Curing Ericas Phobia Ch 06

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."