SHADOW OF A DOUBT II: ISLAND
Three point one acres. Five hundred feet long by two hundred feet wide. One eight-bedroom house, one side cottage, and a vacant two-bay boathouse. Four hundred feet from the nearest island, and a mile and a half from the river's shore. This was our prison, our new home. The helicopter dropped us off unceremoniously, with the pilot tossing us four keys in an envelope and informing us that rations and deliveries would be left in the boathouse every Sunday. While there weren't any guards or chaperones to keep us on the island, we were told the Coast Guard trawled the Canadian border a few hundred feet to the west, and any movement into or out from the island would be noticed. Just as quickly as it landed, the copter left us alone on Whiskey Island.
The only sounds around for miles were wind and water. This far north, the late autumn breeze carried a much cooler touch than any reptile could feel comfortable in, so we trudged out of the field we'd been dropped in toward the red-boarded house over the hill.
"Big fuckin' house for four dudes." Raph scoffed. He wasn't wrong; the lodge was three stories high and wrapped around with a long patio, clearly more suited to host guests than to be a four-person home.
"Speak for yourself, big guy. I could get used to having a quarter of all that space to myself." Mike gave a half-hearted grin. "Beats sharing a mattress in a corner of a sewer depot like when we were kids, that's for sure." Up the green-stained wooden steps we marched, and Leo popped his key into the sliding door, where warm, smoky air rushed out to greet us.
The inside was rustic, yet well appointed. All the walls were natural wood, and the couches and chairs arranged around the fireplace were in good condition, if dated back a couple generations. Around the corner was a vibrant yellow sunroom, with a weathered piano in the corner past the wicker furniture that surrounded a flat-screen on the wall. All in all, the house screamed, "exclusive WASP getaway inherited from a grandparent", and while satellite TV may have been enough to satisfy Mikey, I felt entirely out of place. On the flight, I'd browsed around to find out more about the island, and learned it was a private island that changed hands between mostly aristocrat families until the government picked it up in an auction ten years prior. Clearly, they hadn't touched much since then.
Without a laboratory, or even a decent computer, I likened myself to Robinson Crusoe, or Tom Hanks in Castaway. Sure, I had my phone and laptop, but there wasn't enough CPU to play Minecraft without severe lag, let alone the games I actually enjoyed, or the bulky software I used for 3D design and data analytics. This island wasn't made for a scientist, any more than it was made for a ninja or a turtle. How was I supposed to spend my days?
"Let's look on the bright side." Leo offered. "We get a little while to forget about the Foot, relax, and focus back on our training."
"Not much room for a dojo in here." Raph snorted. "Besides, what kind of training could we even do? All we've got is our weapons."
"You were the one who incorporated bare-knuckle boxing into our training, Raph. Lack of equipment never stopped a ninja from performing at his best." Leo countered. "For now, let's get this fireplace going and see what there is to make for dinner. No use arguing if we're cold and starving."
Mike and Raph wandered into the kitchen to see what Witness Protection had left in the fridge for us, while Leo stoked the wood stove, and I dusted off the piano to plink around a bit. Not overly familiar with the instrument, I'd taught my self a semblance of the basics on a similar-looking antique upright in Casey's farmhouse. My fingers stretched out to meet the black keys as I prodded how an E-flat minor would sound on such an out-of-tune old thing. Warm crept into the room as Leo set the kindling and newspaper alight, and I paused to recall just how the melody in my head went. Dave Brubeck's "Take Five" was probably the one piece I'd credit with starting my infatuation with jazz; Mike had found its vinyl in a heap of trash from a record store in the dump when we were kids, and was using it to play Frisbee with Raph until I snatched it out of the air and brought it home. Despite its complexity, it was one of the first pieces I'd taught myself to play.
My left hand bounced to start the grooving bass line, and after a few measures, led in the main riff with my right. Leo's interest was piqued, and he treaded lightly over to behind my shoulder, as if trying not to interrupt. Somehow, my audience of one made it much more challenging to focus on keeping a five-four beat. Apparently sensing my distraction, his hands landed gently on my ribs as he wrapped his ropey arms around my shell. In a moment, I tensed up and became an icicle.
"Don't stop." A husky breath landed in my ear, and I tried my damnedest to focus enough to obey. His fingertips drifted lower. "I love hearing you play."
"You're not making it easy." I stammered, and a chuckle escaped his lips before they planted on my neck.
"Mike and I are gonna go check out the boathouse." Raph leaned into the room, not particularly flinching at the sight of us. "Frozen pizzas are in the oven, so try to finish before the timer goes off, alright?"
"Alright." Leo attempted to sound unfazed. We could hear Raph faintly laughing as the screen door slammed behind him. I closed the creaking wooden cover over the keys, and placed a palm on Leo's cheek to break its lock on my collarbone, bringing his mouth up to meet mine.
