The morning sun emerged as a bright orange ball on the horizon as Ryan disembarked from the ship. The same two guards who had taken him to the brig were escorting him down a gangplank to the pier.
Ryan had not slept well in the brig. All night, his mind had simply refused to shut off and go to sleep. Being imprisoned made him think of his dad, and he wondered how his father passed the time, alone on his bunk, nothing to do, no one to talk to, night after night. He probably tried to think happy thoughts, so Ryan tried it, too. He thought of the Bahamas, where he and his dad had shared their best day together ever. It was painful for Ryan to recall those better days, because it only made him wish that his father had never gotten into trouble with the law. But no one could take his memories away from him. Like that day on the motor scooter in the Bahamas. They covered an entire island together-stopping wherever they wanted, resting on a deserted beach, going for a quick swim in turquoise waters. Ryan especially remembered the old man named Rumsey that he and his father befriended. He called everyone "mon," and he somehow worked it into every sentence. "Hey mon, dat's a very nice scooter you got dare.
Hey mon, how 'bout you buy some conch shells from dis old man?" Rumsey had hundreds of shells. Each one was as big as Ryan's head, and when he held it to his ear he could hear the sound of the ocean.
All night long, Ryan had heard the swooshing of the sea. He didn't need a conch shell. But he sure could have used a motor scooter. He would have ditched these turkeys the minute they reached dry land.
Later, mon.
The ship was docked at a commercial port. All around him, large cranes lifted cargo from rusty, old barges. Container trucks carried load after load to and from ships. It was a noisy place where workers had to shout to one another over the rattle of huge chains and the rumble of diesel engines. Ryan tried to spot a license tag on a truck or a street sign-anything that might give him a clue as to his whereabouts. Before he could focus, however, a blindfold slipped over his eyes.
"I think you've seen enough," the guard said as he tightened the knot behind Ryan's head.
The guards led him across the dock. Ryan took small steps, since he couldn't see anything. The noises faded in the distance as the guards took him farther away from the center of activity. Finally, they stopped. "Step down," the guard said.
Ryan followed his instructions. The floor beneath him seemed to move with the weight of his step. The men helped him to keep his balance as they lowered him onto a bench seat. There was a rocking motion, followed by something that sounded like the clatter of oars and the hum of a modest outboard engine. They were on a small boat. Ryan felt them push away from the dock. The engine whined and the bow rose as the boat gained speed.
"Where are we going now?" asked Ryan.
"Really now," the man said over the noise of the engine. "Do you think I'd bother to blindfold you if I was going to tell you where you're going?"
Ryan said nothing, as the answer was pretty obvious.
The blindfold made it difficult to gauge time, but Ryan guessed that they skimmed across the waves for about twenty minutes before the engine quieted and they came to a stop. The men helped him out of the boat, and his legs wobbled a bit as he planted himself on the more solid footing of a wooden pier.
"Have a look," the man said as he pulled away Ryan's blindfold.
Ryan's eyes needed a minute to adjust to daylight. Before him was an old stone fort with formidable gray walls. Armed guards kept watch from the turrets. The entire building was surrounded by water-not a thin castle moat, but miles of open ocean as far as the eye could see. This place was a veritable fortress on its own remote island. Ryan was reminded of Fort Jefferson near Key West, Florida, an impenetrable old prison that the Union army had built during the Civil War. His father had taken him there once, too. That was yet another one of those "good old days" that seemed like five-thousand years ago.
"How long do I have to stay here?" asked Ryan.
"That depends on your trial," the man said. "If the jury finds you not guilty, you can go home. If the jury finds you guilty… well, then this is your home."
Ryan took another look. It was anything but "home."
"And don't even think about trying to escape," the man, said as his gaze drifted toward the surrounding sea. "Unless you want to become shark food."
The men took Ryan by the arm and led him toward the fort's main entrance. The iron gate clattered as it rose. The threesome entered, and the gate was even noisier on its way down. They were standing in a center courtyard, and the surrounding stone walls seemed even taller now that Ryan was inside. The fort was divided into two sections. On the east side, the accommodations resembled an old hotel, not exactly cheery but at least comfortable. The west side was three stories of prison bars. Ryan didn't have to ask which side he would be visiting.
The men handed some official papers to a guard at the western entrance. He gave them a quick look. Then, with a simple jerk of his head, he muttered, "Cell C-12."
Ryan hoped that Cellblock C was on the third floor, which might at least give him a decent view of the surrounding sea. Maybe he'd see some birds or ships, anything to help pass the time and break the boredom. To his dismay, they took Ryan down three flights of stairs. Cellblock C was three stories below ground. There were no lights, and one of the men had to light a torch to lead the way. The walls and stone floors seemed to sweat with dampness. It reminded him of underground caverns he had once hiked through with his father.
Why do I keep thinking of him? thought Ryan, chiding himself. But it was only normal. He was in prison. How could he not think of his father?
The torchlight wasn't very bright, but as far as Ryan could tell, he was the only prisoner down in Cell Block C. He heard not a sound from any of the other cells.
"Do I really have to stay in this hole?" asked Ryan.
"What, you don't like it?"
"I'm not complaining," said Ryan. "It's just that I specifically told my travel agent to book me a suite."
"Wise guy, huh?" He opened the cell door, pushed Ryan inside, and slammed the door shut. "I hate wise guys." The key turned in the lock, and the man shook the bars to make sure they were secure. He lit a torch outside Ryan's cell and mounted it in a bracket on the wall. Aside from the guard's torch, it was the dungeon's only source of light.
"We'll be back later. Let's see if you're still cracking jokes after your flame burns out."
The men turned and walked away. The sound of their laughter echoing off the cold stone walls only served to remind Ryan that this was no laughing matter. Four people were dead, and they wanted to blame Ryan for it. He didn't know why he would make jokes in such a serious situation. It was just his nature. Whenever he was under stress, he tried to make light of it with humor. Strange, but his father had always done the same thing. The apple doesn'tfall far from the tree. Maybe they were more alike than he cared to admit.
Ryan turned his attention toward finding a dry spot in his damp cell. He crouched in a corner. Moisture seeping up through the soles of his shoes was just something he would have to get used to. He was cold, angry, and trying not to feel depressed. It was difficult. All he needed was a dry place to sit, to think, and to wait. They wouldn't even give him that much. He wondered why they were treating him so badly, but only one answer came to mind. They didn't think he was ever going to leave. After all, his name was Ryan Coolidge. Why did they even need a trial? Of course he was guilty.
Ryan suddenly felt something scurry over the top of his foot. He withdrew quickly, his heart in his throat. He looked around, but he saw nothing. Whatever it was, it had disappeared in a flash. He hoped it was a large cockroach. He feared it was a rat. He wished his dog were with him. Sam was a gentle giant, but Ryan always felt safer with him around.
Grippando, James
Leapholes (2006)
"Pssssst
Ryan froze. He thought he heard a snake hissing.
"Psssst."
There it was again. This time, however, it sounded more human. It was coming from the next cell. "Who's there?"
"Not so loud," she said. "It's me. Kaylee."
Ryan moved all the way to the bars, but he couldn't see her. A solid brick wall separated the two cells. Iron bars ran across the front of Ryan's cell, and they were too close together for Ryan to stick his head out and peer into the next cell.
"Is that really you?" he said, his voice slightly louder than a whisper.
"Yes. They brought me here last night, while you were still asleep in the ship's brig. I was worried about you. I'm so glad you're okay."
"Yeah, I guess I'm okay." He scanned his bleak surroundings and added, "If you call living in a dungeon okay."
She fell silent, and Ryan wondered what she was thinking. Finally, she said, "I'm sorry."
"For what? You didn't do anything."
"I heard that they're planning to put you on trial. For manslaughter."
"Looks that way. Are they putting you on trial, too?"
"No."
"Then why are you here?"
She paused, then said, "You shouldn't be talking to me."
"Why?"
He couldn't see her, but he could hear her sigh in the darkness. "Because this is a trick."
"What kind of trick?"
"The detective put me in the cell next to yours for a reason. I'm supposed to get you talking. He hopes you'll slip and say something incriminating. Then I'm supposed to testify against you at trial and repeat all the damaging things you say."
Ryan scoffed. "It's hard to imagine how I could say anything that would make things worse than they already are."
"Things can always get worse. Take it from somebody who knows."
"I'm not so sure," said Ryan. "This may be one situation where it's about as bad as it gets."
"This is so unfair. You were just trying to save me. Why do I always do this? It seems like every time someone does something to help me, it ends up getting them into trouble."
She sounded genuinely upset. Funny, thought Ryan. When they'd first met in the ER, Kaylee had struck him as the kind of pretty and popular girl whose biggest challenge in her perfect life was trying to figure out what to wear every morning. Sometimes, first impressions could be way off the mark.
Ryan said, "Don't go blaming yourself. I know why they're doing this to me, and it has nothing to do with you."
"What's it about then?"
Ryan took a seat on the floor, his back against the brick wall. The sound of Kaylee's back sliding down the opposite side of the same wall told him that she, too, had taken a seat on the floor. But for the bricks and mortar between them, they would have been sitting back to back. Strangely, Ryan took some comfort in that. "You don't want to know the truth," he said.
"Does it have anything to do with Ryan L'new?"
Ryan bristled. This Kaylee was one smart girl. He drew a circle on the dirty floor with his fingertip. He was just doodling,, not sure if he should tell her.
"You can talk to me," she said. "I'm not going to tell those jerks anything."
He spoke softly, trying to bite back some of the anger in his voice. "My father's name is William Coolidge. He's in jail."
They were in separate cells, in almost total darkness, looking in completely opposite directions. Still, Ryan felt certain that she was seeing him in a completely new light. People always did, once they found out that his father was in prison.
Kaylee said, "Do you think they're out to get you because your father is in jail?"
"Of course. That's the way people think. You know that old saying, The apple doesn't fall far from the tree?' People know my dad's a criminal, so they treat me like one, too."
"I'm sorry about your dad," she said. "I really am."
Her tone surprised him. It was soothing, as pleasant as it ever had been. She didn't seem to be judging him. Maybe she'd never heard that old expression, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Or maybe she was different from most people.
"Thanks," he said.
"What did your dad do?" she asked.
"He was a journalist. An investigative reporter for the Tribune."
"No. I meant, what did he do to end up in jail?"
"They say he stole something."
"What?"
Ryan shrugged. "I don't really want to talk about it."
"Sorry. Didn't mean to be nosy."
"It's okay. That's the way it always is. Once people find out that your dad's in prison, that's all they want to talk about."
"I won't bring it up again, okay? If you want to talk about it, we'll talk about it."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Then we won't."
"Good." Ryan was glad to have that part of the conversation behind them, but it hadn't gone as badly as it might have. For the first time since his father had landed in prison, he felt as though he'd found someone who understood-someone he could talk to, if he wanted to.
"Ryan, I'm not going to repeat any of this to anyone. You know that, right?"
"I think I do.
"I wasn't trying to get you into trouble when I told them what happened in that conference room. I spoke up only because I thought they were going to give you a medal or a reward. What you did was so courageous. I never dreamed they were trying to build a criminal case against you. You do believe me, don't you?"
He paused, but only because it was his nature to be cautious. He. Didn't really doubt her sincerity. "Yes, I believe you."
The burning torch was flickering. The dungeon was getting darker. Kay lee's voice tightened. "Ryan, I'm scared. This place is creepy. What if there are rats or snakes?"
He didn't tell her about that thing-whatever it was-that had scurried over the top of his foot. "Try not to think about that."
"I can't stop. I'm afraid."
There was silence, total stillness. Ryan could hear only the distant drip of water in another damp cell.
"Ryan?"
"Yes?"
"Will you hold my hand?"
He glanced toward the bars. There was barely enough light to see his own hand, but hers almost seemed to glow in the darkness. She had reached through the bars of her own cell and slid her hand across the floor toward his. Ryan reached through his bars and took her hand.
It was cold in the dungeon, but her hand felt warm. His heart was beating a little faster, and it was a good feeling. It washed away a lot of loneliness, and not just the loneliness of his cell. It was the loneliness of lost friends at school, teachers who didn't trust him, parents who didn't want him staying in their house for sleep overs with their children. All those terrible things happened when your father was locked behind bars. This, however, had a way of making it all disappear.
It was the feeling that nothing else mattered.
They stayed that way, silent, their fingers interlocked. Ryan's thoughts turned to the four unlucky ones: Flu Lady, Sling Man, Head Case, and Coach Jenkins. He'd forgotten their real names, but he would never forget their faces. He said a silent prayer for each of them. He prayed for Kaylee, too.
The burning torch flickered. The flame weakened, fighting for survival. It shrank to almost nothing. Ryan caught his breath. Kaylee squeezed his hand.
The flame went out. Their cells were in total darkness.
Ryan said another little prayer. For courage.