The Venus Fix

Sixty-Seven

Most men would have brought chicken noodle soup from one of the ubiquitous coffee shops on New York’s Upper East Side. Not Noah. He showed up with a quart of chicken gumbo with big chunks of tender white meat and tiny round slices of okra in a spicy tomato base that brought different tears to my eyes.

While we sat at the kitchen table and ate bowls of the thick Creole stew, I answered all his questions and told him everything but the one thing I wanted to talk to him about the most-how I’d seen Terry Meziac on the street, how I thought he was following me. About the threat Alan Leightman had almost made in my office. About how hard it was to reconcile the Alan who I had been treating for so long with the one who panicked at the thought of me telling anyone that he was in therapy with me, even if it helped him with the police.

Noah had warned me once that if Alan wasn’t guilty, then I was in danger. He’d meant that whoever was guilty might want to keep me quiet.

It had never occurred to him that Alan might have other reasons for wanting me kept quiet.

“Are you in much pain?” he asked.

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Really, no. It was worse before. I took some painkillers.”

“The prescription kind?”

“No. But they helped.”

“Okay. But if you need something stronger, do you have it?”

I nodded.

We were both quiet for a few seconds.

“I need to tell you something about Alan Leightman. I can’t talk about it. I can’t tell you why I know. Or anything. Is that all right?”

“It will have to be all right.”

“There is no way that Alan Leightman killed those girls.”

“I know you believe that, but he confessed. We have evidence proving he watched them online.”

“That’s not evidence that he killed them, is it?”

He looked at me with a sympathetic smile. “No therapist wants to believe that she could have misread her patient. You can’t blame yourself.”

“Damn you. Damn you for patronizing me. First of all, I never said he was my patient.”

“I am not patronizing you. I’m telling you something you know is right. You don’t want him to be guilty. You don’t want to have missed the signs. I know how you feel. I understand.”

I stared down at the empty bowl. I’d never be able to make food that good.

How could I tell Noah that Alan didn’t have any of the personality traits of a person capable of carrying out those four macabre murders without revealing that he was my patient-and without breaking my promise that I would protect Alan’s privacy.

Was that the real reason I didn’t want to tell Noah? Or had Alan scared me? Had seeing Terry Meziac, or someone who I thought was Terry, scared me?

No, Alan wasn’t capable of harming me, even to keep whatever secret he was keeping. I’d worked with him long enough to know that. He’d been excited by risking his reputation and visiting those women online. And at the same time, he was shamed by it. But he had no interest in any of the women he watched. No need to reach out and try to get to know them, help them or hurt them. He didn’t see them as his tormentors. He’d been viewing Internet porn long enough to know that even if he got rid of three or four or five Web-cam girls, there would always be more just a few key strokes away. Yes, he needed the Web-cam girls the same way a coke addict needs a fix, but there was nothing violent about his obsession.

Noah got up, took our bowls and relit the flame under the pot. “My mother never believed that I had gotten drunk and smashed up our car when I was nineteen, either,” he said.

“This isn’t going to work.”

“What isn’t?”

“Telling me some sweet family story about how your mother didn’t believe you were capable of acting out. It won’t convince me that I’m wrong.”

He didn’t argue and he didn’t try to finish the story that he’d started to tell. Using a fancy ladle I’d never used before, he refilled our bowls and put them back on the table. The fragrant, piquant smell wafted up in the steam.

“Eat,” he said. “Nothing you are saying will convince me.”

“Nothing?” I asked after swallowing a spoonful.

“Probably something, darlin’-but it’s also probably something that you won’t tell me.”

I thought about that. Even if there was something I could tell him, I didn’t have any facts, either. I only had my educated guess after listening to a man talk about his demons for weeks and weeks.

Yes, Alan was destructive, but only toward himself. He had devoted his whole life to justice. To protecting the innocent.

Who was he protecting now?

I spooned more of the gumbo into my mouth. If I kept eating, I wouldn’t be tempted to speak.

“If there is something, you really should tell me.”

More gumbo.

“Morgan?”

Okay, maybe I could do this. Maybe I could steer him toward what I’d realized without saying anything that was privileged. “Why those four girls, Noah? Why poison? Why would he go to all that trouble to kill them in front of the whole world? And if he did, why admit it? What did confession buy him? There are a million questions. Do you have answers for them all?”

“Not yet, but we’ll get them. I know how you feel, but I don’t really care why he confessed. Besides, even if he hadn’t, there’s enough circumstantial evidence on his computer that most juries would convict him.”

“That may be. But he didn’t do it.”

Before I knew it, I was looking into the bottom of the soup bowl again.

“Do you want more?” Noah asked.

I shook my head. “Three bowls? No.” I laughed.

“So how did you break your hand?”

“Wrist. I slipped on a patch of ice helping Nina over a snowdrift.”

“There have been more broken bones in New York City in the past three weeks than in the past two years combined. You sure it doesn’t hurt?”

“Sure. Yesterday it was throbbing, now it’s just a dull ache. You get used to pain.”

“You can, but why would you want to?”

“Sometimes you have no choice.”

I was following the subtext and was sure he was, too. He got up and began clearing the table. It felt luxurious to have him do this.

“You want some tea?” he asked. “I’d suggest coffee but it’s late, and I think you need to sleep.”

“Thanks. Tea is fine.”

He filled the kettle, got out the mugs and the chamomile tea bags, and cut a lemon.

“Honey?”

For a second, I thought he was using the word to address me, then realized what he meant. “Sure.” There must have been something in my tone because his hand froze in midair and he held my glance for a few seconds. “You’re having a rough time, aren’t you?” he asked.

I nodded. “You, too?”

Now he nodded.

We were like dashboard figurines, silently bobbing our heads.

I stood up. Walked to him. Pushed him away from the stove. “Let me. Let me make you tea.”

He watched me clumsily take out two tea bags and put one in each mug, then use one hand to spoon in the honey. The kettle started to sing.

It was awkward but I managed it, poured the hot water, stirred it together and squeezed in the lemon. Then I picked up the mug and offered it to him.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” I said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Not you. It wasn’t even about you. I know I have a lot of work to do with Dulcie, but I’m going to do it on my own. Mitch isn’t part of the solution.”

He smiled. “At least you’re thinking straight about one thing. Come on, bring your tea. I think you need to get into bed, with the covers pulled way up to your chin, and the television turned on to an old movie.” He held out his hand.