The Venus Fix Read online

  Praise for M. J. Rose’s Dr. Morgan Snow novels

  “A creepily elegant and sophisticated novel, with keen psychological insights. M. J. Rose is a bold, unflinching writer and her resolute honesty puts her in a class by herself.”

  —Laura Lippman on The Delilah Complex

  “Utterly fascinating!… This is one book that will keep you glued to your seat.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner on The Delilah Complex

  “[The Delilah Complex] is a joy, and I can’t wait for the third Snow book.”

  —Theodore Feit

  “Potentially explosive…Rose’s latest is not for the squeamish…[Dr. Morgan Snow] is an engaging guide to the world of dysfunction that Rose painstakingly constructs.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Halo Effect

  “Rose has written a steamy and sexy novel that keeps the adrenaline running until the very end. Sex, romance, and murder are artfully combined to produce a page-turning novel that shouldn’t be missed.”

  —New Mystery Reader on The Halo Effect

  “Dr. Morgan Snow is a refreshingly vulnerable character whose spunky decision to go undercover in the demimonde is both believable and hair-raising. The Halo Effect will have you on the edge of your seat from page one.”

  —Katherine Neville, New York Times bestselling author of The Eight

  Also by M. J. ROSE

  Fiction

  LYING IN BED

  THE DELILAH COMPLEX

  THE HALO EFFECT

  LIP SERVICE

  IN FIDELITY

  FLESH TONES

  SHEET MUSIC

  Nonfiction

  HOW TO PUBLISH AND PROMOTE ONLINE

  (with Angela Adair-Hoy)

  BUZZ YOUR BOOK (with Douglas Clegg)

  M.J. ROSE

  THE

  VENUS

  FIX

  THE VENUS FIX

  Copyright © 2006 by Melisse Shapiro.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  First published in the US by Mira Books.

  It’s about time someone dedicated a book to my dear friend Carol Fitzgerald, a true and tireless book champion.

  Carol, for everything you do, this one’s for you.

  Venus—Mythol. The ancient Roman goddess of beauty and love, especially sensual love.

  Fix—slang (orig. U.S.). A dose of a narcotic drug. Also short for fixation—Psychol. In Freudian theory, the arresting of the development of a libidinal component at a pregenital stage, so that psychosexual emotions are “fixed” at that point. Also, loosely, an obsession, an idée fixe.

  Mine Enemy is growing old—

  I have at last Revenge

  The Palate of the Hate departs

  If any would avenge—

  Let him be quick—the Viand flits

  It is a faded Meat

  Anger as soon as fed is dead

  ’Tis starving makes it fat

  —Emily Dickinson

  Contents

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  Seventy-Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-One

  Eighty-Two

  Eighty-Three

  Eighty-Four

  Eighty-Five

  Eighty-Six

  Eighty-Seven

  Eighty-Eight

  Eighty-Nine

  Ninety

  Ninety-One

  Ninety-Two

  Ninety-Three

  Ninety-Four

  Ninety-Five

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Dearest,

  After all these months, I’m willing to concede. Nothing will make me miss you less. Nothing will ease the razor-sharp pain that wakes me up every morning and keeps me from falling asleep at night. Not while those women roam—no, not quite women, but witch women who go haunting, casting spells and capturing souls without anyone realizing just how dangerous they are or noticing the evil running in their veins. Evil that glows secret bright in the night and feeds the junkies who drool, eyes glued to their bare breasts and wet lips, ears attuned to low moans and dirty chatter while they stroke, massage, and manipulate themselves to orgasm and then languish in some fugue state until they crash back, back, back to earth.

  There are twenty-three days left until your birthday, and to show you how much I love you, I promise, by then all five of these women will have been punished.

  What I’m going to do won’t bring back my appetite or my curiosity or my energy. It won’t do a damn thing for me. That doesn’t matter. Because this I do for you.

  Thursday

  Twenty-two days remaining

  Two

  Damn, it was freezing. He’d opened the window to chase away the smell of beer and grass and sex, but then he’d fallen asleep, and now it was so cold he didn’t even want to stick his head out from under the covers to see if she was still there. But Timothy wanted to come again more than he wanted anything else, so he did it, he pushed the blanket down just enough to peek out.

  In his darkened bedroom she was the only thing that he could see. Still there. Still naked. Her lovely breasts with their pink-tipped nipples pointing up.

  His erection stirred.

  Timothy was awake now, the dreams replaced with a fresh fantasy of what the next minutes would bring. She was golden. That was the best way to describe her: the tawny color of her skin, the long blond curls, and the feeling inside of him that burned like a sun when he was in her glow. And all he had to do was lie back and let her magic work on him.

  None of the girls at
school were this experienced.

  Or this gorgeous.

  Or this willing.

  Penny was sitting in the big red armchair where he’d left her—her legs spread, playing with a dildo, smiling at him. But it was one weird smile. He leaned forward. Nope, she didn’t look right. She was shaking a little and her mouth was sort of contorted into a sick clown’s grimace. Then her head fell forward, her back heaved, and she vomited.

  Timothy had fooled around with a lot of different crap, but this was weird. What kind of pervert would think this was hot?

  Usually Penny was coy and sweet and sexy. Sure, she was a little kinky sometimes with the crazy-shaped dildos she used, but she wasn’t moving any of those magic wands in and out of her now.

  “Penny,” he whispered. “What are you doing?”

  Her answer was an agonized groan. Low and feeble. Like the sound a wounded animal might make. Nothing like the exciting sounds she’d made when she was riding the lubricated pink plastic dildo and coming right along with him.

  Maybe she wasn’t acting. Maybe she really was sick. Food poisoning made you sick like that. He’d had food poisoning once. She looked sick, didn’t she? Her skin was slicked with sweat, her hair was flattened to the sides of her face, and her eyes looked glassy and feverish.

  She looked like she needed help. Now. Fast. But what could he do?

  Grabbing the blanket off the bed, he wrapped it around his naked waist and started for his bedroom door. Then he stopped—there was no one home. His parents were out. Jeez, what was he thinking? Thank God they were out because Penny, sick or not, was way off limits.

  He looked back at her to make sure. Yes, she was still moving in that slow-motion, sick way, her moan now a low constant sound that made him want to put his hands up to his ears and block it out.

  He grabbed the phone.

  He’d call for help. But who? The police? An ambulance? Amanda? Would she know what to do? No, she might tell her mother. He couldn’t risk that. Besides, what if he was wrong? What if this was a game? What if Penny was acting out some perversion by request? He knew she did that sometimes.

  He glanced back at her, at her small hands gripping the arms of the chair, at her feet, so fragile and inconsequential, at the worn carpet he’d never noticed before. Everything looked sort of pathetic now—the meager furniture, the really small television—except for the view out the window. He’d never noticed any of this before. He’d always been too busy, under her spell. But not now. Not anymore.

  Pick your head up, Penny. Look at me. Tell me what’s going on. What should I do?

  She threw up again.

  He dialed 911.

  “State your emergency, please.”

  At the same time he heard the voice, the screen went black. He ran to the monitor and stared at it, seeing only his own ghostly image staring back.

  Penny was gone.

  What the hell?

  He hit the back button to see if the problem was his computer or hers. The site he’d been to before hers popped up. He hit the forward key.

  Her site was gone.

  “Hello?” shouted the voice on the other end of the phone. “Hello?”

  A dozen thoughts hit him all at once. They were going to ask him who he was, and he was going to have to tell them, and then his parents would find out he’d broken the rules again, and God only knew what they would do to him this time. He had been going to all those stupid therapy sessions at school and his parents were finally easing up on him, but if they found out about this…what would happen then? Besides, maybe he was wrong. Maybe Penny had only been acting out some stupid game.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello,” Timothy finally answered.

  “Can you tell me what the emergency is?”

  “It’s not…I don’t think. What if it’s not an emergency?”

  “We have a car on the way to your house. Are you hurt?”

  “No. It was a mistake, it’s not an emergency.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. It’s not me. I thought someone…I thought someone was breaking in…but it wasn’t… I was asleep.”

  “The police are on their way. They should be there in less than thirty seconds.” The operator’s voice eased and softened.

  Timothy heard the intercom buzz in the kitchen, hung up, ran out of his room and down the hall, the panic rising like bile in his stomach.

  He pressed the button.

  “Yes?”

  “Timothy, the police are here,” the doorman announced. “They said it was an emergency. I’m sending them up.”

  “No,” he shouted at the doorman. “No. Let me talk to them.”

  There was a pause. Then: “Timothy Marcus? This is Officer Keally. Is there something wrong up there?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? You called 911.”

  “Yeah, but by mistake. I was asleep, dreaming, thought I saw…heard something, but it wasn’t real.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want us to come up and check things out?”

  Timothy actually hesitated. Should he tell them and face the consequences? Deal with whatever his parents would do to him? He had seen something weird on the computer, hadn’t he? She was sick, wasn’t she?

  Or had some weird fucker convinced Penny to act out his perverted scenario?

  “I’m sure,” he said into the intercom.

  Monday

  Eighteen days remaining

  Three

  It was going to start to snow again, soon. I could smell it. Snow had always been magical to me. Something that, until I was ten, I thought I owned because my last name is Snow. Morgan Snow.

  The sky was gray and the trees were dusted white and my breath came out in visible puffs. I had been mesmerized by that when I was a child, and like me, my daughter, Dulcie, had found it equally absorbing.

  “Ghost breath,” she’d say, then suck in a great gulp of air and blow it out again. “Do you believe in ghosts, Mommy?”

  I did, but not in a way that my then eight-year-old would have understood. How could I have explained that the ghost of my mother lived inside of her? And that there were also the ghosts of the secrets that my patients told me that could, in the midst of a moment of my own pleasure, surface—interrupting and demanding acknowledgment. That it was in between all those moments that I hoped it would all be okay, that we’d all be okay.

  At the corner of Sixty-sixth Street, I stopped for a red light. A woman in a black fur coat shifted impatiently from her right foot to her left. “I hate this weather,” she said. Not quite to me, but not to herself, either. I nodded, and then the light changed.

  We crossed and went in opposite directions.

  The Northeast was suffering a severe cold spell but I didn’t mind. I liked to bundle up in layers of sweaters and fleece-lined boots, wrap a big scarf around my head, and walk the mile from my apartment on Eightieth Street and Madison to my office.

  At Sixty-fifth, I turned the corner and trudged toward Park Avenue. Side streets don’t get as much traffic as the major avenues so the snow never melts as quickly. The early twentieth-century limestone maisonette where I work was halfway down the block. The building’s facade is elegant: Ionic columns support an overhang that shelters the patients while they wait to be buzzed through the wrought-iron door into the most progressive sex clinic in the nation—the Butterfield Institute.

  In the country, the snow stays pristine and is so clean you can reach down, scoop some up in your hands and eat it. But in the city, the exhaust from the thousands of cars, buses and trucks turns it gray within hours.

  Near the gutter, on the sidewalk in front of the institute, there were filthy mounds of snow smeared with black soot, but close to the building, where I was standing, it was still white, and would be for at least a few more hours.

  Four

  My ten o’clock had just left and I was about to make a phone call when the patient I knew only as “Bob” walked in, early and unanno
unced.

  “I had an awful weekend,” he said in a tense voice as he strode across the threshold.

  Bob, who normally had ramrod-straight posture, looked weighed down. Behind him Allison, the receptionist, explained that she had tried to stop him from barging in but that he refused to wait once she’d told him that my last patient had already left.

  I was sitting in the oversize chair that faces the couch where my patients either sit or lie down. I glanced at the clock to my right.

  “Your appointment isn’t until eleven o’clock,” I said to Bob, and then told Allison she could go.

  While I waited for him to sit down, I drank some tea from the mug I was holding. Jung at Heart, it read. Green letters on a white background. It was one of a set of six that Dulcie had made for me, each emblazoned with a psychoanalytic pun. It amazed me how many patients saw me using one of those mugs week after week, and then one day suddenly said, How funny—when did you get that?

  That was an important moment. It meant we were making progress, that my patient was noticing his or her surroundings, and was no longer absorbed just with the self. Bob had not reached that point.

  He hadn’t even progressed to the point where he would tell me his real name. I’d had patients who wanted to protect their privacy before, though never anyone as secretive as Bob, who was bright and charming, intense and secretive, and desperately in need of my help.

  “These fifteen minutes between sessions are my only breaks. It’s not okay to just barge in.”

  Bob wasn’t at the point where he could think about anyone but himself. “I’m very upset about my wife. No matter what, I love her. I just can’t stand this.” Usually he folded his jacket carefully, but as he talked he dropped it on the edge of the couch, and when it fell to the floor he didn’t notice.

  “What happened over the weekend?”

  Bob was in his early fifties, about six feet tall, and had the build of someone who worked out religiously. His suits were always pressed and his shoes were shined. Incongruously, a blue New York Yankees baseball cap always covered his head. His black owl-rimmed glasses had tinted lenses that hid his eyes.