James Grippando - Leapholes

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?"