Leapholes (2006) (7 page)

Ryan swallowed the lump in his throat. Each time the detective reminded him of the consequences of his actions, it became more difficult for Ryan to speak. "I'm very sorry about that," he said softly.

"You should be," said the detective. "If you had honored the agreement to cast lots, none of those four adults would have died."

"But ... it didn't seem fair, us deciding who should live and die."

The detective held up his hand, as if he'd heard enough. "Tell it to the judge, young man."

"The judge?" said Ryan.

"Yes. You're going to stand trial."

"Trial? For what?"

"Manslaughter, of course. Like I said: You are in a lot of trouble."

Ryan sank into his chair, his mind awhirl. On his last visit to a courtroom he'd watched his father plead guilty to a crime. "Another Coolidge in trouble with the law," he said, almost speaking to himself. "Our neighborhood is just going to have a field day, isn't it?"

"Don't worry. This trial won't be anywhere near your hometown."

"It won't?"

"No. Like Dr. Watkins told you, everything connected to a possible BODS epidemic is top secret. Your trial will be no different. You will be tried before a special tribunal assembled by the Court of International Justice. The exact location is of no concern to you. It will be a fair trial. That's all I can guarantee you."

Ryan wasn't sure what to say, so he said the first thing that came to mind. "Can I call home, please? I want to speak to my mother."

"Call homeV The detective's head rolled back with laughter. "You really have no idea what you're up against, do you?"

Ryan felt an emptiness inside, a dark loneliness. "No, sir," he said quietly. "I honestly don't."

The detective switched off the intense interrogation lamp. The room was suddenly black, and Ryan's heart skipped a beat. He heard another flip of a switch, and the lights were back on. It was a softer light, however, much easier on the eyes.

"Guards!" the detective called.

The door opened, and two men entered. Both were dressed in dark green uniforms. Ryan gave them a quick once-over, searching for any markings or insignias that might tell him who these people were. He spotted nothing useful. The onl
y t
hing he could say for certain was that these guys were absolutely huge. Both were well over six feet tall. Their necks were like sequoia trees, and rock-hard biceps bulged beneath their shirt sleeves. One guard was armed with a nightstick. The other carried a heavy-duty flashlight.

"Hands behind your head," said the man with the nightstick.

Ryan did as he was told. They cuffed his hands behind his back and escorted him from the interrogation room, one man on his left, the other on the right. The passageways were dark and narrow, and the guards led him down a winding, metal stairwell. At the bottom of the stairs, the lead man opened a sealed hatchway, which led to total darkness.

"In you go," the guard said.

"What's this?"

"The brig, of course."

The beam of the flashlight pointed the way. Ryan stood in the open hatchway and stared inside. Cold metal walls, a metal floor. No windows. A bunk on one side, a smelly toilet with no seat on the other. So this is what prison is all about. It almost didn't feel real to him.

"Move it, kid!"

The nightstick poking at his kidney--that was real.

Ryan stumbled into the brig, then something came to mind. "I noticed you called this the brig. I thought brigs were on ships."

"Not necessarily. But good guess, genius. You are on a ship."

"Where are we going?"

The guard snorted with laughter.

"What's so funny?" asked Ryan.

"First of all, they don't tell us. Second of all, if they did tell us, we wouldn't tell your The guard handed Ryan an extra flashlight, and Ryan switched it on.

"Use it wisely, kid. The batteries won't last forever."

The door closed, and Ryan was left alone in the cell. The dim glow of the flashlight was his only relief from total darkness. Wherever he aimed it, the sweeping beam of light sent cockroaches scurrying. They were on the floor, the walls, and even on the ceiling. Some were as big as his baby sister's foot. They disappeared behind the toilet or between cracks in the metal planks, though Ryan knew they would return as soon as the light went out. He sat on the bunk and tested the mattress. He wondered if there were roach nests in there, too. It didn't matter. He couldn't possibly sleep in that bunk anyway. The mattress was hard and lumpy, about as comfortable as a sack of corn husks. The blankets and sheets had a strong, musty odor. It reminded Ryan of the pungent smell of the bay when the tide went out. Or the smell of his socks after soccer practice.

He sat quietly for several minutes, until the sensation of movement made him start. It was a gentle sway, almost imperceptible. But no doubt about it, the ship was moving. Ryan was on his way, sailing off to some undisclosed location to stand trial before the Court of International Justice--for manslaughter!

It was hard for him to believe that any of this was happening. But then he reconsidered. Of course it was happening. He was a Coolidge.

That's why I'm being charged.

Somehow, Ryan had known for months that it would come to this. He knew that all the taunting, all the jokes, all the gossip behind his back would someday snowball into disaster. Eventually, they would pin something on him. They'd nail him, and they'd nail him good.

All because his father was a crook.

Thanks, Dad. Thanks a million.

Chapter
10

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.