Curing Erica's Phobia

Dear readers: I want to thank you for the thoughtful comments and address the concerns that the original episode was in the wrong category. I confess I was thinking ahead to where the story line was going, which would be more appropriate to BDSM, and wanting to keep all the potential episodes in the same category, I made the decision to use that category. I apologize for the confusion that it caused.

*****

Eric quickly undid the scarves and handcuffs from Erica's limbs, trying to maintain constant contact with her. She was laying quietly, the faintest smile on her lips. Her eyes were closed and she was humming very softly, which Eric found endearing. He rolled onto his side to relieve her of his weight but wrapped his arms about her.

After some time, she said, "Eric?"

He had been dozing, but he was instantly alert. "Yes? Do you want me to move away?"

She seemed to consider it a moment, then shook her head slightly. Her eyes were still closed. As the silence stretched, he tried to prompt her. "Do you need something? Is there something I can get for you?"

She shook her head again, then after a moment, turned to look at him. "Why did you do it?"

He sighed, then said, "If I told you it was because you were unbearably beautiful, that probably wouldn't be enough of an answer, right?"

She scoffed lightly. He reached up to smooth her hair from her face, but his hand paused before he touched her face. "May I?"

She nodded, and he smoothed her blonde hair back, tucking it behind her ear. She jumped ever so slightly, but then relaxed under his touch. "You are unbearably beautiful. But that's not why I did it. Well, not the only reason." He smiled at her. He took a deep breath. "This morning, I wanted to follow you, make sure you got home safe, but I had shift. As soon as I got downtown, I called your cell. Then a bunch of times after that. I left messages. I was worried. I'd dumped a bunch of nastiness in your lap. When I went by your apartment, and you didn't answer the door, I had to know if you were okay."

"So breaking and entering?" she said, but with a wry smile.

He nodded ruefully. "Then I saw you lying on the bed. You hadn't even taken off your windbreaker. It looked like you'd been there like that all day." He took a deep breath. "I think I could use some of that liquid courage, right now, before I make my confession."

"What?" she asked, tensing up.

"I told you we investigated you. We found out you had seen a psychologist for a while a couple of years ago."

"What?" She tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his hold.

"Wait. Listen to me. He didn't tell us anything. He didn't tell us why. Doctor patient privilege. He only acknowledged that you had been a patient, and you terminated your visits abruptly. I was really worried about you, about what he might have been treating you for."

"So you decided to fuck me," she said with disdain.

"No. I swear. I only wanted to get you up and moving. Eating. I wanted to hug you, to hold you and tell you everything was going to be okay. I wanted to stay here overnight, to make sure you were okay."

She shook her head, but didn't say anything. "Then you were telling me about your phobia, and about what Juan did to you," he continued. "I was afraid I'd pushed you into a hole and you wouldn't be able to climb back out. I really was trying to make you angry. I mean, I'd much prefer you be angry at Juan, but if it had to be at me... And if I couldn't make you angry, I was willing to make you afraid. Whatever would bring you back to the here and now." He paused for a long moment. "And then, I just wanted to show you that it didn't have to be the way it was with Juan. It didn't have to be torture."

She was staring at the ceiling, not responding. "Erica, were you seeing the doctor about your phobia?"

She rolled off the far side of the bed and circled it to get to the door, snatching a robe down from a hook on the way. He jumped into his jeans and followed her. She was in the kitchenette, topping off her wine glass, her back to him. He sat on a stool at the island. "Talk to me. I want to understand."

She gripped the edge of the counter and her shoulders sagged. "Juan made me go," she said softly. "He said I needed to quit freaking out every time anyone got near me."

"But it didn't help? Is that why you quit going?"

She took a deep breath that had the edge of a sob to it. "Maybe it worked too well. The doctor said something in my past may have happened that caused it. But there are whole chunks of my childhood I just don't remember, so he wanted to use hypnosis, regression to help me remember."

"And?" he prompted her.

She took a long drink of the wine. "I didn't remember, but I started having nightmares, terrifying dreams. Finally Juan said I was more of a pain in the ass screaming all night. He let me quit."

"What were the dreams about?"

"No!" she snapped. "If I try to remember the dreams, the same thing will happen."

"Okay, that's fine," he said, taken aback by her vehemence. "And the guns? Do you think that is related?"

As if suddenly remembering, she spun around and surveyed the room. "I put it up on the shelf in the closet. I can take it out and lock it in my car," he offered.

She glanced with concern at the closet, but then shook her head. "I don't know if it's related," she sighed. "I remember gunfire. Very close to me. But everything around me is dark, as if..."

"As if what?" he asked softly.

"It's stupid," she said with a shake of her head.

"Tell me anyway."

"As if I was the only source of light in the room. There. See? Stupid."

"No, not stupid at all. It's a memory. Memories and dreams aren't really all that different."

He moved his stool back. "Come sit down."

She added a little more wine to her glass and put the bottle back in the refrigerator, then moved around the island to the stool on the end. Eric reached into his back pocket and pulled her phone out. He pushed it across the counter toward her. "See if there is an email, or a text from him."

"You already know there is, don't you?"

"Yes. We want to know how to answer it. We want to know about your relationship with him."

"Why?"

"If we can string him along, if we can convince him that it's you, we might be able to get him to reveal himself."

She shook her head. "It won't work. The only time he emails me is to set up a Skype session. He doesn't text because of the time difference. And I suppose he wants to Skype so he can see me and be sure it's me. So knowing all about our sordid relationship won't do you any good."

"This is what we do. We're good at it."

She rubbed her forehead. "How sure are you that he did what you say he did?"

"Very. We're just not sure of the full extent of his role. We wanted to get as much information about the ring as we could before we alerted them. And frankly, we hoped that Juan would come back in country. Erica, I spent today with some of the task force, pulling in the Seattle participants. Other segments of the ring in other cities were arrested at the same time. It was all coordinated. Interpol is involved too, with the international elements and searching for Juan. I probably don't have to tell you at this point that he wasn't really in Bosnia."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Read the email."

"Shit," she muttered, not noticing his frown. She picked up her phone and put in the pass code. It was showing five new emails, and a quick check revealed that they were mostly junk. She stared at the one from Juan for a moment before opening it.

**Erica, my love, I miss you so much. Do you remember the barn on my grandparents' farm in Spain last year? What we did? I dreamed about it last night, remembering. It made me hard, so hard for you. I need to talk to you again. Please be on Skype at 2am your time, Wednesday.**

"He's expecting you to acknowledge his message by responding with a memory from that day, right?"

"You know everything else, you respond," she said pushing the phone back at him.

He shook his head. "Erica, we know what has gone back and forth between you since we started investigating, after we had a warrant to monitor your communications. But there's too much we don't know. That's why we need your help now. We don't know what you did in the barn. We can't keep him on the hook without information like that."

"Fucking A!" she exclaimed. "My life isn't your own personal porn video."

"Erica!" he said sternly, then took a breath. "Just give me something. Something that happened then, so he'll know it's from you."

"So this whole sharing of memories that he insisted on was just a way to make sure I was me..." she said, taking her wine glass back to the refrigerator and draining the bottle into it then taking a deep drink.

"Yes." Eric answered cautiously. "Maybe even the whole making of memories."

She glared at him across the kitchen island. "Then email him this," she spat out.

**My dearest Juan, I still feel the slivers from the barn timber you hung me against, piercing my breasts and belly and the bite of the quirt from my shoulders to my ass, reaffirming I was but a slut for your pleasure.**

As she concluded, she threw the remains of the wine on Eric, then stormed back to the bedroom slamming the door.

He calmly wiped himself dry with a kitchen towel then followed her into the bedroom. She was lying on the bed, sobbing quietly, facing away from him. She tried to pull the covers over her head, but he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled them back as far as her shoulder, taking care not to touch her. "Erica, I need something real to send him. He has to believe it. Please."

"That was real," she said between sobs. "Tell your boss or your task force or whatever that you seduced me into cooperation. I'm sure it will get you a promotion. Just leave me alone."

He went out into the outer room for a few minutes. Then he returned and went into her bathroom. She took note of all of this distantly, even to reminding herself to get up and throw the chain lock when he finally left. Except he didn't leave. When he came out of the bathroom, he quietly sat on the edge of the bed behind her.

"Erica," he said very softly. "May I touch you? I want to hold you."

"No!" she snapped. "Go home."

"I can't leave you like this. I need to know that you are all right. I need you to know that you are safe. I need to be here."

"Get away from me," she pleaded.

He sighed and moved into the outer room.

Sometime in the early morning hours, Erica screamed in the midst of a dream. He was there almost instantly, as if he had expected it. He debated for only a moment before he scooped her into his arms, holding her tight as she thrashed against the demons in her dream. After a moment, her screams were interspersed with a panting, hyperventilative sort of breathing that he was more familiar with. "It's me, Erica. It's just me. You're safe. I'm holding you. I won't let anything hurt you, but I'm not going to let go. You're safe. You're safe," he repeated, and after a while, her screams faded into sobs, then into ragged breathing, then into a quiet but tense respiration. He wasn't sure if she had ever truly awakened. But he held on nonetheless and laid awake the rest of the night, holding her, listening to her breathing.

****

Erica awoke feeling overheated and she felt herself beginning to breathe in the short, shallow panting she knew presaged an anxiety attack. It took her a moment to realize that something, someone was curled around her. "Juan?" she whispered, trying to gain control of her breathing, afraid to move away from the source of unbearable heat at her back.

"It's me, Eric," he said, softly.

She pulled away sharply, but then sat on the edge of the bed, looking down on him, trying to orient herself. He pulled his arms and legs back, giving her more space. "You had a bad dream," he explained. She calmed; her breathing gradually returned to normal.

She stood. "I need to run." But she didn't move away from the bed.

Eric glanced at the clock. There had been no alarm, but he knew, from watching her apartment on past surveillance that it was exactly the time she always rose. He reached over and turned on the bedside light for her. "I'll go with you."

She seemed disoriented and didn't respond, but didn't object, either. After a moment, she moved toward the bathroom, as if finally remembering her morning rituals. He rose and dressed hastily. When she emerged from the bathroom, she stood in the doorway for a long moment, and looked at him. "I want to run with you, Erica," he repeated. She shook her head, but still didn't vocally object as she began gathering her running clothes. She even took a moment to glance out the window, gauging the weather.

Eric ducked into the bathroom and made quick work of the necessities, emerging as she was still dressing. "Are you okay?"

"I will be after I run." She was fastening the armband that would hold her cell phone, then looking around in puzzlement, her cell phone not in its usual place. Eric hastened to retrieve it and hand it to her. He watched as she called up her playlists, noting with dismay what she selected. He didn't know what songs were included, but she had labeled the playlist "Whip It." She continued her rituals as if he was not there, moving in an almost robotic-like fashion. She took some vitamin supplements along with a large glass of water. She stretched fluidly. Then she went out of the apartment, and he noted with horror that she left the door unlocked, took no keys. He wasn't specifically dressed for running, but he followed her, three feet back and three feet to the side. She seemed oblivious to him.

She pursued her too predictable route, along the north shore of the lake, turning back at the precise location she always did. By the time they arrived back at her apartment, she seemed much more engage with reality, including being annoyed at him.

"Why are you still here?" she snapped as she refilled the glass from earlier with more water, and drank deeply.

"The email."

"I told you the truth," she snapped.

"I believe you," he said softly. "But that's not the way you would have answered. I've seen your other answers. They're not that... graphic."

She stared at him a moment, then moved around him. "I'm going to take a shower," she told him.

"Erica," he called after her, but she ignored him.

When she emerged from the bathroom, he was still there, waiting. "Don't you have a shift to do or something?" she grumbled.

"Yes. I do. I want you to come in with me."

"What?" she said, going pale. "I don't understand. Are you arresting me?"

"Jesus, no, Erica! Get that out of your head. I want to show you something, and I want to give you a less... threatening way to tell us about your relationship with Juan."

"I don't understand," she repeated, shaking her head stubbornly.

"Just come with me, please. It's Sunday. It will be nice and quiet."

"And I can leave whenever I want?"

He paused at that, but when he saw her breath start to quicken, he jumped to assure her. "Yes. Whenever. I will drive you back. I promise."

She backed away from him, but then went to the closet and pulled out a hoody. As an afterthought, she glanced up at the shelf. The gun was gone. She turned and realized he had his jacket on again, the gun undoubtedly holstered underneath. She sucked in a deep breath. Could she go into a whole room, a whole building full of people wearing those?

****

Eric parked in the basement parking lot. He was at her door, chivalrously holding it for her while she was still screwing up her courage to get out. She had taken one of her anti-anxiety meds that morning, for the first time in almost a year. Now, though, she was wondering if it had lost its potency, because it sure didn't feel like it was helping. Eric waited patiently. It was so unusual to have someone who actually seemed to get it. She climbed out of his car and pulled the hood up on her hoody. Eric smiled encouragement and led her toward the elevators. He took her up to the third floor and they were in a long hall. Windows gave a view into open office areas on either side of the hall. Even though there were only a handful of people working today, it seemed like everywhere she looked, there were guns; shoulder holsters, belt holsters, even tucked in the back of jeans like in the movies. She quickly determined that her best bet was to stare at the floor, following Eric's heels down the hall.

He led her to an interrogation room and she looked at him in confusion as he held the door for her. "I thought you'd be more comfortable in here than in the squad room. We don't need to close the door." She looked at the mirrored observation window. "It's just you and me, today," he said softly.

"Okay," she said hesitantly.

"Do you want some coffee?"

"Water?" she asked, walking slowly around the table in the center of the room.

"You got it. I'm going to grab a file and drinks and I'll be right back. Will you be okay?"

She nodded, sinking into a chair. He left leaving the door slightly ajar. Erica pulled her hood back and gazed at the mirror, then folded her hands on the table and stared at them, practicing a breathing exercise to calm herself. When Eric returned, carrying a file folder under his arm, a coffee cup in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, he smiled at her warmly. He put the folder and coffee down, and opened her water for her. He sat across from her and pulled the file folder in front of himself. "Are you doing okay?" She nodded, noticing he had removed his shoulder holster and gun. She kept her fingers locked together so he wouldn't see them shaking.

His thumb played with the edge of the file folder. "I wanted you to see what this is about. I'm not trying to shock you or horrify you. I just want you to understand that this is real." She squirmed uncomfortably, staring at the folder.

"You don't need to show me. I believe you."

"Believing me is not as real as seeing it. An image makes it real, not just a vague idea of what it looks like."

"Eric..." she protested, but he was already pulling a blown up photo out of the folder, sliding it over to her. She glanced at it then screwed her eyes shut, flipping the photo over.

"Container ship that arrived in Seattle a few months ago. Two of the women in that container died on the trip over. All these women thought they were being smuggled to a new life in America. Paid for the privilege, even." He pulled another photo out, holding it against his chest. "Look in the mirror," he said.

Erica frowned at him and he nodded toward the mirrored window. She glanced over at it. "Look at yourself, Erica," he said softly. He put the photograph down in front of her. "These three girls thought they were going to Dubai to marry rich Arab husbands. They look like you, Erica. Blonde, beautiful, a little younger, perhaps." He put a set of photos in front of her. "These were taken at a brothel, here in the States. The women were brought in from Eastern Europe." He put a final set of pictures in front of her. "Singapore. Tourist sex industry." He paused dramatically. "These are kids from America. The foster care system." Erica covered her mouth, turning away from the table as Eric gathered up the photos and returned them to the file folder.

"Juan did all this?"

"We know he played a major part in the transportation piece. And he did the photography of victims in Europe and America that were being matched up for forced marriage. We think that might be how he first got involved. Erica, these are only transactions that we know about. Not even all of those. There most certainly are others, victims of trafficking that we haven't been able to find. Victims that didn't survive."

She drank some of the water, still facing away from Eric. "I still don't understand how I can help you," she said softly.