The Piano (Intro)
Washington County, New York
September 1977
Mike is sitting at the piano when the long beep comes. He thinks it might be the episode where Gilligan and the rest think that a bunch of gangsters are on the island, but it turns out only to be the parrot. That parrot is so annoying.
But that long beep keeps going. That’s not the parrot—that’s the Emergency System sound! He hops down and hurries to the other room to see what it is. Train derailed? Nuke meltdown? Hijacked plane? Better not just be one of those tests.
Gilligan’s Island is still on, but the sound is off and there are letters scrawling across the bottom of the screen.
“… not a test …”
YES!
“… Alert: Residents of Rensselaer, Saratoga, Warren, and Washington Counties be advised …”
Washington! All right!
“… A pair of inmates has escaped from Great Meadow Correctional Facility. …”
Mike leans in closer. Why does it scroll so slow!
“… A manhunt is under way, but residents are encouraged to remain vigilant, secure doors and windows, and report suspicious persons or activities immediately. …”
C’mon … say it. …
“… Note that the fugitives are likely armed and considered dangerous. …”
YES!
“… Tune in to ABC-7 Local News at 5:00 for more information. …”
The sound comes back on, but Mike is already out the back door, having crammed his camo backpack with emergency rations (seven Oreos and whatever was left in a Ritz box), a canteen of water, his Swiss Army knife, and his trusty Astra .44 Magnum.
The cops may not know where the fugitives are, but Special Agent Mike Monsoon does! They’re in the same place where he busted a ring of satanic cultists, brought down a bunch of bootleggers, and—just last month—tracked down the Son of Sam. They’re in the woods behind his house.
The contents of his backpack rattle importantly as he sprints across the empty lot behind his house and into the woods. It’s a little late in the afternoon for a woods run, but his mom won’t be home from work until seven. Plenty of time to bring in a couple of two-bit fugitives like these. Bet they’re brothers. Bet they’ve got a notorious-sounding name, like … Griffin—the Griffin Brothers! He can see the mug shots now. The older brother: dead eyes, lantern jaw, cauliflower ears, barely any neck at all. The younger one: unshaven, bulging eyes, sideways nose, sideways sneer. Bad news, both of ’em.
Connor is waiting for him in the woods. He gives a salute and falls in behind Mike. They run down the familiar paths, dodging from tree to tree.
“They say it was an inside job,” Connor says.
Mike leans against a tree, tips back his canteen, and gives a quick nod.
“Makes sense,” he says. “Great Meadow’s a maximum-security facility. You don’t bust outta there without some help. Keep your head on a swivel, pal. These boys won’t go quietly.”
Mike checks the sky.
“You have to go home already?” Connor says.
“Soon,” Mike says, standing up. “Bigger issue is we don’t have night-vision gear. Keep low now.”
Mike skulks along the bank of the creek he calls River Kree, .44 held low, peering around each tree before moving to the next. Have to be careful now. There’re things in these woods besides the Griffin Brothers.
“Hey,” Connor whispers, but his voice is not behind Mike, where it should be. It’s coming from the other side of the creek, like, the not-supposed-to-go side. “I know where they are. Over here!”
Mike just stands there, eyebrows scrunched up and mouth open.
Connor smiles. “C’mon, partner! I think I smell a campfire!”
He disappears into the dense thicket without a rustle. Mike chews his lip.
Squish!
Mike’s sneakers sink into the mud on the far side of the creek, and now he’s moving forward, heart racing, that giddy, heady feeling you get when you break a boundary. No paths here, no remnants of forts he’s built, no trees he’s ever climbed. No idea what’s up ahead. Just pine trees towering overhead and pine needles crackling underfoot.
Connor is a silent, darting shadow in the late afternoon sunshine. Mike looks back. Can’t see the creek anymore. But Special Agent Monsoon never stops when he’s on a fugitive’s trail!
Deeper and deeper into the woods. No way he’ll be back before Mom gets home. She’ll kill him if he gets lost, especially if they find him on the no-go side of the creek. The fun is wearing off.
And then, the worst thing you can see in unfamiliar woods when the sun is going down: It’s a house. An abandoned, ramshackle, three-story building that the forest is slowly taking apart. The windows are broken, the door hangs wildly on busted hinges, the roof sags. Except … it’s not so abandoned, because there’s a light coming from one of the windows. A weak, yellow flicker on the first floor, and there are noises coming from there, too.
“It’s them!” says Connor. “Must be doing push-ups or something. Let’s go!”
Connor flits right up to the house, to just beneath the window with the light. Mike realizes he is standing right in what used to be the backyard of this house. Out in the open. The plastic gun in his hand doesn’t feel so reassuring anymore. The Griffin Brothers, the reward, and Connor: These are things from one place. This house, that flickering light: things from somewhere else.
The noise coming from the room makes Mike nervous, and it makes him want to look. Just a quick, quiet look, then straight back the way he came. All he has to do is find the creek; then he’ll be fine.
He sneaks up next to Connor, who is holding his own gun at the ready, serious expression on his face, waiting for orders.
Mike stands up and peeks through the window.
A squat, red candle sputters in a pool of dark red on the floor. It smells like cinnamon. There’s also a white cardboard box with a tap and two red Solo cups. But the noises are coming from the mattress in the corner. It is dirty, and on top of it is a bunch of skin and a shock of bright, curly red hair. Mike knows her. It’s Doreen Dorsey. And also some dude.
He ducks back down. His heart is beating very fast. So fast his stomach starts to hurt.
“You have to go,” Mike whispers.
Connor gives a nod. “Right, I’ll take the back door. Cover me.”
“No, I mean I have to go home,” Mike hisses. “And you have to, you have to go.”
Connor doesn’t seem to hear him. He looks scared, then sad. “I gotcha, partner,” he says. “I’ll take it from here!”
The porch stairs squeak and the wonky screen door bangs as Connor darts into the house.
“Stop!” It’s her voice. Doreen’s. “Scott, stop! Did you hear that?”
“It’s a squirrel or something,” a deeper voice answers, out of breath. “Come on—”
“Shh!” Doreen hisses.
Silence for a moment. Then a floorboard squeaks somewhere in the house. A door opens on old and angry hinges.
“Scott!” she says.
“Hello?” the dude says. Somebody’s getting up, getting dressed.
“I’m leaving,” Doreen says.
“Will you wait—”
But her feet are thumping on the floorboards. Scott’s follow.
Mike makes himself small and doesn’t move as their silhouettes emerge from the door and disappear around the corner of the house.
A car cranks, then a crunch of gravel as the car takes them away. Mike is alone, but they forgot the candle.
He looks through the window again. The candle is burning low on a bed of dry leaves and pine needles, casting strange shadows on the cracked, peeling wallpaper.
Mike is afraid and he’s late, super-late, and maybe even lost. But what if that candle burns down all the way? Will it burn the house down? Will it burn his whole woods down?
He makes his way inside the house, moving slowly, trying to figure out where the room with the mattress is. He finds it, picks up the candle, and he’s about to blow it out, but he stops.
“Connor?”
Silence.
In the long, central hallway, there is a door to the basement. The door is open, and there is a draft coming from below. Mike shields the flame with his hand and passes it by.
“Connor?”
Silence.
In a large room near the front of the house, Mike stops, heart pounding. There are two candle flames dancing in front of him, but it is only a cracked mirror reflecting his own candle. A piano is in the room, the bench pulled out like someone has just stepped away. Mike wants to hear something besides silence in this house. He brushes the worn keys with his fingers. Does it work?
He plays a melody. The door to the basement slams shut. The candle goes out.