The Venus Fix (19 page)

“Dr. Snow. It’s Bob. Call me as soon as you get this message.”

The mechanical voice on the answering machine told me that he’d made that call at 11:40 p.m.

The next twelve messages, only minutes apart, were all from him, and in each he sounded more disturbed and agitated than the one before.

And then the last message. “Christ, where are you? You
have to help me figure out how to deal with this. I have to see you. I have to tell you what a mess this is. I have to tell you who I really am.”

A
t one-thirty in the morning, Yasmine pulled down the blinds and shut out the building across the courtyard. At night, it was so easy to look into someone else’s apartment. Even though all the lights were out, someone could wake up. Someone could look in when she wasn’t paying attention.

That task accomplished, she walked over to the table where everything she needed was waiting for her. Her pulse quickened. The anticipation felt good. And not much else did. She savored it.

The pain was so bad. Had been bad all day and kept getting worse. But soon she’d chase it away with the silver savior.

She got undressed down to her bra and thong and inspected the scars on her thighs. She wanted to pick at the scabs, but that wouldn’t hurt enough. She needed a big jolt. Today had been that bad a day.

Yasmine switched on the Web cam.

Sitting on the floor, she unwrapped a new razor blade, smiling at herself in its reflection. She was aware that while she was alone in her apartment, she was being watched, and that mattered to her because being watched meant getting
paid, and getting paid for something she was going to do, anyway, was just great.

Damn easy.

Easy? Are you nuts?

Nothing is ever easy.

It’s easy enough, though.

Compared to everything else, it was easy enough.

The voices were always in her head, talking about how wrong she was, how bad she was, how messed up. Sometimes an old voice came back and let loose with a familiar litany: Get up, clean up this mess, feed your little brother, stop at the store and buy food for dinner, and don’t forget beer for your father. And beer for your father. And beer for your father. The man in the grocery store knew her and her father and even though she wasn’t old enough he let her take a six pack home. All that matters is the beer so he can fucking drown himself in the beer and then give you orders.
Lie down. Open your mouth, bitch.

He’d hit her when she refused. The back of his hand against her cheek. His belt on her back. Over and over.

Sometimes she thought it would be easier to do what he wanted than it was to take the beatings. Other times she thought the beatings were easier because they took away the real pain. The deeper pain. The screaming for mommy pain that got swallowed up in the craziness of the beer-driven nightmare.

She didn’t even remember anymore when she got the idea to cut herself. Maybe it was something she read about online. Probably was. It was so long ago. Now the shiny little razor blade was winking at her in the light and she lifted it up.

The sharpness would sting and the sting would take away all the voices and all the worries and all the real fucking pain.

Tonight was special.

He was watching tonight.

He’d even sent her a present.

And she had promised him that she would use them when she was done.

Had anyone ever cared that much about her before? To go out of his way to buy her bandages to use after the cutting?

He was so sensitive. He told her he understood why she cut herself. And how lovely she looked and how sexy she was and how much it hurt him and at the same time excited him to know that when she cut herself she felt euphoria. He told her to rent a post office box and e-mail him the address. And she had. And then she’d waited. And then the present had come.

Do you know that your nipples always harden when you make the first cut on your thighs? Do you know that? Do you know that your little pussy gets all slicked up and is literally dripping by the time you are finished cutting?

What does it feel like?

Do you come when you cut herself?

Does it feel the same every time?

I want to know that. And to be the one to comfort you when it is over. So use these Band-Aids for me. They are medicated with a special rare dark aloe, so that your skin will heal without marks. You are too beautiful to have scars. Don’t be afraid of the color of the salve on the cotton. I promise it will heal your beautiful skin, it will make it whole.

The cutting was like a drug that night. The blade made such a thin line and the blood came to the surface so quickly. She sat in front of the Web cam and smiled into its unblinking
black eye while blood dripped from her leg onto the floor, and she floated away from everything she knew.

“This is for you,” she said out loud as she picked up the blade and made another tiny horizontal cut on her upper thigh. And then another. And then another.

Finally, when she was all done, when she was cocooned in the new pain and removed from the old, she saw the bandages he’d sent by the side of her computer and remembered that she’d promised to use them.

Slowly, she reached for one.

Wednesday
Nine days remaining

J
ordain closed the file filled with résumés from forensic psychologists. There wasn’t one candidate in there who he thought was senior enough for the job. He knew someone who’d be perfect, though. Perfect, except for a million personal reasons. Besides, why would Morgan ever want to leave the institute to work for the NYPD?

It was just that there was no one he’d rather have advising him on the twists and turns the human mind could make.

“Detective?”

Officer Butler was standing in the doorway to his office with a sheaf of papers in her hand. Jordain had given her Leightman’s computer last night and told her to keep the geeks working on it 24/7. He hadn’t expected them to have anything this soon.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked as he got up to refill his mug. She shook her head. He knew she never said yes, but still he asked.

“Leightman is very definitely a Global client. Global and a few dozen other sites. He’s got a serious habit. Always uses the bob205 handle and—”

“Are there e-mails to the women on his hard drive?” he interrupted.

“Nothing. But there’s always the possibility—and the geeks are looking into it now—that he sent the e-mails we’re looking for and then deleted them. That should take a few more hours.”

“Someone could be setting him up. Like he said.”

“Either way, we’ll find out.”

“You need to find out soon. He is a judge, Butler.”

“You don’t have to remind me…” She hesitated.

“What is it?”

“We did find something you should know about.”

“I don’t like the sound of your voice.”

She shook her head. “You’re going to like what I have to tell you even less.”

“Okay. Enough of the buildup. What is it?”

“Judge Leightman is seeing Dr. Snow. There’s e-mail from him to her setting up appointments. E-mail back from her confirming.”

“Shit.” He thought for a few seconds. One possible way out. “Old e-mail?”

“Current. As recently as last week. Going back months.”

“Thanks. Let me know what else you find, or what you don’t find, as soon as you can,” he said, dismissing her.

Jordain leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ugly acoustical tiles on the ceiling. He hated those white squares with their ugly wormhole patterns.

Oh, Morgan,
he thought,
how am I going to sit across a table from you and not ask you about this?
His fist came down hard on his desk and he felt the impact shoot up through his wrist.

W
hen I arrived at the institute at 7:30 a.m., I had to use my key to let myself in. It was dark in the foyer. Allison didn’t come in until eight and those who scheduled earlier sessions had to fend for themselves.

Dark, cavernous spaces never spooked me, but that morning I was already nervous, and I didn’t like being there alone or hearing my footsteps echo on the marble.

Flipping every light switch I passed, I unlocked the annex door and then went upstairs to my office. The shadows receded. The furnishings took on their everyday appearances.

It was cold, too, the way an empty building is before everyone arrives and fills it.

After sleeping less than four hours, I should have been exhausted. But between an espresso, which I’d drunk too quickly while I got dressed, and being unnerved by the empty building, I was wired. Everything that was bothering me was bouncing around in my brain.

I sat down at my desk, checked my watch and picked up the phone.

He answered in the middle of the first ring.

“Bob, I’m in my office.”

“I’m in the garage.”

“I left the annex door open. Just lock it behind you and come straight up.”

He talked nonstop for the first ten minutes, and I sat quietly, trying to keep from reacting with surprise to anything he said. That he was Judge Alan Leightman was the first shock. And as soon as I’d absorbed that, I realized that meant he was married to Kira Rushkoff.

Kira Rushkoff, Alan’s wife, was a prominent lawyer specializing in First Amendment issues. I’d seen her on television, standing on the steps of the courthouse in Lower Manhattan, imposing and imperious, looking down at the camera and speaking with passion about the case she’d just won. A strong wind had been blowing her chestnut hair into her face, but she ignored the annoyance. The civil case—between Kira’s pornography-king client and Stella Dobson— had garnered a lot of media attention. I didn’t notice if she was pretty, or how old she was, or if she was tall or short. I had been too engrossed in her fervent speech about how important her client’s victory had been for the Constitution.

And my client—who was desperately addicted to Internet pornography—was that woman’s husband? I’d been looking at this case, at this patient, with only half a pair of glasses. I needed to reevaluate everything he had ever told me, in light of this new and obviously relevant information.

“Then Detective Perez said—”

“What?”

“I said that Detective Perez had a search warrant.”

“There were two detectives?”

“Yes, Perez and Jordain. I’ve met them before. In my goddamn courtroom. The fucking indignity! This is a disaster.
Oh, and the best part is that Kira walked in on the charming scene. She saw me in cuffs.”

“They handcuffed you?” I was having a hard time keeping with him and processing what I’d just heard. My patient was saying my lover’s name.

Was I going to have to step down as his therapist because of Noah? No, we weren’t at that point yet.

“Only because I tried to keep them from taking my laptop. Once I gave in, they took the cuffs off and left. Kira locked herself in the bedroom.” His voice cracked.

I focused on his face, on the expression in his eyes, on his demeanor. “Alan, are you all right?”

“I haven’t done anything illegal. You know that.”

“Yes.”

He hadn’t slept at all and there were deep circles under his eyes. The worry lines in his forehead seemed to have doubled since the last time I’d seen him.

“So how could they think I’m involved with these disgusting crimes?”

“What did they tell you?”

“That two of the victims received e-mail from me.”

“Do they have e-mail addresses for the women right on the sites?”

“Yes.”

I watched him carefully as he spoke. There was no suggestion he was lying. He didn’t look away from me, but held my gaze. He didn’t bite his lips or lick them or put his hands over his mouth when he talked.

“Did you send them any e-mail at all, Bob—Alan?” It was going to take me time to stop thinking of him as Bob-without-a-last-name.

“Of course not. I signed on to their sites, but e-mail? Can you imagine me doing that?” He gave a derisive laugh.

“If you didn’t send either of the two women e-mail, what are the police talking about?”

“Someone is setting me up. It’s obvious. Someone is preparing to blackmail me. My lawyer spoke to one of the detectives late last night and all I know is that the girls both have e-mail from the e-mail address I use to access the porn sites I visit. Mine is the only e-mail the two of them have in common. And apparently the content of the e-mail is damning.”

“What does it say?”

He shook his head. “They won’t tell Adam, my lawyer. And obviously, since I didn’t write it, I don’t know.”

“If the e-mail isn’t on your computer, your lawyer will be able to work this out. You need to focus on that.”

He shook his head furiously. “I’m not concerned that I’m going to be charged. I know I didn’t send the e-mail. But I have accounts at those porn sites. I visited those girls. I watched them. That will come out. It’s going to ruin everything. Once people know that I’m an addict, that I’m seeing you—”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“The police have my computer, Dr. Snow. And there
is
e-mail to you on my computer—”

“What goes on in this office is privileged information.”

Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He looked like a man with vertigo who had found himself on top of the Empire State Building.

“I need you to tell me about the law of doctor-patient confidentiality the way you understand it. What will happen if they ask you if you treat me?”

“I can’t and won’t tell them you are my patient. The only circumstance that would allow me to talk to the police about you is if you told me that you intended to hurt someone and I believed you.”

The wind had picked up and was blowing tiny pellets of
icy snow against the windowpanes. I turned to look. The garden on the small balcony was cut back and wrapped in burlap for the winter. Four or five inches of snow covered all of it, rendering the planters and pots into amorphous blue-white shapes, abstract and strangely foreign. The weatherman had predicted the possibility of a blizzard moving in from the north sometime late this morning, but it looked like it was already here.