I look at him closely. Something happened to him that he’s ashamed of.
“I know all about those labels,” I say slowly. “Before I could read, I knew the words ‘unfit’ and ‘sterilization.’ And this summer I was the unfit, crippled daughter in the Unfit Family show.” Rage flares with the memory. I force out the words. “The people from the Council used that show and us, the actors, to send a message—the unfit don’t deserve to have children.”
Tom clears his throat. His face is stiff with resolve. “Do you want to know why I was sent to the Home for Incorrigible Boys?” He doesn’t wait for us to answer. “Two years ago a doctor came to the orphanage. He offered a painless operation for boys fourteen and older. He said it would make us ‘happy.’ That was the word he used. I should have run for my life. But I was full of myself, so I volunteered to go first.” His face is rigid, but his voice trembles.
My mouth is dry. I know what he’s going to say.
“They sterilized me. Took my manhood. Without telling me. I about screamed the place down for pain. But it was when I found out they’d tricked me that I got really mad.”
Shame boils up in me—for Father and Julia. For myself too, for once believing, as they do, that sterilization “strengthens our nation.”
Tom sucks in a ragged breath and lets it out. “I attacked the doctor. That got me this scar on my face and three years in the Home for Incorrigible Boys.
“Then early this summer they called me in and said I was going to bring four boys to ‘summer camp.’ I went along because, like I told Rowan, they said I’d get a good reference when I leave the Home.”
He leans closer, looking from me to Dorchy. “They lied about my operation. They lied about my boys. And I believed them. Now I know they lie every second of every hour of every day. It’s like breathing for them. They can’t tell the truth, so we have to.”
After a long silence, Dorchy asks, “What’s the third thing?”
“What?”
“You said three things. A safe place for us, save the others, and…?”
He slams his fist against his palm. “Like Rowan said. Stop them.”
We blow out the candle and wrap up in blankets. Tom goes to the back with Snout and Jack. Magdalena, Dorchy, and I lie near the front. Dorchy tosses and turns for a while and then taps my shoulder. “You awake?”
“I am now.”
“You and Tom seem to think that all you have to do is find out what’s going on and then, poof, you’ll fix it.” She’s whispering, but I hear the pain in her voice. “‘Save the weak,’ Tom says. Well, we’re all weak. Look what happened today. None of it makes any sense. Why will tomorrow be any different?
“Why don’t you go back to Cecily, tell her what we know, and get her to stop it. It’s her island. Threaten her with Miss Latigue, the Council, your fancy father, and his connections. You could end this whole mess.”
“No, I couldn’t,” I say, furious at her for thinking it’s possible. “Cecily is controlled by Vera. She’s afraid of the Council, yes, but she is more afraid of Vera. Trust me, I know these people better than you do.”
“Maybe it only looks that way because you know they won’t stick a needle in you,” Dorchy says.
Silence grows until it fills the space between us. Not even the rising howl of the wind can displace it.
Chapter 40
Things look different in the gray light and pouring rain of morning. “We can fight them,” I say as I fold my blanket. “The doctors and Vera aren’t all powerful. We know what’s going on, but they don’t know we know.”
“Tom’s nice,” Dorchy says, “but he’s not a magician. We are not going to stop these people.”
“Well, I’m not giving up. First things first. We saved ourselves.”
“For now,” she says.
“Yes, for now. One thing at a time, OK?”
“You’ll never be a carny.” Dorchy sighs. “We’re always six jumps ahead of the rubes. It’s in our blood.”
The storm strengthened during the night. Even from inside the cave, we hear the new shrill notes of the wind. Snout moans continuously and Magdalena is crying.
Dorchy, grim-faced, riffles through the folder of papers the nurse gave her. “There’s nothing here about killing anybody,” she says. “How can we be sure it isn’t a vaccine to prevent the flu?”
Because Ratty told me the truth.
Tom brings over an open can of beans, and we take turns eating it. “The storm is coming on hard like Reuben said it would,” he says. “That’s going to ruin their plans today and maybe permanently. But Snout has a fever. He had the shot yesterday.”
I wipe my mouth with my hand. If only Julia could see me now. “They’ve been killing campers all summer,” I say. “Twenty-five dead before we got here. I saw the files. The storm won’t stop them from killing the ones they still have in the medical tent. Or us.”
“Take a look at these files,” Dorchy says. “Here’s one from 1917–1920 and I specifically asked for this summer.” She sounds disgusted as she hands me a folder. I open it, expecting to see Father’s 1917 “No” telegram. Instead I read a typed letter dated June 30, 1920 that changes everything.
“Listen,” I say, my voice shaking. I can hardly breathe. “Dorchy, is the nurse who gave you this the one who likes Miss Latigue?”
Dorchy nods.
“Well, she just handed you exactly what we need to bring this place down.”
I read the letter out loud.
“Cranston Army Hospital, Leesburg, Virginia
“June 30, 1920
“Dear Mrs. Van Giesen and Members of the Loup Island Board:
“I believe you will be interested in the progress I have made in finding a suitable method to free us from our burden. Below you’ll find a description of a certain strain of influenza that appears to be deadly in most cases. From other sources, I have obtained laboratory specimens of it, suitable for our use.
“I hope you will agree that inoculation is a much better solution than gas, which carries a stigma since the war. Inoculation will be interpreted as a sign of our caring for the well-being of our subjects.
“As for the speed of this strain of flu, here are a surgeon’s words about his observations at the U.S. Army’s Camp Devens in Massachusetts during the second stage of the 1918 flu epidemic:
“‘The…men start with what appears to be an ordinary attack of…influenza, [but] when brought to the hospital they very rapidly develop the most viscous type of pneumonia that has ever been seen. Two hours after admission they have the [dark] spots over the cheekbones, and a few hours later you can begin to see the cyanosis extending from their ears and spreading all over the face…It is only a matter of a few hours then until death comes…’
“In layman’s terms, cyanosis means ‘blue in the face.’ I propose, therefore, we refer to our solution as ‘blue’ in all future correspondence. I predict an 85 percent (or better) success rate with this method.
“Yours for a world free of the unfit.
“Hiram Jellicoe, MD.”
“Blue kills,” Dorchy says. “Ratty wasn’t delirious.”
Tom goes pale. “I should have known,” he says in a strangled voice. “But I wanted to believe my boys were sick when they came here and that’s why they died. How dare he call them ‘our burden’?”
Dorchy heads for the mouth of the cave. “In that case, why are we hiding in here? We have to get Posy and the twins and the other boys right now.”
Tom says calmly, “Not now. We’ll hide until the storm gets worse, then go. If we go now, they’ll take us all.”
“What’s the storm got to do with it?” Dorchy glares at him.
“The tide,” I say. As if watching a movie, I can see what will happen.
“The tide comes in and out every day,” Dorchy says. “What’s d
ifferent about today?”
“At high tide the wind will send a surge of salt water up into the quarry.” Excitement sparks in my voice. “It will flood the tent, maybe even wash it away.”
Tom nods. “Reuben says he warned them not to put the tent in there. But for someone who grew up on an island, Vera Van is…”
“Pig-ignorant,” Dorchy says, disgusted.
“Exactly. And her ‘pignorance’ helps us. We’ll go to the tent in a couple of hours, closer to high tide. In the confusion, we’ll have a better chance of getting the others out.”
“If they’re not all dead by then,” Dorchy says.
“If we go before the tent floods, they will kill us too.” He turns to us, his eyes bright. “Thank you for getting the files, Dorchy,” he says, “and finding the letter, Rowan.” He squeezes our hands.
“We have a lot more to do,” Dorchy says, but I can tell she’s as pleased as I am.
We decide that Tom and Jack will hide in the woods and watch the trail, ready to distract any searchers who come this way. Dorchy volunteers to climb a tree to get a long-distance view. I don’t like to think of her in a tree that’s shaking in the wind. But she can climb anything, and the farther away she spots them, the better chance the boys have of distracting them.
“Keep the raincoat,” she says, thrusting it at me. “I can’t climb a tree in a rubber cocoon.”
I stay in the cave, keeping Magdalena and Snout quiet and listening for signals. Dorchy will whistle, one short, one long. Tom will hoot like an owl and Jack will caw like a crow. At any signal, Magdalena and I will move Snout deeper into the cave.
I settle in to wait. Magdalena sits next to me on a blanket. She keeps wiping her face, but I can’t tell if it’s from raindrops or tears. They won’t come, I tell myself. Nothing will get Vera out on her precious horse in this storm.
A loud blare of noise from the woods sends Magdalena scurrying back to Snout. I move into the cave opening to hear better. Suddenly Vera’s voice rings out, louder than usual. “Bring the sick boy to the medical tent. He needs our attention. Bring the…” Her voice dies away. Whatever she’s doing, she isn’t coming to the cave.
Tom bursts through the bushes. “Did you hear that? She’s on Viking. Dr. Ritter is with her on foot. They’re off the trail, going through the woods. I wish I could get that horse away from her. She doesn’t deserve a beautiful animal like that.”
Suddenly, much too close to the cave, we hear a shriek and a loud whinny. Then Dorchy yells, “Move your damn horse.”
“Get her!” yells Vera. A man’s agonized scream rises over the howling of the wind.
Silence.
Tom and I look at each other. Magdalena comes from the back of the cave. “What was that?” She wrings her hands.
I smile at her. “That was Dorchy, surprising them and saving us.”
“From the sound of that scream, I’d say Dr. Ritter got the worst of it,” Tom says. “Brave girl.”
Jack comes into the cave, dripping wet. He squeezes out his cap and says, “That Dorchy is something. You should have seen her. When that horse came through the woods, headed for the cave, she jumped out of the tree right in front of it.” He laughs shakily. “Then Dorchy yelled at Vera to move the horse and that fat doctor started after her. She ran into the thickest clump of brambles I ever saw. He followed her and began screaming.”
“They didn’t get her.” Tom thumps Jack on the shoulder. “They didn’t get her…and they’re far away by now.”
“He’ll be picking thorns out his face for a week,” Jack says.
I’m excited but scared for Dorchy. She knows nothing about the woods, and if she ran into the same brambles, she’s injured too.
“Dorchy?” says Magdalena. “Dorchy?” She looks toward the mouth of the cave, and I remember how Dorchy comforted Magdalena at the quarry after Elsa was taken away. It seems like months ago, not two days.
“Dorchy got away.” I smile at Magdalena, and after a few seconds, she smiles back.
Tom goes to check on Snout, and in an instant, fear sweeps through me. I try to recapture the relief I felt hearing about Dorchy’s brave jump and escape. Instead icy dread spreads through every cell in my body.
“Snout’s sleeping, but his fever is…What’s wrong?” Tom stares at me.
I manage to say, “I’m afraid for Dorchy.” Then the cold certainty that they have her closes over my head.
Agents of Miss Latigue. Those words seem ridiculous now. I can only hope that Dorchy, the con artist, convinces them of our high standing, our untouchability. But deep down I know we erased that possibility when we invaded the tent and stole the campers.
I spring for the cave opening like an arrow shot from a bow. “We have to get her back.”
“No.” Tom grabs my arm. “She got away. Jack saw her.”
I wrestle free of him. “They’ll hunt her down. I know it. She sacrificed herself for us. We have to get her back.”
“Listen to me.” Tom takes my hands and holds them between his calloused, warm ones. “We’ll wait here for an hour in case she comes back. Then we’ll go to the medical tent.”
With Tom’s hands on mine, I feel calmer, but the fear still gnaws at me. I haven’t felt this hopeless since Father told the doctor, “Take her to Bellevue.”
An hour later—Tom has a good sense of time—Dorchy hasn’t come back. She could be out there hiding from the storm, but I know in my bones that she’s in the medical tent. In danger.
So Tom, Jack, and I leave, just as Snout starts coughing blood. Magdalena sits next to him, calmly wiping his face with a piece torn from a blanket. She offers him water in the tin cup. I leave them Dorchy’s raincoat. “We’ll come back for you,” Tom tells Magdalena.
When? I wonder. But not for long. I can’t worry about anyone but Dorchy.
Chapter 41
Screaming wind gusts drive the rain sideways as we walk along the trail. The storm is flexing its muscles. The wind is a steady roar in the tall trees. Rain soaks us through. With a tearing crack, a white pine topples next to the trail. At times the wind comes straight at us out of the west—a giant hand holding us back.
“Viking must be in the stable by now,” Tom says. “And Ritter is both hurt and a lazybones. You won’t find him out hunting us in this mess.”
“And Vera won’t go out on foot,” I say. I don’t add that it might be better if they were out of the tent hunting for us.
As we get closer to the dry quarry and medical tent, we hear Reuben’s truck coming. Through a screen of leaves, we watch it slide back and forth on the muddy track. Reuben is at the wheel.
Jack says, “See you at the tent,” and sprints after the truck. He jumps into the back and waves to us before ducking down.
“Reuben has probably been drinking,” Tom says in my ear as we wait for the truck to move out of sight.
“Does he drink?”
Tom nods. “A lot. He keeps a bottle in the truck. Says it’s the only way he can live with the ‘setup’ on the island this summer.”
“That means he knows what they’re doing.”
“I didn’t ask him what he meant,” Tom says bitterly. “If I had, I might have found out why my boys died.”
We bend our heads into the wind and walk on.
Half an hour later we reach the road that leads down into the dry quarry. Tom points to a cluster of young pines and leans close to me. “Hide in there,” he says. “I’ll see who’s in the tent.”
“Wait, let’s make a vow. ‘Not one more death.’”
He looks into my eyes. “Not one more death.”
Grateful for a chance to rest my leg, I squirm under the low limbs and sit on a pile of dead needles. Rain hits the entwined branches over my head, but few drops penetrate.
Soon I hear footsteps and voices. “Where is the truck, yo
u drunken old fool?” asks Nurse Blunt.
“I parked it on the trail,” says Reuben. “I wasn’t fool enough to drive down this suicide track. And for the record, I haven’t had a drink since Sunday last.”
Peering through the low-hanging branches, I see the three nurses, Dr. Ritter, and Reuben, bringing up the rear. All of them wear black waterproof coats and hats, which makes them a lot better off than we are.
“The truck isn’t there,” whines one of the nurses.
Jack took it.
“Gone,” Reuben says in a cheerful voice, “I reckon the wind blew it away.”
“We can’t walk in this rain,” Dr. Ritter sputters. “I will lodge a complaint with Miss Van.”
“Honestly,” says Nurse Blunt, “it’s less than a half mile to the staff cottage. Stop complaining.”
“I don’t like this one bit,” the whiny nurse says. “Miss Van and Dr. Jellicoe will come back for the patients like they promised to, won’t they, Dr. Ritter?”
“That’s not your concern, Nurse,” he snaps.
Their footsteps squelch away from me.
Tom gives his owl call, and I crawl out of my hideaway.
“Jack has the truck,” I say. “And Vera Van and Dr. Jellicoe aren’t here, but they’re coming back.”
“You saw Jack?”
The wind gusts suddenly and pushes me into Tom. He steadies me. The roar of the wind drowns out his words. With a loud craaack another tall white pine falls in a cascade of branches and needles. This one blocks the way back to the cave.
As we start down into the quarry, I grab Tom’s arm as my crutch slips on the wet granite chips. I lean against him, my heart beating so fast my teeth shake.
“Oh,” he says and stops walking. “I knew the tide would come up in the quarry, but look.”
Below us a shifting silver skin of water covers the quarry floor under dark scudding clouds. The tent is almost completely surrounded by water; its canvas sags and bulges as it strains against the ropes. Salt spray, blown by the wind, crusts my lips. With a shriek, a gust of wind slams rain into our faces. Tom pulls me along, and we run, slip, catch our balance, and run again until we reach the tent’s front entrance. Gripping my crutch, I dive through the canvas flaps, driven by one thought, Dorchy.
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