Drowned Sorrow

Prologue

Look at this. Editor-in-Chief Carl Holloway flung the newspaper toward Megan Blackwood. It landed on the round meeting table with a heap of other papers and magazines.

It was the cover of the new issue of The Times.

CIA SECURITY SYSTEM CRACKED, read the headline. Underneath was a picture of Megan.

The other magazines on the table were adorned with the same sort of headline. Every possible magazine and newspaper had written about it. Megan had produced a great piece of investigative journalism. She’d proven that anyone could enter the CIA buildings without someone noticing. The documentary had aired yesterday, and today the news had been in all the newspapers and on the radio. Even competitive TV stations showed it as the day’s main feature.

You’re hot property, Holloway said.

Don’t let your wife hear you say that, Megan answered.

I meant in the media. Good thing I bumped you up to investigative journalism.

That was my idea, remember?

Maybe. Either way, you make me look like a genius.

This is why I got into this business.

Megan couldn’t care less about the attention. She wanted to figure out the world and explain it to others. She wanted to talk to people and go to a lot of different places. If the audience bought in, that made everything easier.

This is the kind of documentary we’re aiming for, Holloway continued.

"We need stories that everyone talks about the next day and that dig deeper than most things we’re so used to seeing."

Where did the story come from anyway, Miss Marple? her colleague George Denman asked.

I heard through the grapevine that Scientologists went undercover in the CIA to make important documents disappear. If they can do it, we can too. It’s just a pity that I didn’t find proof of alien life. Now that would have been a scoop. She ran her fingers through her long fair hair, revealing a cool, almost haughty face that seemed to scream I have everything under control.

Brought everyone another vodka, Chris Kennedy said. He was the current trainee. Very ambitious, but that didn’t matter here, as trainees were just meant to do the paperwork and to serve coffee—or vodka, in this case.

Megan’s head was spinning, partly from exhaustion from the lack of sleep over the past days and partly from too much alcohol. She took a sip, heedless of the consequences. Pouring double measures of drink in everyone’s glasses is more likely going to turn us into the most drunken television crew instead of the best.

So what’ll be the next success story? Any idea yet? Denman asked.

Suicide.

It was the first idea that came to mind.

The word had been in her head ever since she’d woken up that morning and it had refused to go away. It had been everywhere: a headline in the newspaper, Chris Kennedy buying a DVD called The Suicide Club… then she’d dialed a wrong number answered by a company that talks people down threatening to commit suicide. At first, she didn’t know what to think of it. It even scared her. But now that her boss threw the question at her, she knew that this was the only correct answer.

Suicide, Megan said. We infiltrate a sect whose members want to commit mass suicide and we save their lives.

Carl Holloway was beaming with excitement. I can already see the headlines in front of me: ‘NEWS REPORTER PREVENTS 20 PEOPLE FROM COMMITTING MASS SUICIDE.’ Now that’s something that hasn’t been done yet. Any idea yet how you want to put this into practice?

Not the slightest—at least not yet—but I know I have to do this story. My instincts never lie to me.

Excuse me. Megan? Your daughter, on line four. The secretary had leapt in unnoticed.

Callie, this is really not a good time. Tell her I’ll call her back as soon as I can. Her daughter’s troubles could wait, but this documentary could not.

Ok, ma’am, Callie said, and she left the room.

As Megan explained her ideas, she began to turn the situation over in her mind, taking a pen from the table and making notes. I honestly don’t know anything about the subject, she continued. Her gestures were fluid and her words easy. "But the research team can take care of the practical stuff. What we should know is where and how these people recruit new members and what sects have a suicidal element in their beliefs. That’s really all there is to it. What I’ll suggest is this: I still have a couple of interviews this afternoon, but I can start tomorrow. Obviously, I can’t infiltrate the sect myself, as a lot of people know my face, but maybe Chris here can do it and I’ll supervise the whole thing. Or I can disguise myself like I did last time. We can use a small hidden camera and go for a shaky, cinema vérité style." She looked up, triumphant, her face flushed with effort.

Her colleagues were looking at her open-mouthed.

That’s a hell of an idea, Holloway said.

Megan gave her audience a dazzling smile.

George Denman was grinning at her. You know that this is just the beginning. This thing is about to go huge.

Megan felt a hand on her shoulder and looked behind her. It was once more her secretary.

I’m afraid I have your daughter on line again.

It had probably been a bad idea to hire that girl. Sure, she was nice and smiling and friendly, and she fit exactly into the company’s new program of hiring only extremely young people. Too young, maybe—nineteen years old, just out of school, and so naïve it was almost cute.

I know you’re new here, so I don’t mind, but I usually don’t take calls during a meeting unless it’s really important.

Callie blushed. Your daughter told me to stress that it was extremely important. She waited for Megan to say something.

Megan checked her diary—lunch with the minister of finance at two, interview with a physicist of New York University at half past four, then back to the studio with the tape to write the accompanying text. I can’t. I’ve got too many things going on. Ask her what it’s about. If she’s sick, tell her to call a doctor; the number’s on the fridge. I’m sure she can manage.

The secretary left the room and Carl Holloway continued the meeting.

George, how is your progress on the story about borderline personalities among highly intelligent people?

***

Megan entered the air-conditioned comfort of her office forty minutes later. Don’t forget to call your daughter back, her secretary said when she passed her.

Shit! Good of you to remind me. I completely forgot.

Well said.

Megan blushed.

Do you also curse when your kids are present? Callie asked.

My daughter doesn’t stop telling me that I have to watch my words. She’s easily shocked. My son, on the other hand, is the first to take over my bad habits.

How old are your kids?

Jenna is fourteen and Josh is eighteen. He’ll start university next year. He wants to be a vet.

A cursing vet. That’s nice, Callie said with a smile.

The phone rang.

Megan Blackwood’s office, Callie said. Oh, okay. Hold on a minute.

Megan saw the expression on her secretary's face and frowned.

What is it? she asked. What's wrong?

Callie’s voice dropped to a whisper. It’s the police.

I’ll take it in my office.

I will put you through, Callie said into the phone.

Megan settled into the large leather chair behind her office desk and took the receiver. She could still hear noise from the other offices—the marketing people yelling at each other, the whirring computer printouts, and the phones that were ringing off the hook.

Mrs. Megan Blackwood? asked the policeman, with a slight hesitation in his voice.

That’s me. What can I do for you?

I’m Inspector Pellington, ma’am, from N.Y.P.D.

I’m afraid I don’t do the usual reports anymore, Megan said.

You may talk to the Editor-in-Chief, Carl Holloway. His number is—

That’s not what I’m calling for, ma’am.

Don’t tell me I have a speeding ticket?

There was a silence.

Does my son have a speeding ticket? she continued.

No, ma’am.

I have an interview in fifteen minutes uptown, so I’m afraid I have to leave you. I’ll put you back through with my secretary. Megan pushed the button on the phone to put the man through, put down the receiver, and prowled hastily through her drawers, looking for her questions. In the background, she could hear her secretary talking to the police. She couldn’t be bothered with unnecessary phone calls anymore. It was time Callie learned the difference between what was important and what was not. Otherwise, what would be the next step? Jotting down messages from the Jehovah’s Witnesses?

When Callie put the phone back down, Megan asked, What was that all about?

There has been a suicide in your neighborhood.

A suicide?

A teenager has cut his wrists.

That’s terrible.

A bad feeling came over her. Again the suicide. This couldn’t just be a coincidence. Maybe she shouldn’t even do these two interviews today.

What if it wasn’t inspiration talking to her?

What if it was a warning?

What if something was about to happen to her on her way to the report, an accident because she drank too much vodka? Or maybe it was too dangerous to do that documentary about mass suicides among sects.

Stop it! Megan told herself.

Okay, so a kid has killed himself. But what has that got to do with us? Megan said.

Should I throw it away? Callie asked.

Then she changed her mind. Maybe she should take this seriously. Maybe the suicide had something to do with a sect and it would serve her documentary. Megan took a notebook and a pen. No, keep it. This may be important after all. What’s the address?

Callie handed her the notes.

Megan looked at it and froze. What’s this?

It’s the address you just asked me for. Why? What is it?

Megan didn’t say anything. She was ashen.

Can you please say something?

That’s my address, Megan said.

***

The sense of unreality stayed with Megan all the way home as she threaded her way through the midday traffic. It took twelve minutes for Megan to get home. She drove recklessly. Several policemen and an ambulance were in front of her house.

After lurching into the driveway, she slammed the car to a halt and rushed out, running for the door, where a policeman stopped her. Let me in! she screamed. This is my house!

He released her without asking for identification.

She rushed inside, and then came to an abrupt halt when she saw the pair of detectives standing in the corridor that led outside, speaking to a uniformed patrol officer. The air seemed to freeze around her when she saw her daughter Jenna talking to an inspector. Time pooled and stopped, and a terrible, clammy fear gripped her throat.

Jenna rushed into her arms, crying, holding onto her for dear life.

What happened? Where’s your brother?

Jenna didn’t say anything. She seemed almost on the point of collapse.

Jenna! For God’s sake, what’s the matter?

He had an accident. Jenna’s voice was almost inaudible.

Megan’s eyes rounded with horror as her heart thudded with alarm. What kind of an accident?

Mrs. Blackwood, I’m Inspector Pellington. I’d like to talk to you.

Why? What happened to my son?

She was standing paralyzed. This could not be happening; it just couldn’t. Only shock was keeping her upright.

Inspector Pellington touched her shoulder. Mrs. Blackwood?

She turned her attention to the inspector.

Your son is dead, Mrs. Blackwood.

Megan could only stare, bewildered. What?

He cut his wrists, but apparently he didn’t actually want to bleed to death. All he’d wanted was to scare you, so you would notice what he was going through. That’s what he told his sister. When there was so much blood, he got scared and he asked her to call you.

Megan’s knees collapsed and a scream built in the pit of her stomach, fighting to get out, to erupt in denial, in guilt, carrying the burden that she would carry with her forever. And yet hers was a silent scream, one that never erupted, but died as surely as a part of her had died that day.

One

In the distance, Megan heard Jenna and her friends giggling in the outdoor swimming pool, trying to forget the blistering heat. She moved to the glass door to watch them.

Just before her friends had arrived, her daughter had dropped a bomb. Mom, I was wondering if you and Dad would ever get back together again.

What could Megan say to something like that? How could she explain that however badly she loved Michael and wanted him back, it would not be possible.

Well, maybe it was better that she and Michael started to see each other again. Or maybe not. That was so typically Megan: no answers. Just questions and a bunch of conflicting feelings. Finally, she had accepted that Michael would come around for lunch later that day, so he could spend some time with his daughter before she left on holiday—an excuse as good as any other.

Their lives hadn’t always been that bleak, though.

Megan Blackwood had been a reporter for national television for eight years. With a growing reputation as an authority on international politics, she was regarded as a leading light in journalism. She had no thought of ever doing another job. Michael, her husband, was successful as well. He was a well-regarded photographer, and last year his book on city life had sold almost 80,000 copies. In media terms, she and Michael were considered the perfect couple, blessed not only with talent and intelligence and style, but also with two perfect children.

Then the fairy tale was over. It had been exactly seven months since the funeral at which she’d buried her son. The event had brought a few new lines to Megan’s formerly youthful features. Her bright blue eyes had dulled, and her mouth, so full and inviting in the past, had become thinner, as if permanently struggling to hold inner emotions at bay. Her blonde hair had begun to sprout a few strands of gray, and while at first she had attempted to pluck the offending strands out, she had finally given up.

Who was she kidding anyway? Who was she trying to impress? Who was left to impress? She no longer carried her husband's name and had reverted to her maiden name. How was that for second chances? After the divorce, she could hardly wait to distance herself from him, from his silent accusations. No, he had never said or hinted anything directly, but just looking into his brown eyes, so filled with sympathetic condemnation, had been enough for her to welcome that distance—for a while.

Impatience warred with a desire to understand, to find and come to terms with that selfish part of her that had forged much of her adult life. After all, she had goals and career desires just like anyone else. Why should she feel guilty for that? Then again, perhaps that very selfishness had caused the tragedy in the first place. Could she have been responsible, in some way, for the accident? Could she have prevented it?

Megan took her attention away from her daughter and sighed as she cast her glance around the living room. The coffee table in front of the sofa was littered with political books and various documents. Empty plastic bottles of water and diet cola littered the end table beside the couch, and a half-empty take-out box of pizza balanced precariously on one of the sofa cushions. The clutter reminded her of yesterday’s painful evening. Megan had been in the bathroom, sobbing incoherently. And Jenna wanted to hold her mother in her arms, console her, but Megan wouldn’t let her. When the crying had eased, Megan had pretended that nothing had happened and suggested they order pizza and watch a romantic comedy together. And then it seemed as if they had fun, just like before.

Both Jenna and Megan had become much better at this lately—pretending.

***

The smell of chlorine and the damp, musty odor of wet towels and mildewed tiles permeated the terrace around the swimming pool. At fourteen, Jenna was already showing signs of becoming a gifted swimmer, and she seemed to be in her element whenever she was in or around water. She swam the length of the swimming pool as easily as if she were an otter, her steady breaths carrying her from one side to the other with minimal effort. An expression of determination tightened her smooth features, and her eyes remained fixed on her goal, the far side of the pool.

Reaching the opposite side, she easily pulled herself out of the pool, water streaming in rivulets down her royal blue, one-piece swimming suit as she reached up and yanked the bathing cap from her head. Long, golden hair spilled down across her shoulders and nestled across budding breasts and down her back. Her eyes seemed large and unnaturally serious for someone so young, their luminous depths eyeing everything around her with a single glance. High cheekbones and the beginning of a firm, sensuous