Curing Erica's Phobia Ch. 05

"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."