On Hurricane Island

by Ellen Meeropol

  The second thing is also a secret, but this one isn’t mine. It’s Angelo’s secret and I’m not supposed to know it but I do. It’s about the bombing of the quarry office the night after the European workers were sent away. The fire destroyed all the records, the week’s payroll and the meager profits awaiting transport to the bank in Rockland. Angelo never discussed it with me, but in his desk I found a letter from a local member of the Storm Harbor stone carvers’ union. Our plan worked, the man wrote. We couldn’t stop the bosses from sending you away. But we didn’t let the bastards win.

  At that moment I knew that all the information I gave Angelo allowed him to make his plans. So I suppose it is partially my fault. And my secret.

  Austin pictures the bombed-out ruins of the quarry office, overrun by a century and covered by tangled vines. Every day she has walked past the place, never knowing the connection.

  After all these years, I have made my peace with my actions, my decision. I hope you understand. I hope you have kept the stone carving I left on your pillow. For five years it warmed the hollow of my hand, and my fingers wore smooth the jagged part. Maybe someday you will go to the cave and find your father’s carving. Perhaps you will replace the broken piece to make it whole again. Possibly someday you’ll come to Italy and meet your other family.

  And maybe someday you will forgive me.

  Love, Mama

  Austin closes her eyes. They’re all ghosts now, Margaret and Angelo and Angelina. In the morning, or someday, she’ll have to figure out what to do with these letters, how to talk to Gran about them. But now, she has one thing to do before Pops gets here. She needs to do it for Margaret and Angelina and for Nettie and Abby. And for herself—for a little girl abandoned early one morning at her grandparents’ kitchen table with a bag of clothes and a scruffy toy giraffe.

  Trying not to wake her companions, Austin inches her way along the clammy cave wall to the entrance. The sodden wind is softer now, barely whipping her hair. She leans her cheek against the damp chill of the stone. She sticks one hand out into the steady rain, then caresses the wreath of branches circling the initials. Her fingers find the broken place.

  “Austin?” Gandalf is standing next to her, her whisper climbing above the rain and the waves. “Are you all right? What is your obsession with these initials?”

  Austin lets her hand drop from the carving and looks at the older woman. After all they have been through together, why not tell her?

  “Just don’t laugh at me, okay?”

  “Of course not,” Gandalf says.

  “I found this carving when I was a teenager. I was a lonely kid. Maybe that’s why I cared about these people, whoever they were. Anyway, I’ve always wondered who MEC and AF were and what happened in 1914. I dreamed about them, made up stories about why they carved their initials here.”

  Gandalf traces her fingers along the intaglio carving, avoiding the broken place. “So who are they?”

  “I just found out last night—reading these amazing letters from MEC. She’s my grandmother’s grandmother Margaret, and AF is Angelo. He was from Italy, a stone carver working here, in this very quarry. They loved each other and they used to meet in this cave. She writes about he how carved their initials and about the secret back entrance full of spiders and the little cove where they sometimes made love and how one day, he didn’t show up.” Austin rubs her eyes. “Margaret got pregnant, and Angelo was deported. He never knew they had a kid, my Gran’s mother.” Austin pauses. “It sounds like a soap opera, doesn’t it?”

  Gandalf smiles. “A little.”

  “But it’s real and it’s my family. When Angelo disappeared Margaret didn’t know he was sent away, and she was pissed off and smashed the carving and broke a piece off.”

  Austin opens her hand and shows Gandalf the broken rock, warm in her palm. “Margaret’s last letter asks her daughter—my Gran’s mother—to put the broken part back.”

  “So what are you waiting for?” Gandalf asks.

  “I can’t believe you’d say that, Dr. Scientist. What difference would it make? MEC and AF have been dead for years. Even their baby is long gone.”

  “And we might not survive the night either.” Gandalf touches something shiny at her neck, something Austin can’t see. “But this matters to you.”

  It does matter, and the leaf fits perfectly in the chipped off spot—just like Austin knew it would. Her chest opens up and relaxes. Her fingers feel around the completed circle, along the interwoven twigs, around each sculpted leaf. She traces each letter, each number. Why does it matter so much to replace that stupid chunk of rock when there are more important things to fix? Generations of grudges. What did these ghosts do that was so awful, anyway? Margaret fell in love with a person her community didn’t approve of. She chose him over their child—okay, that part’s pretty awful. She gave her lover information that helped him fight back against a company that treated him and his buddies badly. He broke the law. Just like we’re doing right now, she thinks. Then she is sobbing, and Gandalf is hugging her and pulling her back into the passageway. Together they make their way back to the inner cave.

  Norah stirs and sits up. “Is something happening?” Her voice is thick with sleep.

  “Just checking on the rain,” Austin says, “and looking for Pops.”

  “And playing with your precious initials?” Norah asks.

  “They are precious,” Gandalf whispers.

  “Waiting is what’s so damned hard. Not being able to do anything. In my real life …” Norah’s voice trails off.

  “In your real life, what?” Austin asks after a few seconds.

  “I wonder if I’ll ever get my real life back. I’m used to making things happen. Bossy, some people would say. Not waiting around to be rescued.”

  “Hoping to be rescued,” Austin says. “Tobias has more firepower at that facility than you can imagine. He could come after us with bombs and grenades and helicopters.”

  “He’ll have to wait for the storm to die down for that,” Norah says.

  “The storm is dying down,” Gandalf says.

  Norah leans back. “So now your Ferret-man can send copters to bomb the quarry.”

  Austin blinks. Ripples of heat surge behind her eyes. No way will she cry again. She glances quickly at Norah, then down at her lap. “Aren’t you scared?”

  “Terrified. But that’s how they want us to feel.”

  “It’s working,” Gandalf adds.

  “That doesn’t mean we cower in a corner and give up,” Norah says.

  Austin swallows hard. “We’re not giving up.”

  “Let’s think positively,” Norah says. “What’s the first thing you guys will do when you get home?

  Gandalf laughs. “You mean after a hot bath and a long night in my own bed with Jess?”

  “Yeah. After that.”

  “Get back to my research, I guess,” Gandalf says. “Assuming we get off this island alive. Will you go back to suing the government? Who knows, you might end up here again someday.”

  “It’s not my work that’s the problem, Gandalf. Did your work land you here?”

  “Of course not. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “And I did? Come on, I work within the legal system.”

  Austin listens to their sparring until she can’t take it anymore. She jabs her finger at Norah. The woman likes to push people, but how does she like being on the spot? “Still, it’s a good question. Even if your work is legal and all, it did get you in a lot of trouble with the feds. What about your daughters? How can you do work that puts them at risk of losing you?”

  “If we don’t do this work, what kind of world do our kids inherit? I work with this lawyer at the Center, Emma. Her mother was an antiwar activist, framed for bombings she never did. She spent most of Emma’s childhood in prison but Emma still believes we can make this country more just.”

  Norah pauses. “On the other hand, I’ve been having these nightmares.”


  “If you give up, that means they win,” Austin says. She never really thought about that before Margaret and Angelo, because they usually win, don’t they? She looks at Gandalf and Norah. “What if this Ahmed fellow really is a terrorist? Would you still protect him?”

  Gandalf looks surprised. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “But I might,” Norah says. “Maybe Ahmed was just trying to get the U.S. out of his country’s oilfields.”

  Austin points her finger at Norah. “Then you would be aiding a terrorist, right? So maybe you would belong at this camp.”

  “Stop arguing,” Gandalf says. “Ahmed is not a terrorist, and no one belongs here. We need each other.”

  Norah nods and turns to Austin. “What will you do after this is over? Because you can probably consider yourself fired.”

  “At the very least.” Austin tries to smile.

  “Why did you take this sucky job anyway?”

  “For the money. So I can go to Texas and find my dad.”

  “Texas might be a good idea,” Norah says. “Far away from this place. I don’t think the feds look kindly on people who help their enemies.”

  “We can talk more about it when we’re out of here,” Gandalf says to Austin. “But if you want to be in New York while you figure out what to do next, Jess and I have an extra bedroom. You can stay with us.”

  The hot waves come again behind Austin’s eyes. She can’t believe that Gandalf would invite her. For a moment she can see herself forgetting Texas, staying at Gandalf’s place, maybe even looking for a job in New York City.

  “I might do that, when we get out of here. Or … Or, maybe I’ll travel, go to Italy. I think I have some family there.”

  Crazy stuff. Who’s she fooling? Right now it seems unlikely that any of them will make it to Texas or New York or even Rockland. She closes her eyes and shakes her head.

  “What’s wrong?” Gandalf asks.

  “Just a feeling that I better keep watch,” Austin says. “Tobias is out there, already searching for us.” She peers into the dark at the mouth of the cave, slips Tobias’s revolver from her belt and checks again for bullets. Not that she for one single moment believes that she can protect three women in a blind cave from a well-armed and highly motivated bunch of federal jocks.

  52. RAY, 9:42 P.M.

  Above the roar of wind and water, the boat’s engine is obscenely loud. Waiting to follow Bert into Hurricane Sound, Ray worries about someone hearing them. Then he worries if they can trust Cyrus. He wonders for a second what it’s like on the open bay if conditions are this wild along the protected shoreline. He’s anxious to get to the cove, to find his girl and bring her home. He is also deeply frightened. He has never seen the tide this high, the Bay so seismic, so threatening. Capsizing in these waters would be lethal.

  When they finally leave the dock, it takes every molecule of concentration to follow the wildly heaving shadow of Bert’s craft. Takes every ounce of strength to keep his boat steady as furious waves toss the small boats back and forth like bathtub toys. Turbulent and chaotic, rain and spray smash onto the deck from all directions.

  Pulling himself hand over hand along the gunwale, Cyrus reaches Ray and grips his shoulder. “This is brutal,” he says. “Can I help?”

  “I’m okay,” Ray shouts above the wind.

  Actually, he’s not okay, not at all. He is relieved when Cyrus ignores his response and joins him holding the boat steady. Even so, every muscle in his arms and back screams with the strain of staying on course. His eyes ache trying to keep track of Bert’s boat while steering into relentless waves. Finally, the stern light ahead turns sharply to the left, and Ray follows.

  “Hang on,” he warns Cyrus. “Here we go.” They catch the tide pushing through the narrow cut and are lifted up fifteen feet onto the swell. The boat hangs weightless atop the wave for an impossibly elongated moment, then rides the rush into the cove. With a spine-jarring slap, they hit the calmer water. Ray wipes his face with his wet hand and rolls his shoulders to relax the kinks.

  Cyrus aims his flashlight at the shore, then back at the inlet. “I’ve never seen anything like this. No way we’ll get back through that cut until she turns.”

  “It’ll take us a while to find the women and get everyone down the cliff and into the boats.”

  In the relative hush of the protected cove, the rumble of the motor sounds even louder. Still, both men hear Bert’s yell.

  “Tie up here,” he calls. They secure their lines to a spruce trunk that seems to grow from stone. Bert points to a steep hill. “Trail’s up there. Somewhere.”

  “And you’re going to find it how?” Cyrus asks.

  “My unfailing instinct.”

  Ray grins. “And dumb luck.”

  Bert holds up his hand. “From here on, we move quietly. Tobias might have decided not to wait for morning.”

  Their boots squish and slurp in the swampy weeds at the edge of the cove, sinking into the mud and pulling out with thick sucking sounds. Ray slips and falls. His knees sink deep into the muck, and he needs Bert’s help to stand. They skid across the seaweed-covered rocks at the shoreline, then walk one by one onto the narrow path and start up the rocky hill.

  At the top, Ray leans against the granite wall. “Gotta rest.”

  Cyrus throws him a glance. “Sure, old man.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Bert says. “Ray’s got just two years on me.”

  Ray tries to slow his breathing. It’s louder in his ears than the wind zipping along the ridge or the splatter of rain on his hood. He’ll be fine if he can keep the guys talking for a minute or two, just so he can catch his breath. Talking about anything at all will do.

  “Hey. We’re the three musketeer cousins. On a mission of mercy.”

  “Speaking of mercy,” Bert says to Ray. “You said Nettie goes ballistic about the east rim cave. So how come your granddaughter’s hiding out there?”

  “Nettie doesn’t know. Besides, it’s not my idea. It’s Austin’s and a good one. Can you think of any other place out here that locals know and the damned feds don’t? Austin and Gabe discovered the initials years ago, but until now she’s never been inside the cave.”

  The minute the boy’s name falls out of his mouth, Ray wishes he could reel it back. Bert doesn’t need to be reminded of his dead son, not with so much danger ahead of them.

  “What initials?” Cyrus asks.

  “Ha,” Ray says. “Maybe you young twerps don’t know everything, after all.”

  Bert shushes them. “You know how sound travels out here. Ready to move on?”

  “Yup.” Ray pushes off the granite wall and peers along its surface. “How far do you think? I’ve never come from this direction.”

  “Ten minutes,” Bert says. “But this part will be slick. Single file and take it slow. No more flashlights from here on. Makes us too easy a target.”

  “So what are the initials?” Cyrus whispers as they began inching their way along the cliff face.

  “Just lovers’ stuff,” Bert says.

  53. HENRY, 10:02 P.M.

  Henry loses his grip on the slick surface of Cat’s raincoat and repositions his arm across her shoulder. No way he could have done this alone. Even with Cat’s help, it’s taken forever with him needing to stop and rest. They haven’t seen a soul since leaving the facility, but he would have been useless if they had. He feels marginally safer once they reach the woods, even with all the downed branches and tree roots trying to trip him, but the hardest part of the trip is still to come. Just up ahead looms the quarry rim. To get to the place Cat described, they have to follow the narrow granite ledge between the water and the cliff. He shudders.

  Cat stops. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing that two aspirin and twenty-four hours uninterrupted sleep won’t fix.”

  “And those cardiac tests, right?”

  “Anything you want.” Henry leans his face against Cat’s. She is beautiful, even sopping wet with hair pl
astered against her forehead.

  Cat touches his cheek. “I guess we’d better survive this, because we have a lot to talk about.”

  “Like Melissa.”

  Cat doesn’t answer. As Henry tries to frame his question, his hope, he hears a sound—a footstep, a broken twig?—behind them. “What’s that?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  He steps into a thicket, pulling Catherine with him, and switches off the flashlight. “I think someone’s following us.” Henry reaches for his holster. “Damn. Tobias must’ve taken my gun when I was unconscious.”

  “That’s taken care of.” Cat guides his hand into her slicker pocket.

  “How?”

  “Bert.”

  He owes Cat’s cousin big time. Family relations with Bert have always been cordial, but they have little in common and rarely socialize. Hardly ever since Cat’s and Bert’s mothers died. “Is Bert the one we’re meeting?”

  “Yes. Ray Coombs too.”

  Damn. He’ll be in debt to the whole clan, and it’s his own fault for hiring the Coombs girl. Not that there are all that many choices on the islands, and no way on earth to follow the Bureau’s anti-nepotism regulations. After all this, he can certainly stand holidays with the Carter clan. That is, if he gets out of this alive. If he isn’t sent to prison for dereliction of duty or something worse. If Cat doesn’t leave him. He sticks his hand into his pocket, and fingers the black silk. It would be like cutting off an arm, but maybe he can give it up, if he must.

  “We have to talk,” he says.

  “Oh, we will, but later.” She pauses. “Listen, Henry, There’s something else you should know, and you’re not going to like it. One other person knows about all this, and that’s Evelina.”

  “No!”

  Cat touches his lips. “Shh. Somebody might be out there, remember?”

  “Why? What does she have to do with this?”

  “Ray called her,” Cat says. “He said that even if he and Bert can get everyone off the island, there’ll be political hell to pay. He says we’ll all need her help.”