James Grippando - Leapholes

"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.

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.