by Lisa Gardner
* * *
THE DETECTIVES HAVE questions for me. The FBI will want to speak to me, too, Wyatt says. I’m not sure if this is a warning or a threat. Better to speak now, in the company of “friends”? Or wait for the swarm of suits, endless streams of strangers who will demand to hear my story again and again, all while claiming to have my best interests at heart?
Kevin has taken a seat. Again they ask me if I need anything. Food, snack, another bottle of water?
I think a bottle of Glenlivet would do nicely. But mostly, I hold my quilt on my lap. I concentrate on the soft feel of the fabric beneath my fingerprints. I wonder what she will say when she finally hears the news.
Happy, happy, joy, joy? Or thirty years later, is it too late to welcome your dead child home again?
“Do you remember the name Veronica?” Wyatt asks me, after I refuse all their requests, after I sit there, still doing nothing, because what is there for me to do?
I shake my head.
“When was the last time you used that name?”
“Vero is six years old,” I whisper. “She is gone. She disappears.”
“From the park,” Wyatt provides.
“An older girl invites her to play dolls. Vero knows better. Her mom has told her not to talk to strangers. But the older girl seems nice, and Vero is lonely. She would like to play with dolls. She would like to have a friend.”
The detectives exchange glances.
“What happened to Vero next?” Wyatt asks.
“A woman appears. Her blond hair is pulled back; she wears such pretty clothes. Much nicer than anything Vero’s mom can afford. She is holding a needle. Then she jabs it in Vero’s arm, while she stands there, still waiting to see the dolls. And that is that. The older girl is a recruiter. And now Vero is recruited.”
“This woman and the girl, they kidnap Vero?”
“They drive her away in the car.”
“And no one sees,” Wyatt mutters, but he speaks this to Kevin. Information they must have from the original case file, because Vero has no way of knowing this. From the first instant the needle pricks her skin, Vero is gone. She disappears.
“Where do the woman and the girl take Vero?” Wyatt asks.
“Vero moves to a dollhouse. Deep red walls, beautiful stained-glass windows, floral carpets. She gets her very own tower bedroom with a rose mural climbing up the wall. She cries at first, when the woman leads her inside, then turns and locks the door. But of course the room is the prettiest she’s ever seen. A bed that is all hers, surrounded by yards of gauze. A wooden table already set with a real china tea set, and surrounded by four chairs filled with a stuffed bear, several dolls. Even the carpet is soft and fluffy. Vero wonders if she’s been adopted by her fairy godparents. They’ve come to take her away, and while she wished they hadn’t sent a woman with a needle, she likes this room. She likes this house. Maybe, if she prays really hard, she and her mom can stay here.”
“Does Vero’s mom arrive?”
“No. The first woman returns. Dressed all in black now, frosted hair upswept, fat pearls around her neck. She’s beautiful but scary. Like a china doll you can look at, but never touch. She tells Vero that Vero is their new guest. Her name will now be Holly. She will wear dresses at all times. She will do as she’s told. She will speak only when spoken to. Then the woman gives Vero a new dress. Flounces of pink silk. Vero . . . Holly? . . . likes the dress. She thinks it’s very pretty. But she’s nervous. She doesn’t know what to do, so she doesn’t move.
“The woman steps forward. She slaps Vero across the face. Then she rips Vero’s shirt from her body. She tells Vero she stinks. She tells Vero she is stupid and ugly and filthy and what kind of ungrateful child refuses such beautiful clothes? Then she holds up the new dress and rips it in half, too. If that’s the way you’re going to be, she tells Vero . . . Holly . . . then you can wear nothing at all.
“She takes all of Vero’s clothes, even her panties. Then she leaves. And Vero sits in the middle of the pretty bedroom, naked and alone. For days and days and days.
“Vero cries for her mom,” I whisper. “But her mom never comes.”
“What happens?” Wyatt asks softly.
“Vero learns. She wears what they tell her to wear. She answers to the names they call her. She speaks only when spoken to. There are daily lessons. Some are like school, reading, math, the basics. Others are in clothing, hair, makeup. Then there’s music, culture, art. She studies, every day. She tries, because the room is beautiful and the dresses are nice and when she does well, the woman praises her. But when she messes up . . .
“She’s alone. Except for lessons with the woman, she sleeps alone, wakes alone, sits alone. She starts to tell herself stories. Of where she once lived. Of the woman who once loved her. Of life before these walls. As days become weeks, become months, become years? It’s hard to tell time in the dollhouse. There is just now. Everything else ceases to exist.”
“What happens?” Wyatt asks.
“Eventually she passes her lessons. She is old enough, educated enough. Then the men come. And she’s sorry she ever studied at all. But she doesn’t fight, doesn’t protest, doesn’t complain. She already knows the men aren’t the real danger. It’s Madame Sade she has to fear.”
“The woman, Madame Sade, runs a brothel?” Wyatt asks bluntly. “She trains the girls, then brings men into the house for sex.”
“Our job is to make them happy.”
The detectives exchange glances. They are no more fooled by Madame Sade’s euphemism than I was.
“What can you tell us about Madame Sade?” Kevin asks.
My lips tremble. My grip on the quilt tightens. I can’t speak.
“Describe her,” Wyatt prompts more gently. “What does she look like?”
“A china doll. Beautiful but scary.”
“Is she as old as Vero’s mom?” Kevin presses.
“Older. Fifties maybe.”
“Does she have kids, a husband, a special friend?”
I look at him, the memories heavy. “Some of the men want her. But the girls, they whisper: Be careful what you wish for.”
“Are there other people in charge?” Wyatt asks.
I shake my head. “It is Madame Sade’s house. She makes the rules. She doles out the punishments.”
“How many other girls are there?”
“I don’t know. Until Vero is twelve, she stays locked in her tower room, a precious flower, a rare commodity.”
Kevin looks away. Wyatt’s face is too shuttered to read, but that’s okay; I’m too lost in the murky corridors of my mind to focus on him anyway.
“What happens after twelve?” he asks at last.
“There are other floors in the dollhouse. Vero moves downstairs, to a smaller room she shares with another girl. Chelsea is older and not happy to see Vero. She steals Vero’s makeup, cuts holes in her dresses. She won’t allow Vero to sleep on a bed. Instead, Vero is given a spot on the rug. Vero is no longer alone, but she’s still lonely. She has her stories, though. She whispers them, night after night. Once upon a time, in a secret realm, there lived a magical queen and her beautiful princess . . .”
“Do the men still come?”
“Madame Sade likes nice things. We make the men happy; she gets more nice things.”
“Can you describe the clients?” Wyatt asks.
I shrug. “They are men who have the right jobs and wear the right clothes and grew up with the right connections. Madame Sade doesn’t allow just anyone to come over to play.”
“Would you recognize these men if you saw them again?”
“Do you really think I was looking at their faces?”
Wyatt flushes, sits back.
“What can you tell us about the house?” Kevin asks.
“Vaulted foyers, marble parlors. Levels and
wings and towers that go on and on.”
“A mansion? Something castle-like or more Victorian in style?”
I rub my temples. “Victorian,” I whisper.
“Were you ever allowed out of the house?” Kevin continues. “Can you tell us about the surroundings? Were there street signs, other homes nearby? What about neighboring woods, water, mountains, other distinct geological features?”
I shake my head. My forehead is on fire. The telltale nausea is back. I don’t want to have this conversation anymore. I don’t want to have these memories anymore.
“Vero . . . Nicky.” Wyatt tries to regain my attention. “What you’re describing sounds like a very high-end sex-trafficking ring. This is a big deal. Do you understand that? Some of these people could still be actively exploiting children. Organized operations such as the one you’re describing have a tendency to grow larger and more sophisticated with time. Think of the mafia. Thirty years later, the original don might be retired, but he has a whole new generation of lieutenants running the show. This place . . . We need to find it.”
I stare at him. He doesn’t understand. His words mean nothing to me. They can’t mean anything to me. If not for three hits to the head, I never would have allowed these memories to return in the first place.
I sigh. I can’t help myself. I’m tired. I’m so very tired and my head hurts and all these things he is asking of me . . .
“Vero is six years old,” I whisper. “She is gone. She’s disappeared. You can’t help her anymore.”
Wyatt studies me. “Then why are you still looking for her?”
And just for a moment, my eyes sting with tears.
They’re not going to let me go. They want what they think I know, details and memories that will bolster their investigation even if it destroys my sanity. Thirty years ago, a little girl vanished. Now a grown woman stands in her place. The cops can’t just let it be. Thomas understood this. So he lit a fire.
The problem with asking questions, he tried to tell me, is that you can’t control the answers.
The smell of smoke. The heat of fire.
My hand reaching out, still trying to find him.
“Vero is twelve years old,” Wyatt prods now. “She no longer lives in the upstairs room. Where is she?”
But I can’t play anymore. The memories are too hard, and I am too done.
“Shhh,” I tell them. “Shhh . . .”
For a moment, I don’t think they’ll listen. Or maybe they won’t care, being detectives on a case. But then Wyatt sits back. He eyes me carefully, maybe even compassionately.
“One last question?” he negotiates.
“One.”
“How did you get out of the house, away from Madame Sade?”
I stare at him. I think the answer should be obvious. But since apparently it’s not, I give him the truth.
“Vero finally learns how to fly.”
Chapter 24
WYATT AND KEVIN exited the conference room. Whatever questions they still had would have to wait. Nicky had placed her quilt on the table, then her head on top of the quilt, and that was that. The poor woman was out cold.
Now the two detectives took a moment to pull themselves together.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wyatt said, standing just outside the door in the hallway, “we are not in Kansas anymore.”
“I need aspirin,” Kevin agreed.
“Well, start popping, because it’s gonna be a long night.”
They couldn’t very well leave Nicky unsupervised in the middle of the sheriff’s department. On the other hand, they weren’t getting any further with her until she got some rest. So being practical men, they took a seat in the hall, just outside the door, backs against the wall.
“Let’s start with what we know,” Wyatt suggested. “One, Nicole Frank is indeed Veronica Sellers, as proved by the fingerprints recovered from her crashed vehicle.”
“According to her,” Kevin picked up, “she was kidnapped by a high-end madam thirty years ago and held for at least six years until she finally got away.”
“What did you think of her story?” Wyatt asked him.
Kevin didn’t hesitate. “The flat affect? The way she refused to engage in the first-person singular, instead everything was in third-person omniscient . . . Vero did this, Vero did that. Consistent with acute trauma. Frankly, not even a serious actress could make that up.”
“She implicated herself,” Wyatt murmured. “First you are recruited; then you are a recruiter.”
“Which we know from other victims’ testimonies is exactly how these organizations work. Further proof Nicky’s probably telling the truth, because someone just trying to play victim would never think to go there.”
“So we now have a possible lead on a thirty-year-old brothel–slash–sex-trafficking organization. Very sophisticated to judge by what Nicky remembers. Very high-end.”
Kevin was more philosophical. “A lead that comes from a woman with a history of one too many blows to the head. Look, I’m not saying I’m doubting her; I’m just saying, this is hardly a slam dunk.”
“Post-concussive syndrome cuts both ways,” Wyatt said. “A good lawyer can argue the fact she’s suffered multiple TBIs proves her memories are suspect. But, on the other hand, it’s most likely because she’s suffered multiple TBIs that she’s now regaining these memories at all.”
“Lawyers hate recovered memories,” Kevin said flatly. “Judges hate them; juries hate them. Remember in the eighties, when all those kids magically ‘recovered’ memories of being victimized by satanic cults? Innocent people went to jail, good people eventually realized a bunch of pseudo experts had messed with their heads.”
“Then we’re in agreement,” Wyatt said. “Nicky’s ‘memories’ alone won’t be good enough.”
“No. We’re going to have to corroborate each and every detail, starting with the dollhouse. Thirty years later, that won’t be easy.”
Wyatt nodded. His thoughts exactly. “How old is Nicky again? Thirty-six, thirty-seven?”
“According to Veronica Sellers’s DOB, right around in there. So we’re still within the statute of limitations on sex crimes, if that’s what you mean.”
The statute of limitations on sex crimes didn’t run out until twenty-two years after the victim’s eighteenth birthday, if the offense happened before the victim turned eighteen. In this case, that would give them until Nicky/Vero’s fortieth birthday to file charges. Not that the statute of limitations was a driving parameter. Wyatt personally felt duty bound to investigate any allegations of wrongdoing, regardless of how long ago the alleged incident occurred. While Joe Public had a tendency to focus on the primary offense—say, kidnapping or sex trafficking—truth was, it took crime to commit crime. For example, chances were any major sex-trafficking organization was also involved in drugs, falsifying documents, witness tampering, and/or transporting victims across state lines. If, say, invitations to these private “parties” were sent using US mail, yet another slew of charges.
Wyatt had had cases where in the end, he couldn’t prove the major offense but nailed the perpetrator on dozens of minor charges, which worked just as well.
“All right,” he said briskly. “We’ve identified Veronica Sellers, who’s been missing for thirty years. We have allegations of kidnapping and sex crimes. That alone warrants pulling together a task force, while also contacting the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Second we make those calls, this place is gonna get hopping. So now, while it’s still just you and me, what don’t we know?”
“The cause of the initial auto accident,” Kevin rattled off without hesitation. “Why had Nicky contacted Northledge Investigations, and who was she following Wednesday night?”
Wyatt studied him. “You haven’t figured out who Nicky followed home from the liquor store? Seriously
?”
Kevin’s turn to look confused. “You have?”
“Absolutely.”
“Who?”
“Marlene Bilek, our favorite New Hampshire liquor store clerk. Who also happens to be Veronica Sellers’s mother.”
“What?”
“The case file, Brain. Mother’s name is given as Marlene Sellers. Who I’m guessing has since remarried and taken on the last name Bilek. But that’s who Nicky hired Northledge to find. That’s the information she got by phone on Wednesday night. Northledge had finally located her mom. At which point, Nicky took off to see her. Before she lost her courage, remember?”
Kevin scowled at him. “All right, if you’re so genius, then have you figured out why Thomas Frank torched their home? I mean, if Nicky’s story is true, she’s the victim. Even if she’s starting to remember her past, no obvious reason for the husband to toss a match and head for the hills.”
“That’s a problem,” Wyatt agreed.
“Didn’t Nicky say that her husband had a picture of Vero?” Kevin asked.
“Something like that.”
“How? If she disappeared when she was six from Boston and didn’t meet him until many years later in New Orleans, how could he have such a picture?”
Wyatt paused, considering the matter. “Maybe they didn’t magically meet in New Orleans. Maybe he knew her from before. From . . .” He hesitated. “The dollhouse.”
“If he has ties to the sex-trafficking operation,” Kevin said, “he’d have reason to run. Clearly, the walls are coming down in Nicky’s mind. Meaning the more she remembers . . .”
“The more he has to fear,” Wyatt filled in. “The story of how they met always sounded rehearsed to me. Maybe it is. Maybe Thomas’s real job has been to keep tabs on Nicky. As long as she wasn’t talking—or at least not remembering—he’s had nothing to report, and they’ve been allowed to live and let live. But then, six months ago, after that first fall down the stairs . . .”