Introduction

As a major hurricane threatens the northeast, math professor Gandalf Cohen is abducted by federal agents and flown to a secret interrogation center off the coast of Maine. Austin Coombs, a young local resident, is a newly hired civilian guard assigned to the detention center. Henry Ames, a man of personal secrets, is the FBI special agent in charge of Gandalf’s case and doubts the professor’s terrorist involvement; Tobias, his second-in-command, disagrees, preferring violent interrogation. As the hurricane slams the shore, conflict detonates and each character must choose a side if they’re to survive the storm.   Told over the five days approaching the anniversary of 9/11, by varying voices on both extremes of the political divide, On Hurricane Island is both a fast-paced political thriller and a literary examination of the sociopolitical storm facing our society. How far should government go in the name of protecting our national security? What happens when governmental powers of surveillance and extra-legal interrogation are expanded?  How free are we?  

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Excerpt

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 given 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 60-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 snaps 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’ 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.

No. She will not give in to fear. Breathe slowly. Use her senses and her brain. She notes the stale coffee on her breath, trapped by the hood and mixed with the tang of fear. She must think clearly, make a plan, and extricate herself from this mess. It is all a mistake, of course, but where are they taking her and why? Jess will call someone if she does not hear from Gandalf tonight. Where is her phone, her laptop, the galleys for her article? Breathe. And what about her presentation tomorrow? Sandra and Ahmed will be furious if she does not give the paper. Breathe. Jess will be worried, but she will take care of it. Who do you call in a case like this? The airport? The hospitals? And what kind of case is this, anyway? Breathe.

The pressure on her back ceases suddenly. A hand grasps her upper arm and guides her up two short steps, pushes her onto a seat, warm like leather through her pants. Another hand grips her elbow.

“Got her.” A female voice this time and the turbulence in her chest lessens a notch.

The grinding of gears drowns out Troll’s response. They lurch forward, then settle into a slow, bumpy motion like the golf cart her father used to drive at Leisure World. Gandalf wants to laugh at how Mickey-mouse it feels, except she is not at all sure her constricted throat can manage any sound at all. And ridicule, laughing at these people whomever they are, probably will not help the situation.

The ride ends shortly with an abrupt stop. Someone grips her arm, pulling her up a short flight of metal stairs, hot under her bare feet. She stumbles and trips, stubbing her big toe. Then she is out of the sunlight, walking on carpet, pushed around a corner and down into an upholstered seat. Her hands are released from behind her back, but the right one is immediately bound to an armrest. Her free left hand reaches across her body and feels along the upholstered wall to the plastic window. Think deductively, she tells herself. She is at an airport, so this is likely a plane, too small to warrant a jetport.

“Keep your hand in your lap or I’ll have to tie it down,” her captor says, leaning over Gandalf to fasten the seatbelt across her waist. The guard’s hair brushes against Gandalf’s hood; it smells of fruity shampoo. Peach maybe? No, it is apricot. A series of small clicks and rustles must be the woman settling in her seat, against the background racket of propellers revving.

“Hey,” Gandalf makes her voice friendly. Maybe Apricot-shampoo will respond, woman to woman. “Do you want to switch seats? The window is wasted on me. Unless, of course, you are planning to remove this hood.”

“No talking.”

Is it wishful thinking or does Gandalf detect a very small smile hidden behind those terse words? She has to find out what is happening to her and Apricot is the only available source of information. Her chemist mother, when she wasn’t flying off to lecture about the dangers of Strontium 90 in the milk supply, taught Gandalf three social graces: Mind your manners. Hold your temper. Honey catches more flies than vinegar. Gandalf teased her mother about the lack of scientific evidence on which to base her assumptions, but her mother insisted science did not hold all the answers. Over the years Gandalf has accepted her mother’s tenets, modifying the third to include humor. Not that there is anything at all funny about this.

Keeping her voice light, Gandalf turns towards her seatmate. “Is this rendition? I thought Obama outlawed that. Are you taking me to Egypt?”

“I said, no talking.”

Her voice sounds young, more nervous than angry, so Gandalf continues. “I am not dressed properly. Don’t I need an orange jumpsuit to go with my black hood?”

“Shut up.”

Gandalf closes her eyes and leans her head against the window. The plane taxies, accelerates, then takes off steeply. Her belly lurches. The dense dark under the hood magnifies every runway bump, every small dip, every minuscule readjustment of the wings. As the small plane banks into a steep turn to the right, Gandalf’s breaths come faster, pulling the coarse cloth back and forth against her nostrils. She cannot stop herself. She unclasps the armrest with her left hand and reaches towards Apricot until she finds her arm. She clutches the smooth cotton of a uniform sleeve.

“Please help me,” she whispers. “I’m frightened.” view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Gandalf Cohen is kidnapped and taken to a civilian detention center, because of her past friendship with a person who might be related to a terrorist. Do you think this kind of treatment of citizens is justified to protect our national security? Do you believe it’s possible that such centers exist in the United States?

2. On Hurricane Island is told from multiple points of view, including a lesbian math professor, a young working class woman, and a rogue FBI agent. Why do you think the author chose these voices and how do they affect the telling of the story?

3. There are scenes in this book that may be difficult to read. How do you feel about the use of graphic violence in fiction? Does it add to authenticity or turn your stomach, or both?

4. Henry is a career FBI agent who has begun to have doubts about his work. Why do you think these questions are growing, after years of commitment to the agency and its methods? He is also a man with a personal secret; does his cross-dressing affect his decision-making?

5. Austin has a lot to lose by helping Gandalf and Norah escape. Why do you think she makes this decision? Does she regret it? How does the experience change her life?

6. The island setting is both a real place and an imagined one. There is a real Hurricane Island, with a deserted quarry, a history of labor unrest, and an old Outward Bound facility. There is no civilian detention center there, and it’s a much smaller place. How much leeway do you think writers should have in re-imagining real places?

7. The subplot about Margaret and her Italian lover is woven through On Hurricane Island, primarily through the device of her letters. What does this back-story, which occurred a century before the main events of the novel, add? Or does it?

8. Tobias is a dedicated FBI agent, motivated by strong feelings of patriotism, but he does some awful things. What do you feel about him as a character? Do you believe him?

9. Austin’s grandparents, Ray and Nettie, are worried about her working at the detention center. How does their concern, and Austin’s mixed feelings about her family history on the island, add to the conflict of this novel?

10. The fury of the hurricane is an important element of this novel. How does the weather contribute to the plot and the emotion of the book?

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