MORE PRAISE FOR
ON HURRICANE ISLAND
“On Hurricane Island is unflinchingly political, unashamedly suspenseful, and, above all, deeply human. Here is a writer who knows how to ramp up the tension while never sacrificing the spirit of her conviction, the sense of grounding in the natural world, or the heartbreaking complexity of her characters.”
—Naomi Benaron, Bellwether Prize winner for Running the Rift
“On Hurricane Island is a chilling, Kafkaesque story about what happens when the United States does to citizens at home what it has done to others abroad. Meeropol puts the reader right into the middle of these practices through characters about whom you really care and a story you can’t put down; a really good book.”
—Michael Ratner, Center for Constitutional Rights
“In On Hurricane Island, Ellen Meeropol takes on the complexities and dangers of contemporary life in a novel that starts fast and ratchets up the tension all the way to the end. She brings to her writing a sharp, observant eye, great skill in characterization, and, best of all, a talent for taut, suspenseful narrative in the style of Graham Greene.”
—W. D. Wetherell, author of A Century of November
“Ellen Meeropol can be counted on to write with intelligence and heart. In On Hurricane Island, she also manages to give us characters who we care deeply about, perfect pitch dialogue and a gripping story about civilian detention centers designed for the likes of you and me. Thoughtful and compelling.”
—Jacqueline Sheehan, author of Picture This
On Hurricane Island
Copyright © 2015 by Ellen Meeropol
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner.
Book design and layout by Jaimie Evans
Cover design by Mark E. Cull
Author photo by Ellen Augarten
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Meeropol, Ellen.
On Hurricane Island / Ellen Meeropol.—First edition.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-1-59709-300-2 (softcover : acid-free paper)
1. Military interrogation—United States—Fiction. 2. Terrorism investigation—United States—Fiction. 3. Terrorism—Prevention—United States—Fiction. 4. Political fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.E375O5 2015
813’.6—dc23
2014037120
The National Endowment for the Arts, the Pasadena Arts & Culture Commission and the City of Pasadena Cultural Affairs Division, the Los Angeles County Arts Commission, the Dwight Stuart Youth Fund, the Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs, Sony Pictures Entertainment, and Ahmanson Foundation partially support Red Hen Press.
First Edition
Published by Red Hen Press
www.redhen.org
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue, 1914
Thursday: September 8
1. Gandalf, 8:06 a.m.
2. Austin, 8:28 a.m.
3. Henry, 12:14 p.m.
4. Gandalf, 12:22 p.m.
5. Ray, 12:25 p.m.
6. Austin, 12:37 p.m.
7. Tobias, 1:14 p.m.
8. Gandalf, 5:46 p.m.
9. Austin, 6:52 p.m.
10. Henry, 6:55 p.m.
11. Gandalf, 11:35 p.m.
Friday: September 9
12. Ray, 10:23 a.m.
13. Austin, 11:15 a.m.
14. Tobias, 11:31 a.m.
15. Gandalf, 2:15 p.m.
16. Henry, 3:02 p.m.
17. Tobias, 3:18 p.m.
18. Austin, 3:26 p.m.
19. Tobias, 5:00 p.m.
20. Gandalf, 5:34 p.m.
21. Austin, 6:40 p.m.
22. Ray, 9:02 p.m.
23. Henry, 11:14 p.m.
24. Austin, 11:58 p.m.
Saturday: September 10
25. Ray, 12:47 a.m.
26. Gandalf, 1:15 a.m.
27. Austin, 2:34 a.m.
28. Henry, 5:00 a.m.
29. Austin, 6:20 a.m.
30. Tobias, 7:21 a.m.
31. Gandalf, 9:02 a.m.
32. Austin, 9:49 a.m.
33. Henry, 12:10 p.m.
34. Ray, 1:06 p.m.
35. Austin, 1:15 p.m.
36. Ray, 1:48 p.m.
37. Gandalf, 2:01 p.m.
38. Henry, 2:39 p.m.
39. Ray, 2:43 p.m.
40. Austin, 2:51 p.m.
41. Tobias, 3:11 p.m.
42. Gandalf, 3:45 p.m.
43. Tobias, 4:51 p.m.
44. Henry, 5:10 p.m.
45. Ray, 5:42 p.m.
46. Austin, 6:16 p.m.
47. Henry, 6:42 p.m.
48. Tobias, 6:59 p.m.
49. Gandalf, 7:36 p.m.
50. Ray, 8:40 p.m.
51. Austin, 9:32 p.m.
52. Ray, 9:42 p.m.
53. Henry, 10:02 p.m.
54. Tobias, 10:15 p.m.
55. Austin, 10:34 p.m.
56. Gandalf, 10:58 p.m.
57. Ray, 11:27 p.m.
58. Austin, 11:32 p.m.
59. Gandalf, 11:46 p.m.
Sunday: September 11
60. Austin, 12:47 a.m.
61. Henry, 2:15 a.m.
62. Gandalf, 3:08 a.m.
Monday: September 12
Biographical Note
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My home is in Massachusetts, but my muse lives in Maine. I fell in love with the state when I first visited Vinalhaven, one of the Fox Islands in Penobscot Bay. I started writing seriously in Maine, I received my MFA there, and my stories keep wandering back. In the service of fiction, however, I’ve taken major liberties with the geography, landscape, residents, and history of the Fox Islands.
I am indebted to the friends and writers who have generously offered their feedback on this manuscript. The talented and thoughtful women in my manuscript group—Jacqueline Sheehan, Marianne Banks, Dori Ostermiller, Kris Holloway, Rita Marks, Brenda Marsian, Lydia Kann, and Anne Kornblatt—helped me see this story more clearly. Thank you always to the Vanettes for their support and critiques—Ginnie Gavron, Sharon Arms, Perky Alsop, and Sarah Stromeyer. I also greatly appreciate the comments and expertise of friends; thank you, Bill Newman, Liz and Jim Goldman, Jane Miller, Neil Novik, Beth Crowell, and Jon Weissman.
I feel incredibly lucky to work with my amazing agent Jenny Bent, my “fairy godmother” publicist Mary Bisbee-Beek, and the gifted and passionate team at Red Hen Press, particularly Kate Gale, Mark Cull, Samantha Haney, and Billy Goldstein.
Finally, I am deeply grateful to my family. Robby, Jenn, and Rachel read many drafts and shared their knowledge, critical reading, and ongoing love and encouragement. This book is dedicated to them, and to my grandchildren Josie and Abel, in the hope that people of good conscience can prevent events like the ones I’ve made up in this novel.
PROLOGUE, 1914
The wee-hours explosion rattled the bed.
Margaret was still awake, matching her breathing to her sister’s soft snores, hoping to quiet her internal battle of grief and blame. At the blast, she threw off the covers and ran to the open window. The night glowed orange. Within seconds, men’s shouts filled the air and the island fire horn blared.
Carrie sat up. “What happened?”
“Fire,” Margaret said, pulling her skirt over her chemise.
Mother herded the little boys into the sisters’ bedroom. Tommy was sobbing. He held out his arms to Margaret, who picked him up and jiggled to comfort him.
“Stay inside,” Mother said, “and keep the little ones with you. I have to help with the brigade.”
“What’s burning?” Carrie asked, lifting the quilt so the twins could climb under.
“The quarry office.”
Margaret’s heart battered her ribs so hard that Tommy must have felt the thumping. “I’m coming with you,” she said. “Carrie can watch the boys.” She let her brother slide from her arms onto the bed and reached into the pocket of her nightshirt for Angelo’s carving. Her finger found the rough, broken part.
Mother frowned, then nodded.
“Be careful,” Carrie said.
They grabbed the metal buckets hanging by the door and hurried down Main Street. The air was harsh with smoke, and the bucket brigades were at work. Mother joined Father in the longer line snaking up from the public pump at the dock. Margaret found two classmates at the rain cistern near the church and pressed into line between them.
“They say a bomb started the fire,” one girl said.
“No one would do that the night before payday,” her friend interrupted. “Now they’ll close the quarry for sure.”
Taking shallow breaths against the smoke and the nausea, Margaret dunked her bucket deep into the cistern, and pulled it out sloshing with water to pass down the line.
The bomb couldn’t have anything to do with Angelo or his union, could it? Not possible, since he and the other foreign stoneworkers had been sent back to Europe. Margaret moved down the line, closer to the blaze where two men dragged cartons of burning papers from the building and others doused them with water. Grabbing buckets, passing them along, she tried to think about the granite company and her father’s job, but her own ruin engulfed her. How could Angelo have allowed the quarry company to deport him, leaving her alone to face the shame of the next few months, and forever?
Another small explosion flashed, and the fountain of flames forced the islanders back for a moment. The blaze sizzled briefly with each splash of water before surging hotter and bigger. Sparks danced with the flames before floating into the night sky.
THURSDAY
SEPTEMBER 8
1. GANDALF, 8:06 A.M.
Her name is ridiculous. All because her pregnant mother clung to sanity during six weeks of forced bed rest by reading The Hobbit and eating lime jello. Gandalf despises jello and rarely uses her given name. She is Professor Cohen at work and Gee to acquaintances, but there is no way to avoid the absurdity of her first name when confronted with bureaucracy.
“Please have your photo ID and boarding pass available,” repeats the TSA clerk.
Gandalf shuffles six inches forward in line. Maybe this clerk only reads nineteenth century Persian novels and has never heard of Tolkien, but that is probably too much to hope for, even at JFK.
On the large-screen monitor, CNN hypes Hurricane Gena, now turning north as it approaches the Florida coast. At work, Gandalf has been gathering data on its path. What a pity she will be away from New York when it storms through. Not to mention ironic that most of the top weather mathematicians in the country are heading to the Ann Arbor conference and will miss the fun. Assuming the teenager bumping his rolling suitcase into the back of her legs does not sever an Achilles tendon, the biggest excitement of the trip is likely to be academic backbiting.
She hands her documents to the security clerk, who scans the bar code on her driver’s license and waits, tapping his fingers on the wooden podium. An amber light flashes. The clerk glances from license to boarding slip, passes them to the officer who appears at his elbow, then finally looks at Gandalf.
“What’s up, Wizard?” He drops his gaze from her cropped, graying hair to her chest. His smile is provocative, bordering on offensive; it is the kind of look she does not tolerate from a colleague or a student, but this man is not worth challenging. “Hey,” he adds. “Isn’t Gandalf supposed to be a guy?”
Gandalf forces a small smile; it never helps to show annoyance. She follows the guard’s pointing finger to the short line on the far left. Travel has become infuriating, especially in the lead-up to the anniversary of the Twin Towers on Sunday, but this will be over shortly. After she clears Security, she will find her gate, leave Jess a reminder message about tomorrow’s vet appointment, and settle down with another cup of coffee to review the equations for her talk. She lifts her carry-on and pocketbook onto the conveyer belt, then arranges her laptop, sandals, and quart bag of bottled liquids in the plastic box with her watch and phone.
“Move inside the scanner, please.” The guard’s eyes never leave the monitor screen.
Gandalf steps onto the bright green feet decals on the raised platform and the scanner doors close behind her. A humming fills the small chamber, more vibration than sound. She has heard rumors that these machine images are so precise they have triggered a new pornography sideline. It is creepy that a machine can digitally undress you and you do not even feel a breeze. Not that images of her stringy sixty-year-old body are likely to bring big bucks at cyber-auction.
When the whirring stops, when the doors slide open and Gandalf steps through to gather her luggage, two airport cops on Segways block her path. They are twin studies in brown: dark cocoa pants, deep beige shirts, and the hue of their faces halfway between the two. Gandalf suppresses a smile; it is hard to take cops on scooters seriously.
A third officer wearing blue nitrile gloves steps forward and speaks in a low voice. “Come with me, ma’am.”
Gandalf glances at her left wrist, at the pale band of skin where her watch would be if it were not with her other belongings at the security station. Relax, she tells herself. There is plenty of time before her flight. Swinging her arms, she follows the officer down a narrow hallway, past a female TSA employee moving a wand up and down the body of a teenage girl in Muslim dress and headscarf. How odd it feels, how naked, to be in an airport unencumbered by computer or rolling bag. Or shoes. Or notes for her lecture.
She turns to the officer. “Please, I need my bags.”
“They’re being evaluated.”
Evaluated? Does that mean searched? “Why?”
The officer takes Gandalf’s elbow and steers her around the corner towards a white metal enclosure. “Just routine.”
Gandalf takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. This does not feel routine. It does not feel like a joke because of her name either, like the time in Montreal when a Tolkien fan decided to have some fun. At the entrance to the enclosure Gandalf stops and turns to face the officer.
“What is going on?” She keeps her voice calm, professorial.
“I don’t know, lady. Someone must’ve flagged your name.”
“Someone?”
“Homeland Security.”
She almost laughs with relief; it is so clearly a mistake. “That is not possible. I’m a mathematics professor.”
“Just following protocol. Step inside, ma’am.”
Gandalf shakes her head. “No. I demand to be told what is going on.”
Is that a smirk that flashes across the officer’s face, or maybe she imagines it.
“Sorry, Ma’am. Under the Terrorist Screening Database regulations, I am not allowed to give you any further information.”
“Then I must speak with your supervisor.”
“Certainly.” He opens the door of the white enclosure and gestures. “After you.”
Once she is inside, the officer shuts the metal door behind her, cutting off the small familiar sounds of airport business. She stands alone in the center of the silent room. It is the size of a small screen tent advertised in the Sunday paper, a place to enjoy suburban backyard picnics without the mosquitoes. She taps a fingernail against the wall. Metal. This tent will heat up quickly in the summer sun; it is already uncomfortably warm.
The back door snaps open and two soldiers enter in full battle gear, guns and masks. Before she fully registers the threat, one soldier grabs both of her wrists. He holds them together behind her back, binding them tight enough to hurt. It does not feel like metal handcuffs, something plastic. The second soldier faces her, his cornflower blue eyes
lock with hers for a moment. She opens her mouth to call for help, but he covers her mouth with a gloved hand.
“Don’t,” the soldier behind her commands in a gravelly voice. When she nods, the blue-eyed man removes his hand.
She twists her shoulders side to side, pulling against the wrist restraints, but the only effect is that her fingers tingle. When she stops, the circulation returns. The soldier behind her still grips her shoulders. She kicks backwards, feeling her heel connect with his shin. He grunts.
The soldier in front places his boot across her feet, pinning her bare toes. Now she cannot move any limbs. He holds a black cloth in both hands. In the moment before he pulls it over her head, she stares again into his eyes, promising herself that she will never again tolerate that shade of blue. Then everything is dark. Her feet throb even after he removes his boot, but the pain bothers her less than the hood snugged taut around her neck. She breathes fast, deep, sucking air into her lungs and her heart races. Will she be able to get enough oxygen through the fabric?
The soldier behind her places a hand firmly against Gandalf’s back. “Move.”
His raspy voice is like the troll persona Jess uses to read The Three Billy Goats Gruff to her grandson. Gandalf closes her eyes and recites quietly, mimicking Jess’s singsong cadence. “Who’s that tripping over my bridge?”
“Shut up.” The gravelly voice guard pushes her forward.
Do not panic, Gandalf instructs herself. If you cannot use your eyes, use your brain. She will name this guard Troll, the other one Blue Eyes. She will keep track of everything; she will memorize every detail of these people, so that later she can make a full and accurate report to the authorities.
Troll shoves again and Gandalf stumbles forward. Her feet ache; they feel scraped raw from Troll’s boots. Without sight, her balance is more off kilter than she would have expected. A door squeaks open and she is pushed through. Outside. The September sunlight burns miniscule bright squares through the coarse weave of the hood. Her bare feet find soft grass and shuffle over the uneven ground. Her head spins. Dizzy. Probably from breathing too fast, hyperventilating; that explains why her ears are buzzing and her lips tingling. She tries to slow her respirations, to gain control. She tries to take small measured breaths, but the attempt sticks in her lungs and grows into a lump of dread that sucks up every molecule of available air. The dark panic bursts, explodes in her chest and the pieces of it spiral around her throat. She is going to die, to asphyxiate. She will never rub the silky fur under Sundance’s chin again, or make love to Jess.
On Hurricane Island Page 1
