Crash & Burn (20 page)

“Why? What's so special about the quilt?”

She shrugged. “I need it. On the sad days. I can smell her. I hold this close, and I can smell her and it comforts me.”

“Smell who?”

“I don't know.”

“Vero?”

“I don't think so.”

“Who, then? Dammit, Nicky!” Wyatt pounded the table. “Enough with the half answers. Who are you looking for? And what the hell did you finally find that scared your husband enough to do this? It's time for answers. Start talking.”

“But I don't know!”

“Yes, you do! Somewhere in that mixed-up head of yours, you know everything. Think. Remember. Your husband's gone, your house is ashes. It's just you, Nicky. All alone. No place to go. You wanna keep being the victim here? Then stop stalling and think!”

The conference room door opened. Nicky jumped at the sound. Wyatt turned, annoyed by the interruption. Then he caught the intent look on Kevin's face. Wyatt rose immediately, as his detective walked over, handed him a stapled sheaf of paper.

“Came in earlier today,” Kevin said softly. “But we were already out, so Gina left it on my desk.”

Wyatt glanced down at a report run by the state on the bloody prints recovered from Nicole Frank's car. The top sheet didn't even make sense at first blush. It wasn't until he digested the second piece of paper, then the third, the fourth . . .

He looked up at Kevin, as if waiting for the obvious denial.

Instead, his detective was nodding slowly. “Yeah. My first reaction, too. But it's all in there. The pieces fit.”

Together, they turned, studying Nicky, who was staring at them expectantly.

“It's true,” Kevin whispered. “By God, it's true.”

Wyatt didn't speak. He returned to the conference table. He
pulled out his chair. He took a seat. Then he placed the report before him and slid it across the table toward her.

“Nicole Frank,” he said steadily. “Meet Vero.”

D
ID
YOU
KN
OW
?”
Vero asks me. We are back in her tower bedroom, drinking scotch out of teacups.

“I think some part of me must have,” I tell her.

“Will you stop visiting me now? Finally let me go?”

“I'm not sure it's as simple as that.”

“True. Not to mention, you've left out a lot of details.”

On cue, more skeletons begin to appear in the room. Pop, pop, pop. One, two, five, more than I can count. They jam into all available spaces, huddling on the gauze-draped bed, pressing against the walls, climbing up the rosebush. All of them wear flowery dresses draped over their gleaming white bones. One of them grins toothlessly at me. She waves a hand in my direction, like a long-lost friend, like a promise from the dead.

“I can't do it,” I whisper frantically. The teacup in my hand begins to tremble. “I can't. It's too much. I don't
want
to remember! I just want it all to go away.”

Vero adds more scotch to my china cup.

She says, “I'm not sure it's as simple as that.”

*   *   *

“D
ID
YOU
KNOW
?”
Wyatt asks me.

I am staring at a flyer for a missing child. V
ERONICA
S
ELLERS
. A
GE
6. L
ONG
BROWN
HAIR
. L
IGHT
BLUE
EYES
. L
AST
SEEN
IN
A
PARK
IN
B
OSTON
.

Hey, you like to play with dolls? I have a couple in my car . . .

The poster includes a blown-up photo of a smiling little girl. I touch her hair—I can't help myself. I peer deep into her gray eyes.

One of the only photos her mother had, I know without asking. Shot with a Polaroid after they'd baked cookies. Her mother had been in a curiously good mood all afternoon. Picked up the camera, said, ‘Hey, sweetie, smile!' Vero had giggled at the unexpected attention, then marveled at the developing process.

Right before footsteps started down the hall.

V
ERONICA
S
ELLERS
. A
GE
6. L
ONG
BROWN
HAIR
. L
IGHT
BLUE
EYES
. L
AST
SEEN
IN
A
PARK
IN
B
OSTON
.

I turn to the next page. Three photos now. The first from the missing persons poster, then a second, age-progressed to ten years. Features crisper, more defined. But still the big smile, the light in her eyes.

No, I want to tell them. They have it wrong. Vero never smiled at ten. Her eyes had not looked like that at all. By ten, she'd been a hardened pro.

A third and final photo. Age-progressed to sixteen. Nothing more, because finding a missing child that many years later was already a long shot. But someone, a case worker, a computer technician, had made this effort.

She looks beautiful at sixteen. Brown hair softer, waving around sculpted cheekbones, a smattering of freckles across her nose. Wholesome. The girl from down the street. The teenager you'd hire to watch your kids.

I touch this photo, too. I think of pouring rain and the smell of dank earth and the weight of it against my chest. I remember the feel of the dead.

V
ERONICA
S
ELLERS
. A
GE
6. L
ONG
BROWN
HAIR
. L
IGHT
BL
UE
EYES
. L
AST
SEEN
IN
A
PARK
IN
B
OSTON
.

“Do you recognize these photos?” Wyatt asks me.

I can't answer. Confronted by the evidence, I still can't state the obvious.

Eventually, Wyatt does it for me.

“You're the girl in these photos, Nicky. The fingerprints recovered from your car prove it. Your name isn't Nicole Frank. You are Veronica Sellers and you've been missing for over thirty years.”

*   *   *

T
HE
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.