John Gilstrap - Threat warning

In a flash of understanding, Ryan realized that he’d just reentered the nineteenth century. No electricity, no running water, no heat to speak of. The lack of running water, in fact, explained the vague smell of shit that hung in the air. He wondered if maybe they were in Pennsylvania Dutch country-the Amish, he remembered, from some Harrison Ford movie that his mom had made him watch-but then he remembered that the Amish were all about peace. Whatever these creeps were about, it definitely was not peace.

The center of the room was unremarkable, especially in this light, except for a dark rectangle that at first looked like a shadow cast onto the floor, but revealed itself to be an open hatch leading to a stairway to a lower level. Brother Stephen gestured to the stairs with an open hand. Brother Zebediah led the way with his lantern held high. Ryan started to follow, but Brother Stephen’s heavy hand around his biceps pulled him to a stop. “You stay back with me, little man.”

“Please don’t hurt him,” Christyne said.

“I’m okay, Mom.” Ryan refused to flinch as Brother Stephen’s fingers dug deeply into his arm muscle. He watched as his mother disappeared into the space below. Then, when it was his turn, Ryan half expected Brother Stephen to heave him down like a human bowling ball.

The stairway ended at what felt like a concrete floor covered with slime-green carpeting. A worn sofa dominated the back wall, upholstered in a fabric that resembled a moldy chocolate chip cookie. To the left of the sofa, a rectangle of mismatched brick marked the spot where Ryan figured there had once been a door.

“Keep going,” Brother Stephen barked.

“To where?” Christyne asked. There in fact seemed to be no place to go.

Brother Zebediah said, “Just follow me.”

He led the way across the room to the far wall, the one perpendicular to the back wall, where he stopped and lifted a heavy padlock on its hasp and inserted a key in the bottom. He removed the lock and pulled on the hasp to reveal a doorway that would have been all but invisible to anyone who was not looking for it. Handing his lantern to Christyne, Brother Zebediah said, “You first.”

Brother Stephen’s grip closed even tighter around Ryan’s arm. “You’re last,” he said.

As Christyne stepped across the threshold, the yellow light of her lantern revealed a squatty room with a ceiling that maybe rose six feet. From outside, Ryan could see furniture, but he couldn’t make out what it was.

“There are candles and another lamp in the room,” Brother Zebediah said. “But be judicious in their use. They’re the only ones you have. When they’re gone, the nights will get especially dark for you.”

Ryan’s stomach flipped. He’d never been a big fan of enclosed spaces.

“Don’t be scared,” Christyne said, her voice trembling a little. “It’s not so bad. There are beds and a sofa. They even have books to read.”

“Your turn,” Brother Stephen said to Ryan. He gave him a last shove as he crossed the threshold. The door slammed shut immediately. The lock slid into place with a heavy thock, and then the Nasbes were alone. It was cold in here-beyond cold, actually-and the stink of an old toilet bloomed strong in the air.

“What the hell is happening, Mom?”

“Watch your language,” Christyne said.

Ryan gave her an empty stare. “That was a reflex, right?” he said.

She smiled in spite of herself. “I don’t know what’s happening,” she confessed. She spread her arms for a hug. “At least we’re not hurt.”

Ryan allowed himself to be embraced, and decided not to tell her just how hideously he expected all of this to turn out.

In the process, he willed himself not to cry.

The hug was an attempt to soothe his fears, but Ryan broke it off as soon as he could. He snatched the lantern out of her hand and turned a slow circle to reveal the details of their new home. In total, the space appeared to be about twelve feet square, and it was crammed with furniture. Immediately to the right of the door, four sagging twin beds had been shoved into the far corner, at what Christyne figured to be the front of the house, each separated from the adjacent bed by a gap of only a couple of inches. A carpet remnant of indeterminate color covered most of the concrete floor. The beds each had two pillows and a bedspread, and appeared to be fitted with sheets underneath.

“Four beds,” Ryan said. “Do you think they’re expecting more?”

She didn’t offer an answer because she knew he really wasn’t expecting one.

The rest of the space was crammed with miscellaneous furniture. Moving around among the clutter was a challenge, but Ryan managed okay as he explored their prison.

“Why is it so cold in here?” he mused aloud, zipping up his coat. He paused. “Oh, crap,” he said. “This is disgusting.” He turned back to face her. “I found our toilet.”

Actually, it wasn’t a toilet at all. It was a chair with a hole cut in the seat and what looked to be a porcelain pot suspended underneath. “I think that’s called a chamber pot,” Christyne said. “It’s what they used in the days before indoor plumbing when you couldn’t make it to the outhouse, or just didn’t want to go outside.”

“So the poop and pee just sit there?” Ryan asked. This, apparently, was far more horrifying to him than their overall predicament.

“Somebody has to empty it,” Christyne explained.

“Nose game,” Ryan said, and he quickly touched the tip of his nose with his forefinger. In Nasbe family parlance, the last person to touch their nose in the nose game was “it” and therefore had to perform whatever task was in play.

Christyne let it go.

This time when Ryan looked at her, his expression glowed with anger. “I told you not to pick her up,” he said.

While Gail tended the pasta, Jonathan manned the bar. He made Gail’s cosmo first, pouring equal parts Grey Goose L’Orange, Cointreau, orange juice, and cranberry juice into a shaker and giving it a vigorous ride. He strained the pink concoction into her favorite martini glass and delivered it over her shoulder.

“Your sissy drink,” he said. He kissed the nape of her neck and elicited the shiver he’d hoped for.

Gail scrunched her shoulders and took the drink with both hands. “Sneak up on a girl, will you? That’s a good way to get shot.”

“I don’t scare easy, Sheriff,” he said. He walked back to the bar to make a real martini for himself: two or three glugs of Beefeater and a drizzle of vermouth, definitely shaken (not stirred) with ice, then strained into whatever martini glass happened to be closest. Two olives later, he was done.

He took a sip and became self-actualized. “God, I’m good,” he said. He rejoined Gail at the stove and lifted the lid on the marinara. “Smells great.”

She hip-nudged him. “You’re in my way. Where do you keep your bay leaves?”

“Um. In the bay?”

She sighed. “Unbelievable. How can you have a kitchen this grand and not have bay leaves? How do you make marinara when I’m not here?”

“I pretty much open a jar and call it spaghetti sauce.”

Jonathan’s home, one block up from the water, started life as a firehouse. He’d bought it a few years ago after the town decided to relocate the fire trucks to newer digs out on the highway. Now he lived on the first two floors, and his company, Security Solutions, was on the third floor, accessible by a separate entrance. Thanks to money passed on to him from his father, who would never again see the outside of a supermax prison, Jonathan could afford the best of everything, from firepower to cooktops. He was even a pretty decent cook. Still, why work to improve a product that was damn near perfect out of the jar?