The Venus Fix

Seventy-Seven

I’d been with Amanda for fifty-five minutes and only had a few minutes left to get back to the office for my next patient. Not long enough to figure out the ramifications of what Amanda had told me, or even to ask myself what my real obligations were. I wanted to call Noah right then and tell him everything. But could I?

There is nothing more difficult than doing the wrong thing for the right reason. I had an obligation to a human being who had entrusted me with her secret. And I had an obligation to try to save a life if it was in my power to do that.

I didn’t get another break until seven that night, at which point I popped some vitamin C pills, hoping they’d do something for my cold, made some tea and sat down in front of my computer with the CD Amanda had given me.

The institute was quiet but not empty; two therapists had group sessions in progress and Nina had patients until nine. I shut my door, returned to my desk, looked for the CD icon on my desktop and then clicked on it.

There’s not much about the Web and pornography that those of us at the institute don’t know about. We have to understand what stimulates our patients. We need to know what their addictions are. I’m aware that there is film online of every kind of perverse and sadistic fetish known to the human imagination. But of all the porn I’ve seen, I’d never wept watching it until I viewed Amanda’s movie. My heart ached for these two beautiful sixteen-year-old girls who were so confused and desperate for the boys at school to notice them that they’d done this.

There were four segments, each identified simply with a red Roman numeral on a black screen.

Number one had to be Simone because she had blond hair and Amanda’s hair was dark, almost as dark as Dulcie’s. I couldn’t see any of Simone’s face because she was wearing a red silk mask over her eyes. Her hand was between her legs and she was using a dildo on herself.

The scene cut and there was Amanda in a blue silk mask, using a dildo.

I had a frightening sense of déjà vu. I focused. What was bothering me?

It was the masks.

I stopped the CD.

Nina once told me there are no coincidences. But this? It couldn’t be. There had to be other women online who did their Web cast wearing masks. Blythe couldn’t be the only one. As soon as I had watched the whole thing, I’d do a search. There would be dozens of women wearing masks. Besides, Blythe had been very specific, she’d worn a butterfly mask: but these were simple silk eye masks without any anthropomorphic theme.

I hit the play button.

The second segment showed both girls kissing slowly, sensually. It was difficult for me to look at these young women, only a few years older than my daughter. I knew they’d started doing this to entice the boys to look at them, a desperate ploy to get noticed, but it had already turned into something more.

The scene cut and they were massaging each other, smoothing oil over bare backs and long legs, touching each other in intimate places. It was so clear to me that by the time they had made this segment, they were becoming confused by their feelings for each other.

The first segment had been awkward and forced, the girls reminded me in a sick way of Dulcie dressed up in my high-heeled shoes and my pearls, wearing my lipstick, when she was only six. But now there was an authenticity to Amanda and Simone’s movements. They had forgotten about the Web cam, they had forgotten about the boys who had never noticed them in the first place. These sex-starved, attention-starved teenagers, who had given boys blowjobs but never been kissed, were kissing each other and experiencing sexual tenderness for the first time.

How could I keep watching?

I was invading their privacy, spying on a moment that should have belonged only to them. That it had been sent out over the Internet by countless high school boys only made it that much more wrenching. That Simone had killed herself over it made it almost impossible to tolerate.

At least they had felt this for each other.

On the screen, they were still touching, their skin glistening in the soft light. A hand on a breast. Fingers grasping fingers. A foot arched against a hip. A neck bent over a stomach. Hair covering a face. Then Simone moaned against Amanda’s chest and orgasmed.

The third segment was of Simone cutting herself. The razor blade glinted in the light as she tentatively slid it across the front of her thigh. The first time, she didn’t manage to actually make the cut. She didn’t manage it the second time, either.

For a second, she looked up into the camera, the masked face placid and inhuman. Except for the mouth. It quivered. It gave her away. It looked like a little girl’s mouth.

I hit Stop again.

My fingers dug into my temples. My eyes closed. The image remained. I didn’t want to see any more. I didn’t want to look at this poor little lost girl.

There were so many of them.

I had treated some, had helped some; others I had failed, the way once upon a time I had failed my mother. With all my heart, I swore my daughter would never be lost like that.

Had Simone’s mother felt the same overprotectiveness?

Had Amanda’s?

Now there were two girls left to save: Amanda and the last Web-cam girl, who was still alive somewhere.

I hit the play button and let the rest of the cutting scene play out.

Finally, the fourth segment began. I hoped there would be a clue to who this fourth girl was.

Simone appeared again, but now her simple blue mask had been replaced with an elaborate butterfly mask and for the first time she spoke, whispering to the camera as she stood there playing with the buttons of the modest powder-blue men’s shirt that was tucked into her tight blue jeans.

“You’re watching, aren’t you? You’re waiting for me to get undressed for you. For me to show you my breasts and my pussy. I know how much you want to see them. To see me naked and with my legs spread for you. For your cock. Well, you’re going to have to wait. Oh, I’ll get undressed for you. I’ll do all kinds of things for you. But you have to be patient.”

She undid the top button, and then the next, now revealing a lavender lace bra.

“Are you touching yourself? Are you sitting there and stroking your cock? Is it hard yet? I wish I could see it. I wish I could lean over and put my lips around it.”

She smiled a secret smile into the camera. It was the look of a wise and weary hooker. I’d seen it on the women I worked with who were in prison for solicitation, women who know what it is like to give and give and get nothing back.

I didn’t think that Simone had figured out this script herself. It must have been what the butterfly girl she and Amanda had copied had said.

Was this what Blythe did online?

I needed to call her. There were other butterfly girls out there, no doubt. But what if I was right? I wouldn’t tell Blythe how I knew what she did, I’d just ask her.

Amanda came on the screen and started to strip the same way Simone had. But I didn’t need to see anymore. She’d told me they had copied five girls. One who had used a dildo. Two who had used massage oil and made love to each other. Another who had been a cutter. And the last.

The stripper in the butterfly mask.

I dragged the CD icon to the trash, removed it from the drive, and then replaced it in its case. It had been hidden, Amanda had told me. Why hadn’t she just destroyed it, I’d asked as I walked her back up Fifth to find a taxi.

“It was all I had left of Simone,” she said. “Timothy helped me hide it.” Her tears came again. “I couldn’t take a chance and keep it on my computer. But I needed to know it was somewhere in case I ever wanted to see it again.”

Now I held it the way she had, close to my chest, carefully.

I opened my address book and found Blythe’s number. Then dialed it. When the machine answered, I left a message asking her to call me.

I didn’t tell her it was urgent.

I wasn’t sure it was.

I shouldn’t have taken that chance.