Angelina, I so wish you could know your papa. I believe that I was looking for someone like Angelo long before I met him. Carrie teased me that I thought I was too good for the local boys. And it was true that they bored me, wanting nothing more from life than a seaworthy boat and a shot of whiskey on Saturday nights. Angelo was a few years older, with muscles strong from cutting stone, but also a tender heart.
He is an artist, trained in the tradition of Carrera, his home city in Italy. That’s where we live now, and where I hope you will come someday to visit us. Carrera is in Tuscany and is a place with a long tradition of both fine stone art and union organizing in the quarries and the carving sheds. I love his carving and I love to kiss the bumpy calluses along his palm, the healing cuts on his fingers. I marvel that carving graceful images in granite leaves the artist’s hands so scarred.
Another thing that set him apart all those years ago was how much he tried to make the world more equitable. At lunch every day he’d sit with the other Italian union men, reading aloud to each other from the foreign newspapers, making large gestures with their arms, and arguing about the coming war and their union. Angelo taught me that breathing the granite dust made workers sick in their lungs, and they needed special machines to clear the air. He told me their plans, how they negotiated with the company in good faith, but if the owners refused, they would strike.
Angelo asked me questions about the company too—how they operated and where they kept their books and when they made bank deposits and withdrawals. At the time I wondered why he cared, but I would have told him anything. I knew these things because my father (your grandfather, my dear Angelina) was a manager for the company. So at home I heard a different story. Father said that the Italian workers were anarchists, that a strike would destroy the company.
One rainy day in late August, it all fell apart. At breakfast Carrie repeated the gossip from the well: the quarry company was bankrupt, and the foreign workers would soon be deported. Some of them, she told me, had already been sent away. Luckily not Angelo, I thought. We were to meet during church. I planned to fake being sick, but I didn’t need to pretend. My stomach was bilious, and I couldn’t eat breakfast.
After my family left for church, I put on my rain cloak and took the water pail to stop at the well on my way home. The white clapboard houses of the village appeared balanced on a cloud, their foundations and front stoops shrouded in rain and mist. Just beyond the quarry office, I turned onto the forest path and a downpour pummeled the earth into mud, carving deep gullies at my feet.
Maybe I was walking too fast on an empty stomach, because everything got dark and my head spun, pulling my insides along. My stomach clenched and lurched. I leaned over a fireweed bush and vomited. Afterwards, I washed my mouth with rainwater, but I worried that my kisses would smell like sick.
Austin doesn’t feel so good either. She feels nauseous and her thumb hurts, where she has pushed it hard against the broken edge of the carved leaf rock. The boat is tossed by wind and waves and the words on the page will not stay in line. She looks out the window—they’re pulling up at the small dock. Carefully folding the fragile pages, she arranges the letters deep in her pocket, nestled around the granite chunk.
30. TOBIAS, 7:21 A.M.
Tobias keeps an eye on the monitors while he drives the electric shaver over the bump of his jaw and down his neck. These days, the monitors are the only things he trusts. Unlike some people, the monitors can be counted on for the truth.
Like now. He watches the wharf monitor, where Bert brings his boat around for a third try and finally manages to dock. Henry gets off first, struggling with his backpack and the girl’s duffle, then offers a hand to Austin as another wave slams the boat into the wooden pier. Now that the storm is here in full-force, Henry is apparently prepared to stay at camp. Apparently Tobias is the only one with the smarts to really plan ahead. Not that he’ll get any credit.
The boss is still playing the gentleman, trying to keep himself and Austin from being blown off the dock and pitched into the bay. The girl looks miserable, and Henry looks pissed off. So he probably knows about yesterday’s interrogation.
Tobias runs his hand across his face. Good enough. He minimizes the view of the dock and returns the camera positions to the default positions before opening the staffing file. Some people might be tardy, but he’s at work and on task even though it won’t be easy to make a staffing plan with half the men not showing up. He struggles to rearrange the expression on his face before the boss comes in. He’s been told often enough that he can look surly, even outright defiant. That won’t do today.
The instant the door opens, Tobias feels the force of Henry’s fury. Really, the boss’s face would benefit from some readjustment. The guy looks frantic.
“Damn you, Tobias. What’s going on with the Cohen detainee?”
Henry sounds like a lunatic too, his voice high pitched and hyper-controlled. He pulls his slicker off and steps out of his rain pants, draping them over a chair. Water rivulets run down the yellow oilcloth and drip onto the floor.
Tobias keeps his tone calm. “Nothing’s going on, boss.”
“Nothing? You almost killed an important suspect yesterday. And then you continued the interrogation after I specifically told you not to? Is she okay this morning?”
“I haven’t checked yet.” Tobias tries to look relaxed and unflustered. The three raincoat puddles swell and spread across the floor.
“Well, then. Let’s do that now.” Henry snaps the switch for the interrogation room monitor. Ms. Cohen sits curled up on the chair, blindfolded, nude except for the waist strap. Motionless. He turns to Tobias. “Damn! I can’t believe you left her like that all night. Are you insane?”
“Definitely not. The SLIC protocol stipulates that …”
Henry slams his hand on the desk. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about your SLIC protocol. That’s not how our Bureau operates. We use our brains to get information, our powers of persuasion. Maybe a little humiliation or prevarication.” He readjusts the temperature control. “But we do not cause significant physical distress or harm. We do not endanger our citizens.”
Tobias watches the three puddles converge. Let the boss vent his anger, and then they’ll move on to the work at hand. Fingers of rainwater edge along the cracks between the pine boards towards the outside wall. The floor isn’t even level. Construction was rushed and inexcusably sloppy, like so many things at this place.
“Are you just going to ignore me?” Henry’s face is pale, instead of red with anger.
Tobias feels a wave of pity for Henry. The guy looks sick. He’s a dinosaur and he doesn’t have a clue. Tobias tries to speak gently. “Time to join the 21st century, boss.”
“Yes, I’m the boss. And you’re reassigned to the Men’s Barrack duty, effective immediately. I’m going to check the outbuildings to make sure the generator is gassed up and ready.” Henry reaches for his drenched slicker, then seems to change his mind and leaves it hanging on the chair.
Tobias opens his mouth to object but is stopped by Henry’s expression.
“Do you understand me?” Henry says. “You’re off the Cohen case. I don’t want you anywhere near the woman.” Henry slams the door behind him.
Off the case? When he is so close to a breakthrough? Can the boss really be so naïve that when he looks at the Cohen bitch, he sees only an old lady, a professor? How can he not understand that terrorists come in all sorts of ordinary packages, that sometimes the innocent-appearing ones are the most dangerous.
Tobias slams his fist against the desk. Maybe he isn’t like Henry, full of grandiose ideas about saving the world. But he has always expected that if he works hard, he’ll do well for himself and move ahead in his career. And that was happening, maybe more slowly than he liked, always climbing the next rung on the ladder one step behind his mentor. But Henry isn’t going to be much use any more.
Pushing his chair back from the desk, Tobias stands up and kicks
at the rivulet, splashing the water across the dusty floor. He switches to the perimeter camera view. After a few moments, Henry comes into sight wearing a one-piece rain coverall with a lobsterman’s headgear. He shuffles along the building, bent against the storm, with one hand holding onto the thick ropes strung between buildings. Can the wind really be that bad? Looks like he’s aiming for the plant building. As if the guy knows the first thing about generators.
A small beep snags his attention back into the room. He checks his phone, but there’s no message. He glances at the monitors, at the desktop, and opens the drawers. Nothing. Another beep. He follows the sound to Henry’s jacket.
He finds the phone in the inside pocket and turns it over in his hands. The screen flashes the low battery warning. But this isn’t Henry’s cell. Henry uses the same standard issue phone the Bureau provides to all staff, probably with a built-in bug so they can monitor every fart.
Tobias turns the phone on and studies the photo icons under contacts. Holy shit. It’s the Cohen woman’s missing phone. He checks the phone log and discovers that two calls were made to the prisoner’s girlfriend, Jess.
This is dynamite. At the very least it’s a violation of the chain of evidence, maybe even treason. Grounds for dismissal. Grounds to bump Henry out of the Bureau and out of his way. Logically, the Regional Chief will name Tobias as interim Special Agent-in-Charge. No question that would be the best thing for the detention center and for the Bureau. But is the presence of a detainee’s missing effects on Henry’s person enough to make that happen?
Maybe it’s time to collect evidence of Henry’s other vulnerability, the kinky stuff. Tobias switches the monitors back to the default camera positions, slips the Cohen phone into his pocket, and climbs the two flights to Henry’s office.
Long ago he programmed his own retinal image as an override into the security system and Henry’s office door yields without difficulty. He glances quickly around the small room. Henry is a predictable guy. If he has anything to hide, it will be in his desk. Tobias doesn’t know exactly what he’s searching for, but he’ll know when he sees it. He locates the master desk key on his keychain.
He rummages through Henry’s things: linty rubber bands and old phone chargers, outdated email printouts and assorted binder clips. In the middle drawer on the left, carelessly hidden under a stack of building requisitions, bingo. A lady’s silky black slip wrapped in fancy tissue paper. Tobias wonders for a moment what Henry does with it.
Shoving the slinky fabric into the pocket of his fleece jacket, Tobias grins and salutes the empty room. He doesn’t bother closing the drawer or locking the door behind him. Henry is finished and he’ll find out soon enough. Henry Ames messed with the wrong guy. Walking down the hall, wind wailing through cracks in the walls, Tobias struts a little. He has earned this.
Back in the monitor room, Tobias presses his forehead against the window, cupping his hands around his face to peer outside. The familiar landscape is obscured by rain and blowing, swirling debris. An ancient spruce has cracked and fallen across a birch trunk that looks too frail to hold the weight. Amazing that they still have electricity.
The storm’s strength is immense, and so is his. The hurricane’s power surges through his own veins. He feels magnificent, and Henry can’t hold him back any longer. Not now, when he is getting close to winning. He has so much to do.
First, the interrogation. He’ll keep Austin involved. She’s young, not yet contaminated by the boss’s attitudes. If the girl plays her cards right, she can climb up the ladder of success with him. She has potential, not to mention a great ass. He feels jazzed, wound up, with energy to spare. He sits on the edge of the desk and touches her photo icon on his phone.
“This is Austin.”
“Tobias here. I need you in the monitor room. Right now.” He disconnects without waiting for her answer.
The girl arrives within minutes.
“Where were you?” He points to the chair across from his desk.
“I’m assigned to the Women’s Barracks today.”
“Not any more. You’re with me.”
He slips off the desk and walks behind her chair. He rests his hands on her shoulders, and she shudders. She must feel it too—the chemistry between them. He won’t make her wait, like the others, to hear about the change in leadership.
“I’ve got news,” he says. “Henry’s going down. I have the proof I need to call the Regional Chief.” With his left hand, he takes the phone from his pocket and holds it out, like a precious jewel, on his outstretched palm. “The poor bastard took the detainee’s phone. He called her girlfriend. He compromised the evidence, jeopardized the entire investigation. He’s out.” He smiles at the confusion on her face. “I’ll explain more later. Now, we have another session with #524.” He lets his right hand slide from her shoulder onto her breast.
Austin stiffens, then jumps up from the chair. She looks terrified. And exhausted. Whoa. Okay, maybe he’s moving too fast. She’s young, needs wooing. That will have to wait until later, after the interrogation.
“Sorry.” He opens his arms, palms up in surrender. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“Sir,” she says. “I’d like to be excused from the interrogation.”
Excused? Does she think this is high school? Besides, he needs her. There is some kind of bond between her and the detainee. He’s seen it. Maybe the bitch feels maternal towards the girl, since she can’t be a mother the normal way. He can use those emotions to his advantage. If #524 doesn’t want to cooperate, maybe watching him screw her surrogate daughter will convince her. He’ll even enjoy the work.
“No excuses. Meet me in ten minutes in the interrogation room. 0900. Bring tea and a blanket.”
The girl nods and backs out of the office. He checks his watch. Ten minutes isn’t enough time to gather some of the guys, to make up the peanut gallery. That’s what he likes to call it, the peanut gallery. Silly name, from some old-time kids’ show Lois used to reminisce about. Hah. Lois will regret walking out when she hears about his promotion. Serves her right. Still, maybe it’s better to forget about the guys this time. Out of respect for the woman’s … deformity. Her half-empty chest makes sexual humiliation seem, well, in bad taste or something. Yes, that’s the right decision. He can be as sensitive as the next guy, even though Lois claimed he has the morals of a banana slug in heat. He returns the detainee’s phone to his pocket.
This next call will be tricky. He’s got to sound reluctant as he offers the Regional Chief the information about the compromised phone. The Chief already knows about Henry’s kinky propensities, but he won’t be happy to learn that the Special Agent’s extracurricular activities are out of the closet. That unfortunately a lady’s black silk undergarment has been discovered in his office at the detention center, suggesting an alarming lack of discretion on Henry’s part. No, the Bureau won’t tolerate that. It’s bad for morale, not to mention the possibility of a leak to the press. He smiles to himself, and dials the Regional Chief’s direct line.
31. GANDALF, 9:02 A.M.
Gandalf opens her eyes to the tight grip of the blindfold. The air feels hideously damp but not quite as cold. Possibly Ferret was scared he would get in trouble with his boss if he killed her, so he turned the temperature up a couple of degrees.
Whatever the reason, the numbness is faded and instead everything hurts again. The cold clamminess seeps in until the damp coalesces with flesh, merges into bone. The worst pain is in her buttocks, where the fragile cell membranes of her bare skin feel fused to the metal chair. The waist strap is so tight she cannot change her position, and the blade of immobility stabs into her muscles. No, it is worst on the left side of her chest, her not-breast, her scar. Without the protection of their flesh coat, her ribs burn. The pain radiates out from her breastbone, squeezing her heart and lungs with crystalline bone. Ice bone. The cavernous ache hovers on the wrong side of numb, piercing her flesh in unpredictable patterns, an incomprehensible a
nd atonal cadence.
The icy knives stab her brain too, skewing thoughts and slowing them down. Images slog along, each one trying to catch onto the tail of the one before, grabbing at it but feeling it slipping away. She must hang on to those thoughts or she will lose herself.
The door opens, finally. When the blindfold is removed, she blinks, squinting in the fluorescent light. It is Ferret again, with Austin, who carries blankets and tea, but Ferret points to the chair in the corner of the room and tells the guard to leave them there.
He does not loosen the waist strap. He starts right in, asking again about the conference and her work with Ahmed, who and what and when and how, the same questions from last night. Was it last night? His right foot taps against the floor. She tries not to stare at his foot and will not let her fingers reach for her wizard charm either. She refuses to look at the blankets and tea, refuses to let her exasperation with the repetition show, tries just to answer each silly question. But the whole time she has just one question in mind: what does she have to say to get the blankets and tea? She glances at Austin standing against the wall, but the young woman seems to be staring at the back of Ferret’s head, probably so she will not have to look at Gandalf’s chest.
Ferret leans forward in his chair and the foot-tapping tempo increases. “So how would you characterize your friend Ahmed’s practice of his Muslim religion? Was he devout? Did he ever discuss jihad?”
“He never discussed his religion with me, period. We only talked about our work.” She feels the annoyance creeping into her voice and must banish it, so he will not hit her again.
Ferret rubs the back of his head, as if it hurts. Maybe he can feel the intensity of Austin’s gaze. Stop being silly, Gandalf tells herself; concentrate on saving your life.
“Hard to believe he didn’t mention his uncle’s death. Weren’t you two in contact about the paper for the Ann Arbor conference?” His voice sounds stiff with frustration too.
On Hurricane Island Page 14
