Secrets So Deep eBook Read online

  Copyright © 2008 by KG MacGregor Bella Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper First Edition

  Editor: Katherine V. Forrest Cover designer: LA Callaghan

  ISBN-10: 1-59493-125-9 ISBN-13: 978-1-59493-125-3

  Acknowledgments It’s so much fun to write suspense, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Luckily, I have friends around who can help with the details. Thanks first of all to Kim for her early ear as I was sounding out the story and for her guidance on the professional issues a psychiatrist might face. Thanks also to Karen, who read the first draft and figured out the ending way too soon; and to Jenny, who helped put the finishing touches on the manuscript.

  I’d like to say a special thanks to my editor Katherine V. Forrest. When my publisher came to me a year ago with the offer to work with Katherine, I admit I was intimidated. It isn’t every day one has the opportunity to work with a Lammywinning author of such distinction. But after an assuring chat with Karin Kallmaker in Provincetown, I began to look forward to the process. Katherine did more than help with this book. She put tools in my writer’s toolbox that I will use forever, and I’m immensely grateful.

  About the Author Growing up in the mountains of North Carolina, KG MacGregor dreaded the summer influx of snowbirds escaping the Florida heat. They clogged the roads and restaurants, and drove prices up for the locals. Now older, wiser and intolerant of extreme temperatures, she divides her time between Miami and Blowing Rock, North Carolina. A former teacher, KG earned her PhD in journalism and mass communication, and her writing stripes preparing research reports for commercial clients in the publishing, television and travel industries. In 2002, she tried her hand at lesbian fiction and discovered her bliss. When she isn’t at her computer, you’ll probably find her on a golf course or hiking trail, where she’ll be thinking about what to write next. Please visit her at www.kgmacgregor.com.

  Chapter 1

  Sal Bailey shuddered with disgust as she recognized the object stretched over the doorknob of her supply closet. The bright blue condom, its sticky contents still oozing, was another typical teenage prank, the kind she saw at least once a week. The boys had probably enjoyed a good laugh at her expense, imagining her shock upon finding it there, or even hoping she might have grasped it before noticing it.

  It wasn’t the first time the youngsters at Capital Country Day Academy had made her the butt of their jokes, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. At least this time, the rubber seemed to be filled with glue, and not the real thing. Nonetheless, she wrapped it in a disposable rag and worked it free of the knob, dropping both with a schluck into the plastic garbage bag on her cart. Then she soaked the knob with disinfectant from her spray bottle.

  In a way, she felt sorry for the silly lads, sorry to be the only female on campus they could torment with sexual things when their adolescent hormones raged. The way she saw it, these boys needed more social interaction with girls in order to learn how to conduct themselves, but no one ever asked Sal what she thought about their education. She was only the custodian, the one who cleaned up in their wake.

  The students here at Capital, the oldest all-boy school in the District of Columbia, were generally good kids, Sal thought, despite their occasional penchant for jokes in bad taste. Many of their fathers ran the country, either from the halls of Congress or from the government institutions that dotted the District. Expectations were high for these young men, the demands to excel passed down from one generation to the next. To Sal, that made their tomfoolery all the more understandable, a release valve for the pressures they likely faced at home. They were respectful to her face, and that’s what mattered most.

  Nearing the second-floor restroom with her bucket and mop, she began to have second thoughts about her forgiving nature. The sound of water splashing on the tile likely meant someone had stuffed a sink full of paper towels and left the tap running for the sole purpose of making a ruinous mess, one that would keep her here cleaning long after everyone else had gone home for the weekend. Mischief that caused extra work for her was much harder to dismiss as simply boys being boys.

  Gripping her mop handle for support, Sal edged toward the door, careful not to slip in the water that already had begun to trickle from the other side. She felt lucky to have stumbled upon the setup relatively early, before the entire wing had been flooded. When she swung the heavy wooden door inward, she could see the row of sinks, none of which was overflowing. It took stepping all the way inside the restroom to see the source of the spill, a water pipe above that had simply given way, broken neatly in half to pour a nonstop stream into the stall below. Relieved to learn this calamity wasn’t more shenanigans from the boys, Sal started for the door, eager to apprise the headmaster so they could get it fixed before it caused more damage.

  Then it struck her that something more was amiss. She sloshed through the water and tried the door to the stall beneath the broken pipe. It was latched from the inside. Squatting as low as her fifty-nine-year-old legs would allow, she made out the crumpled form of a figure askew half on and half off the toilet, his tan pants and navy sport jacket soaked.

  Not wasting another moment, she scooted frantically in the water underneath the door for a better look. One end of the boy’s necktie was knotted around the broken pipe. The other looped around his neck in a makeshift noose.

  She shook the teenager. “Wake up!” He didn’t yet have the color of death, and his face was still warm. The ancient pipe had saved him from his reckless hand, giving way under his weight.

  She fumbled in the pocket of her drenched apron for her cell phone and dialed the main office.

  “This is Sal. Put me through to Mr. Harper. It’s an emergency.” As she waited for the headmaster, her fingers worked to loosen the knot where it pinched the boy’s neck. “Mr. Harper, we need an ambulance to the second-floor restroom. It’s the Wright boy. He’s tried to kill himself again.”

  “. . . and in the counties where these preschool programs are fully funded, we’ve seen better school attendance, higher test scores and fewer retentions. If our goal is to give these youngsters the best education we—”

  “With all due respect, Dr. Harrington, I don’t think we ought to be in the business of providing babysitting services to children not old enough to go to school.”

  The C-SPAN cameras in the back of the room swiveled sideways to focus on the new speaker.

  From his seat at the center of the semi-circular podium, the Democratic Chairman of the House Appropriations Committee leaned forward to his microphone. “The chair recognizes Congressman Baxter.”

  Alvin Baxter, the ranking Republican on the committee, went on, his voice a gravelly monotone. “Seems to me the children would be better served at home with their mothers reading to them and teaching them their colors and alphabet. Isn’t that how your parents got you ready to go to kindergarten?”

  Glynn Wright chewed the tip of her pen, effectively suppressing the urge to toss it at her showboating colleague. She had shared these figures in committee already, noting that those most affected were low-income children whose mothers needed to work outside the home to make ends meet. It didn’t take a Nobel economist to see the long-term positive impact of the preschool boost.

  “Congressman Baxter, I’m sure for some that setting would be ideal. But what we find—”

  “My point, Dr. Harrington, is that children are more likely to succeed
if their parents make a commitment to that end and take a more active role. Would you agree with that?”

  “Yes, sir, I would.”

  Glynn couldn’t allow Dr. Harrington’s important testimony to be squelched. They had worked too hard to bring this important legislation to the committee. Nor could she afford to rankle a senior member of her own party, one whose help she would almost certainly need for another cause down the road. “Excuse me, if I may interject?”

  “The chair recognizes Congresswoman Wright.”

  “Dr. Harrington, like my colleague, I also advocate parents taking an active role in their child’s preschool education, whether it be a mother or father staying home to provide care, or in those cases where parents are required for financial reasons to work outside the home, to augment other daycare or preschool activities aimed at school preparedness.” Her words were carefully chosen to placate Baxter, but also to open the door to Harrington’s proposal. “Could you elaborate on the long-term findings within these test counties? Was there a discernible impact on the tax base, or perhaps a reduction in the utilization of other public services?”

  “We found both, Madam Congresswoman. By the seventh year follow-up, we were able to conclude . . .”

  After five-and-a-half terms as a U.S. representative from Indiana, Glynn had learned to play the game, sucking up on some issues and meeting others head on. What mattered most right now was getting the test program’s statistics in front of her colleagues and into the Congressional Record. That would win her the support she needed to get this passed. With her party in the minority, she wasn’t likely to enjoy many victories this term, but this one stood a strong chance of winning the committee’s recommendation and sailing through the House with bipartisan support.

  Her longtime friend from the American Institute for Child Studies, Saul Harrington, wrapped up his testimony with a barrage of statistics designed to bury the opposition. The chair then thanked him for his appearance and adjourned.

  Glynn pushed past the flurry of congressional aides bursting forth to deliver important messages to their respective bosses. “Saul, wait up. You were terrific.”

  “I was worried for a minute there we were going to get sidetracked into a debate on working mothers.”

  “Nah, Baxter just does that for C-SPAN so the folks back in Missouri can see him standing up for Ozzie and Harriet. He’ll vote against it, but not because of anything having to do with mothers staying home. He just doesn’t like to give federal money away.”

  “Then why is he on the Appropriations Committee?”

  “So he can say no.” Her chief of staff, Tina Carlson, was headed toward them, her serious face a contrast to Glynn’s triumphant smile. “By the way, I got you fifteen minutes with the chairman of health and education next Wednesday at nine thirty. He’s expecting to hear all about the top two items on your wish list.”

  By his look, Saul was flabbergasted. “You got me fifteen minutes with Senator Culbertson? I’m going to have to send you flowers or something.”

  Glynn held up a hand and smiled. “Don’t you dare. That’s an hour of paperwork for me to declare it. Just knock him dead. That’ll be my thanks.”

  “I’d kiss you but someone would probably tell my wife.” “No doubt. Tell her hi from me, okay?” She bussed his cheek and turned to greet Tina. “What’s up? You look like—” “Glynn, I have Sebby’s school on the line. You need to take this call.” Tina handed her a cell phone and steered her toward a chair in the corner of the chamber.

  Glynn’s stomach dropped with panic at her aide’s urgent tone. “This is Glynn Wright,” she said into the phone.

  “. . . then everybody acts like they’re afraid I’ll crumble into a million pieces if they say the wrong thing.” The young woman hugged herself and rocked slightly against the back of the sofa.

  “That must be very frustrating.” “At least I’m spending time with other human beings again,” she said, chuckling. “That’s an improvement.”

  “And you’re with them on your own terms, Angie.”

  “I guess.”

  Charlotte Blue checked her watch and closed the folder. “All in all, it’s been a good week. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Her patient nodded.

  “You’re back at work full-time—”

  “And sometimes I even stay awake all day,” she added cynically.

  Charlotte chuckled. “Didn’t I promise not to turn you into a zombie?”

  “Yeah, but you also promised to take me off meds completely.”

  “Let’s give that a little more time. I like the way things are going, though.”

  The woman stood up and pulled on her heavy coat. “You know, five months ago, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to go out again.”

  “You’re a lot stronger now than you were.” It was too soon to count Angie as a success story, but Charlotte felt good about her steady progress. There was no easy way to get over a brutal rape by a stranger.

  She saw her patient out and returned to her desk to enter her final session notes. As she tucked away the file, there was a light knock at the door. “Come in.”

  Joyce, her medical secretary, appeared in the doorway. “Charlotte, Dr. Pierce called from emergency. He needs a psychiatric consult as soon as you can get there.”

  “Brandon’s got rotation, not me.”

  “He’s not back from Baltimore yet.”

  Charlotte groaned and pushed her hands through her hair. Brandon Diaz was giving expert testimony in court, which meant she had to cover for him. That’s how their department worked.

  “I’ll go by there on my way out.” Julie wasn’t going to be happy about dinner, but she would understand. “Did he say what kind of case it was?”

  “No, but he did say he wanted to take care of this before word got out.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Maybe it involves someone at the hospital.”

  That was as good an explanation as any, Charlotte thought. “I guess I’d better get over there.”

  “I’ll lock up,” Joyce said.

  From her fifth-floor window, Charlotte could see across the quad to the front entrance of the hospital. A media truck was parked nearby, raising another possibility—that the mystery patient was someone of public interest. But the usual media circus that accompanied a famous patient was absent as yet, so whatever was going on was still largely under wraps. She would slip in the side door as always, and leave the same way.

  She pulled on the white lab coat she wore for hospital rounds and stuffed a blank tablet and folder into her briefcase. Then she put away her active folders, locked the file cabinet and turned off the desk lamp. Monday morning would come soon enough.

  “You’ll need this too,” Joyce said, holding her black overcoat so she could slip her arms through. “They’re calling for six to eight inches of snow tonight.”

  Once outside, Charlotte dug out her cell phone. No way would she make it to the restaurant by seven, especially if she had to swing by her town house and change. A typical psych consult and admission took an hour or more under the best of circumstances, and this wasn’t shaping up as a typical case.

  “Good afternoon. This is Charlotte Blue. Is Dr. Exner still there?” As much as possible, Charlotte avoided calling Julie at work, since the Department of Agriculture logged every call. “Hi, how’s your day been?” As she walked in the waning daylight, she listened sympathetically to a recap of one boring meeting after another. An expert in food production, Julie Exner toiled in frustration under bureaucratic constraints she said favored business interests over science and humanity.

  “As your psychiatrist, I recommend you get out of there before you go crazy.” Julie’s response that she couldn’t wait to see her at the restaurant made her news about missing dinner all the more difficult to deliver. “Yeah, that’s why I was calling, I’m afraid. Something’s come up here at the hospital . . . No, I’m not on call, but Brandon had to testify today in Balt
imore and he’s not back yet, so I have to take this one. I can come over later if you like.”

  Though she wouldn’t admit it, Charlotte wasn’t particularly disappointed about the change in plans. It was fine to dress up and go out once in a while, but Julie’s idea of a perfect date was an extravagant dinner every single Friday night at whatever restaurant was hip. Charlotte’s tastes ran more toward cooking together at home and talking over wine with soft jazz in the background. They had been dating only four months, long enough to be aware of their differences, but not to have worked them out.

  Julie’s apparent ambivalence about getting together later was hard to read. It wasn’t like her to pout, but this was the second week in a row Charlotte had broken their Friday night date because of work.

  “I’m sorry about this, Julie. Really, I am . . . What if I call you later and you tell me what you want to do . . . Yes, I think we might be able to arrange a session on the couch.” She grinned at the suggestion. “I told you there were advantages to dating a psychiatrist.”

  At the side door, she swiped her ID card over the infrared reader and then wound her way through the maze of hallways until she reached the counter in the emergency room.

  A harried nurse looked up. “Hello, Dr. Blue. Dr. Pierce is looking for you.”

  Charlotte loosened her overcoat as she walked down the hall. Dr. Pierce was alone in the small conference room, writing notes on a patient chart. “Gary?”

  “Charlotte, come in.” He stood up and closed the door behind her. “We got a kid in here a couple of hours ago. A sixteen-yearold from Capital Academy named Sebastian Wright. He tried to hang himself at school with his necktie, but the overhead pipe gave way.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He has a badly bruised trachea, but he’s going to be fine . . . physically, at least. He isn’t talking to anyone, though, not even his mother. I don’t want to just turn him loose.”

  “Is she with him?”

  Pierce nodded. “Yeah, and that’s why I wanted you to come so quickly. She’s Glynn Wright, that congresswoman from Indiana who took over her husband’s seat a few years ago when he got electrocuted in the bathtub. If the TV stations get hold of this, they’re going to be all over it.”