One time Tobias admitted that he envied his brother, and Lois went ballistic, calling him an animal. But then the next night at a club, after she flirted with a guy wearing a Che Guevara tee shirt with that simple-minded quote about being motivated by love, Tobias whispered that he too was motivated by big feelings of love for his country. He would never have gone squishy like that if he hadn’t drunk so much, if Lois hadn’t been acting like such a slut. She ridiculed him for that too. He got shit for being too macho and shit for being too soft. A guy can’t win, can he?
So many people have turned out to be disappointments. Lois. Henry. His missing staff. Looks like he’s going to have to do this alone. Him and Cyrus.
He resets the security options and reaches for the Room D monitor button, then freezes as he notices the digital readout on the screen: September 10, 2016. 7:07 p.m. In less than five hours, it will be the anniversary. And he has not obtained any intelligence to prevent another attack. Time to stop being soft, to clean up this mess. He pushes the button and Room D comes into focus.
It’s empty.
The grungy towel lies on the floor, still holding the round indentation of a head, but Henry is gone. Tobias swivels the camera around, just to be sure, but there’s no place to hide in the stripped-down room. Henry must just have been unconscious. Hard to believe the old guy got himself up and out of there.
Tobias punches the console button, and the screen goes dark. He has to find those women and bring them back into custody. Then he’ll deal with Henry. If he’s lucky, he’ll find them together. But first, he’ll need supplies.
Initially, he’s shocked to find the storeroom so ransacked, discarded slickers and boots strewn around the floor. But on second thought, the mess is a good thing because now he is pretty sure where the women are heading. There are really only three possibilities: The control tower at the airstrip offers shelter, but air rescue is impossible during the hurricane. The guard post at the dock is too obvious, because it’s the easiest way off the island, and Bert is related to the girl. Sure, he’ll check those places, but if the women took all that rain gear and warm clothes, they plan to be outdoors for a while, and that points towards the caves dotting the granite wall face along the quarry. Searching those will be a pain in the butt. There are supposed to be dozens of them, and he has no idea exactly where they are. But he has Cyrus and he has technology. They have nothing but desperation.
He chooses rain pants, rubber boots, and a dark slicker. Unlocking the safe, he removes a rifle with night scope, then packs extra ammunition for his .38 and the rifle, and a pair of heat-sensing goggles. He clips four sets of handcuffs to his belt and carefully chooses two thick coils of sturdy rope and an aluminum figure eight. He might have to rappel down that cliff. At the last minute, he slips a smoke grenade into the canvas bag. Those three ladies just might require a bit of persuasion to abandon their hideout. Once he finds it, that is.
49. GANDALF, 7:36 P.M.
Gandalf shudders awake, fleeing sleep-warped images of running through snow-covered forests, of Ferret’s knife icy on her scar. She shifts her position against the cave wall. The candle has burned down halfway. The trembling light is both ghostly and oddly comforting. Next to her, Norah sleeps draped over the duffle. Austin sits opposite with legs extended; their feet almost touch in the middle of the small space.
“Hey,” Austin says. “You okay?”
“Just cold. What’s taking our rescuers so long?”
When Austin doesn’t answer, Gandalf looks at her more closely. In the broken light of the candle, maybe she imagines the wetness on Austin’s face.
“Are you okay?”
“Just worried. I feel responsible for getting you into this mess.”
“No, you got us out of that mess.” Gandalf runs her fingers through her hair. “Who knows what that creep had planned for me. And for you.”
“Do you have to wear it short?”
“It?”
“Your hair.”
“What do you mean, have to?” Gandalf asks.
“Because you’re, you know, a lesbian.”
Gandalf snorts, startling Norah awake. “Sorry, Norah.” She turns back to Austin. “Why do you think that?”
“It’s just that at my college they all had short hair.” Austin shrugs. “So I wondered.”
“There is no lesbian hair police, if that’s what you mean. My partner has long hair.” Picturing the braid hanging down Jess’s back, Gandalf’s sinuses fill with the coppery taste of unspilled sorrow. She might be out of that prison, but she doesn’t feel free, or even much closer to getting home. She tries to imagine what Jess is doing right now, besides being worried out of her mind.
Austin stretches her foot in double wool socks across the empty inches to touch Gandalf’s. “Sorry.”
Norah looks from one woman to the other. “What’s going on?”
Gandalf shakes her head.
“Nothing,” says Austin.
“Okay,” Norah says. “Here’s a simpler question. What’s the story with this island? You know, what used to be here before the prison?”
“A huge granite quarry, a hundred years ago. Italian workers were brought over as stoneworkers. When the industry collapsed, they were blamed and sent home.”
“That’s nothing new,” Norah says. “Foreigners are easy to blame. Look at how Arabs are targeted.”
Gandalf looks down. Norah’s knee-jerk rhetoric drives her nuts, but at least an argument will help take her mind off Jess’s silver braid. “Maybe there’s a good reason the security services profile Arab men,” she says. “Most terrorists are from that part of the world. The authorities have to do their job.”
“You mean like picking you up and bringing you here?”
You cannot argue with someone like Norah, who always has the politically correct comeback on the tip of her tongue, but Gandalf cannot keep quiet either. “You don’t think things got better with Obama?”
“Maybe some of the social issues are better. Like Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. And sure, it’s huge to have a black president, even if he’s only half-black like me. But in terms of civil liberties we’ve gone from bad to much worse.”
“Like what?” Austin asks.
“Like this. They’ve broadened what the government can legally do if they claim they suspect us of terrorism. So fewer people fight back because they’re scared this shit will happen to them.”
“But there are real terrorists, aren’t there?” Austin asks. “I mean, people flew those planes into the Twin Towers, right? So don’t we have to find them?”
“Not this way,” Norah insists. “Secret prisons and torture are wrong, and they don’t work.”
Gandalf shivers. It is an age-old moral question, always theoretically interesting. She draws another jacket around her shoulders, but suspects she will not be able to get warm no matter how many layers she uses. “So is there an ethical way to interrogate people, to get information that could save lives?”
“That’s why we have the rule of law. Courts. Judges,” Norah says. “It’s a pretty flawed system these days, but better than kidnapping citizens and freezing them half to death.”
Austin peers at her watch, then stands up and walks towards the cave mouth.
“What time is it?” Norah calls after her.
“Almost eight.”
“So now what?”
“So nothing. We wait.”
Gandalf touches Norah’s forehead with the back of her hand, then lowers her face close to the leg bandage and sniffs.
Norah jerks back. “What are you doing?”
“Infection stinks,” Gandalf says. “There’s no smell yet, but I think you have a fever.” She turns to Austin. “When do you think they’ll get here?”
Austin pries the second candle from the mixture of dirt and dried wax and lights it. “You think it’s easy to get us out of here? From right under the noses of the Army, Homeland Security, and the FBI? Well, trust me, it’s not.” Holding the
candle in front of her, she walks towards the cave entrance.
Trust her? Gandalf wants to trust her, especially since there is no one else. Austin proved herself in the interrogation room, but she might be having second thoughts. Gandalf watches the younger woman making her way along the flickering wall.
“I want to know more about this place,” Gandalf says. “About what we are up against here. Who is in charge? FEMA or Homeland Security or the FBI?”
“Or the military?” Norah adds. “Some of those guards wore Army uniforms.”
Austin turns back and makes a face. “I’m not exactly sure. Henry is FBI, but apparently he’s out. FEMA seems to provide the facilities management …”
Norah laughs. “That’s a joke.”
Austin spins around and points her finger at Norah. “None of this is funny. Homeland Security is pulling the strings, and there’s nothing at all amusing about them. So go back to sleep and stop bugging me, okay?”
Norah rearranges herself over the duffle and closes her eyes as Austin stomps off towards the mouth of the cave. Back to those stupid initials. Gandalf wishes Austin would stop mooning over old carvings. She wishes Norah would stay awake, that they could have a private conversation without arguing about politics. For a brief moment, she even longs for the ignorant safety of their whispered exchanges through the hole in the baseboard, lying in the sawdust. Most of all, she wishes she was more optimistic that they would get out of this cave alive.
50. RAY, 8:40 P.M.
Ray paces back and forth across the eight feet of open floor space in the dark room, stomping to banish the worrisome images. There’s Austin hiding with two escaped prisoners. Bert’s gun in Catherine’s pocket. Henry sick and his assistant running amok. Evelina trying to talk sense on the Hill. And not the least of his misgivings, Nettie waking up to find his note and being royally pissed off.
Footsteps thump on the wharf outside, and Ray steps into the shadows in the corner of the room, behind the door. Bert told him to keep out of sight. He left the lights off, but it never occurred to him to lock the door. The knob turns and the door opens a few inches.
“You there, Ray?”
It’s Cyrus’s voice. Ray hesitates. Cyrus is a Carter cousin too, his grandpa one of Margaret’s twin brothers. Nettie’s grandma had her kids spread way out, so the generations in their family are all cockamamie. Margaret was seventeen years older than the littlest and she probably spent her whole childhood raising her siblings. No wonder she ran away, or whatever she did.
He’s always been curious about what’s in those letters, though he has his suspicions. Now that Austin has read them, there’s no way she’ll let the secrets stay buried, and he admits it, he looks forward to that ancient history being out in the open. But at the moment he better concentrate on getting Austin out of this mess, or Nettie and he will have lots more to deal with than old letters and her strange kin. Makes his head hurt to try to figure out that tree, but family is family and Cyrus is part of it.
“Ray?” Cyrus calls out again.
“Yeah.” Ray steps out of the shadows. “I’m here.”
“Bert told me to come wait with you until he’s done up the hill.”
Ray returns to Bert’s desk chair. “What else did he say?”
Bert must trust Cyrus if he’s asking for his help, but Ray isn’t so sure. All those years of following orders, it might be a hard habit to break. Ever since Vietnam, Ray doesn’t have much use for career Army types, but Nettie is fond of Cyrus. Says he’s the spitting image of her Uncle Tommy, with his soft blue eyes and round face smothered with freckles.
Cyrus perches on the edge of the desk. “I know your girl is missing. And I know she’s got two high-profile detainees with her.”
“You seen Henry Ames?”
“Negative.” Cyrus says. “Seems he’s missing too.”
“What do you think is going on? Why’s Tobias in charge?”
“Dunno. He’s second in command.”
Ray looks out the window. It’s full dark now, and the hard rain drums against the glass. What’s keeping Bert?
The phone on Bert’s desk rings, splintering the silence. Both men stare at it for a second before Ray picks up.
“Hello?” Should he should try to disguise his voice, imitate Bert or something?
“Ray? It’s Evelina.”
“Oh. Hi.” Better keep her involvement secret, just in case.
“Is my father there?”
“Nope.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yup.”
“You can’t talk freely, is that it?”
“Yup.”
Evelina’s sigh travels unimpeded from the nation’s capitol. “I spoke with that friend I mentioned. He’s very interested and wants to help us.”
“Good,” Ray says.
“Okay. I’ll call again later. But for now, just so you know, I’ve been in touch with the Human Rights Litigation Center, where Norah Levinsky works. They’re working on a press conference for Monday in Manhattan. Your job, cousin, is to get those three women to New York. I talked to Reuben, and he’ll give us a hand. Got it?”
“Yup,” he says. That’s good news. Reuben is solid, and it’ll be good to have the sheriff on their side.
“One more thing,” Evelina says. “I heard from that woman you mentioned, Jess Winterman, whose partner is the detainee who was … allegedly abused. Hopefully I was able to talk her out of going up there to rescue her partner.”
When Ray hangs up, Cyrus doesn’t ask who it was, and Ray doesn’t offer. Five silent minutes pass slowly, and then Bert is in the doorway. He nods at Cyrus.
Ray can’t help asking. “Catherine?”
“All set,” Bert says.
“Catherine, Henry’s wife?” Cyrus asks.
“Uh-huh,” Bert says. “She’s worried about her husband.” He doesn’t seem to want to talk in front of Cyrus either.
“Now what?” Ray asks.
Bert moves slowly around the small room, gathering life jackets hanging from nails knocked into the walls. “Well, we can’t bring them out ’til after midnight, when the tide turns.”
“I hate the idea of my girl and the other women out there alone, with that Tobias. At least we can wait with them.”
“Sure,” Bert says. “It’ll take a while to get to the cove. My boat’s ready, but we’ll need two.”
“I’ll follow you in my boat,” Ray says.
“Take Cyrus with you. It’s rough out there.”
Ray bristles. He can handle his own boat. These conditions will take his full concentration, and he doesn’t need another worry on board. He searches Bert’s face, and he looks bothered too. Maybe Bert wants him to keep an eye on Cyrus, make sure he doesn’t sabotage their plan.
“Sure,” Ray says reluctantly. “I can use a hand.”
51. AUSTIN, 9:32 P.M.
Over the last hour, Austin has felt increasingly spooked. Partly it’s the air in the cave—too thick to breathe and too thin to nourish. Partly the jittery fingers of dread on the back of her neck and that’s not hard to interpret—Tobias must be insane with fury at her. If they’re lucky, he’ll wait for morning to search and by then they’ll be away from here. But that’s the kind of wishful thinking Pops always warns her against. Wanting doesn’t make it so, he likes to say with a squeeze of her shoulder. And what can be taking Pops so long? Still, there’s nothing to do but wait.
And read that last letter, from 1945, to take her mind off now.
Perhaps you moved away, darling Angelina, and never received my letters? Or maybe you hate me. In any case, I am writing this on your 30th birthday. I promise this is the last time I’ll bother you, but I must finish my story and then I have two more things to tell you.
I hope you have children of your own, a husband whom you adore. Angelo and I have two sons. We named Tommaso for my little brother Tommy, even though he has Angelo’s dark skin and thick curls. Tonio’s name comes from Angelo’s father, but he co
uld have been Tommy’s twin, with fair skin and freckles he tried to scrub off when he was little. Children don’t come out like you expect, do they? Still, these are your brothers, and they are soldiers.
This evening I’ve been listening to the evening news on National Radio. The announcer didn’t come right out and report that Mussolini is dead and his army surrendered. They never admit defeat. But after 25 years, I’ve learned to listen between the words of my adopted language. Who knows what will happen to us now. If my boys survived the fighting, if their regiments are not stationed too far away, they could be home soon.
Austin wished she knew more history. What happened to Italian citizens after their leader surrendered? Did Margaret’s sons—Nettie’s brothers, which would make them Austin’s great uncles—return home safely?
I promised just two more things.
The first is that five years after Angelo disappeared from my life, a letter from him arrived. He told me about the middle-of-the-night round up, the deportation center, the endless crossing home, the warships and disease. He sent money for the passage and begged me to join him in Carrara. I had to go to the school atlas to locate the small city in Tuscany, famous for its stone carvers since Roman times.
All these years later, I still question my choice to leave. I went without telling my family, without fighting to take you with me. I feared my parents would stop me. They might change my mind. How does a woman choose between a lover and a child? I don’t know the answer. I don’t know if Angelo would hate me if he knew I had his baby and allowed my parents to claim the girl, to raise you as their own.
Austin rubs her eyes. This is so totally spooky. No wonder Gran sewed these letters away and won’t discuss them. When she did read them, when Abby was a baby, could she have possibly guessed that her own daughter would do the same thing?
On Hurricane Island Page 22
