. “I’m listening.”

He watched her closely for reactions as he recited. “The original warrant was issued for unlicensed prostitution at the house. The FBI suspected that more was going on, but that was what they could produce, working with the Clark County Sheriff, to justify the raid. The raid was scheduled for a time when a number of other people were expected to be there, according to an informant. People involved in some of Reznick’s other business interests.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, when he paused. “Why wouldn’t he have licensed his…” she hesitated, wondering where she fell in this greater scheme of things. “Prostitutes, if it was legal in Nevada.”

“Because his prostitution business catered to ‘eclectic’ tastes,” Templar answered. “The sorts of sexual activities the state would not have approved of.”

“Like me,” she murmured.

“Like you,” Templar agreed without hesitation.

Erica gasped as Eric’s hand tightened about her bandaged hand, though his anger was directed at the psychologist. He immediately released her and apologized, though he glared at Templar, who simply glared back. “Go on,” she said grimly.

“The information they had was that the building was a large, ranch-type house with three stories and one or two basements. The upper floors catered toward more ‘vanilla’ prostitution, guest rooms, etc. The meetings were supposed to be occurring on the main floor.”

“And the basements?” she whispered.

“According to the informant, that was where ‘less standard’ forms of entertainment occurred.”

“Like me,” she said again.

“Yes,” Templar said, flashing Eric a warning look. Erica didn’t notice; she was intent on studying the wood grain again.

“So what happened,” she asked, with just a touch of her little girl voice.

Templar cocked an eyebrow, but continued.

“The FBI took the lead. They used thermal imaging to figure out where people were in the house. They had floor plans. Unfortunately, they weren’t up-to-date.”

Erica cocked her head, though her eyes didn’t leave the table. “The entrance to the basement, at least, the one I came and went through, was disguised.”

Templar nodded, even though she wasn’t looking at him. “Yes. He had blocked the original access, then added two more, but hidden. They knew of one from the informant. He thought there was a second, and thought there was a subbasement, but never had a chance to find them.”