Joliet didn’t weigh much, but when she added her weight to Hawkins’s, the front end lowered and revealed the beach, now just twenty feet way. As they entered the shallows, Bray opened up the throttle all the way, for just a moment, and then shut the engine off and tilted it forward, lifting the propeller out of the water.
Momentum carried them through the two-foot-deep shallows. Fish scattered as they passed by. Hawkins imagined how easy fishing would be here and thought they would have no trouble staying alive if they were, in fact, stranded. A loud sifting sound coupled with a jolt announced their arrival at the beach. The boat slid halfway ashore before stopping and Bray wasted no time leaping onto the sand.
Hawkins took a backpack of supplies and tossed it hard to Bray, who caught it, but not well. “What the hell was that?”
“What?” Bray said.
“You nearly flipped the boat,” Hawkins pointed out.
“You want to be eaten by a shark?” Bray answered.
“Sharks don’t eat ten-foot Zodiacs,” Hawkins said.
“If it’s a shark,” Bray said, “and it’s strong enough and big enough to make short work of that fishing net, I don’t think it would have any trouble with an inflatable Zodiac.”
“He’s right,” Joliet said, catching Hawkins off guard. “Sharks routinely attack small boats. Even if it’s just out of curiosity, one bite would sink a Zodiac.”
Hawkins wasn’t above admitting he was wrong. “Okay. I’m sorry. How about a little warning next time?”
“Done,” Bray said.
The three of them dragged the boat up onto the beach and Hawkins tied it off to the base of a palm tree. After securing the boat to ensure high tide didn’t sweep it away, he looked up at the palms shifting in the breeze above. “No coconuts.”
“Who cares?” Bray said. “You planning on having a piña colada?”
“Nevermind.”
“You think we’re stuck here,” Joliet said. “Don’t you?”
Hawkins stepped past the pair and started down the beach. “Let’s just find the footprints.”
“Well, that’s a yes if I ever didn’t hear one,” Bray said as he gave chase.
Hawkins quickly found the line of footprints and knelt to inspect them, hoping they would distract Bray from his line of questioning. While he didn’t know for sure that they were stranded, he wanted to be prepared for the possibility. He’d keep track of every food and water source they came across. There were eleven crew members to feed—not including Kam—and while their supplies would last a while, especially if rationed, eleven people wouldn’t be easy to feed. And while there were plenty of fish in the water, there were also sharks, which apparently could eat people and boats.
“He was running before he hit the beach,” Hawkins said, looking at the footprints, which were actually closer to toeprints.
“Unless he was tip-toeing,” Bray said, and when Joliet and Hawkins both gave him disapproving glances, he added, “What?”
“No blood,” Hawkins noted. “I don’t think he was injured.”
They followed the tracks, which led along the shore for thirty feet before veering to the left and disappearing into the jungle. They stopped at the line of trees and brush that fringed the beach.
“Does this not make sense to anyone else, or is it just me?” Bray asked.
“What doesn’t make sense?” Joliet asked.
“First of all, Kam goes outside during the middle of a storm—a storm that killed Cahill, an experienced sailor. We have to then assume that Kam fell overboard, or was swept overboard by a wave. Yet he somehow stayed with the Magellan.”
Joliet answered, “He could have been caught in a net, like Cahill, but higher. Above the waterline.”
“Okay,” Bray said, “so he’s caught in a net, on the outside of the ship, where he spends the night being pummeled and nearly drowned by waves. He survives until morning, and instead of calling for help, or climbing the net, he drops into the water, has the energy to swim to shore, with a killer shark at his heels. Then he runs—runs—onto the shore, along the length of the beach and finally into the jungle. No open wounds. No broken legs. And full of energy. I don’t know if you noticed, but we were in the wheelhouse and knocked down for the count. So how did a little guy like Kam pull that off? And if he was so afraid of the shark, why didn’t he run straight into the jungle?”
Hawkins replayed Bray’s words in his mind. He couldn’t find a single flaw in the man’s reasoning. “Right, right. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Unless he was panicked,” Joliet said. “He would have been delirious when he ran along the beach. Not thinking. And then he saw something that both of you have missed.” She pointed to the edge of the jungle where the footprints led.
Hawkins eyed the brush. It was subtle, but he could see what Joliet had already seen—a break in the overgrowth.
“I don’t see a thing,” Bray said.
Hawkins stepped up to the jungle and placed his hand on a large-leafed tropical plant. “There’s a path,” he said, and then pushed the big leaves aside.
The revealed path was subtle, but present. Like a long, thick snake, the dirt path wound its way around trees, brush, and rocks, leading into the dimly lit jungle. A wash of humidity and earthy scents rolled over them. The place had its own scent, fertile and organic. Living. Hawkins noticed goose bumps rising on the skin of Joliet’s bare arms.
She noted his attention and said, “You feel it, too.”
“Feel what?” Bray asked.
“Nothing,” Hawkins said, stepping back onto the beach. He turned back to the Magellan and removed a small two-way radio from his pocket. He depressed the Talk button. “Captain Drake, this is Hawkins, do you read? Over.”
After a burst of static, Drake’s voice came from the small speaker. “I read you, Hawkins, and I’ve got my eyes on you, as well. Found a trail? Over.”
“Yeah, we’re going to head in after him. Over.”
“Copy that,” Drake replied. “Go find our boy and bring him home. Over and out.”
Hawkins put the radio back in his cargo shorts pocket. He found the captain’s choice of language amusing. Kam was certainly not their “boy,” though it’s possible that Drake did think of the Magellan as home. He’d been captain of the vessel for ten years and spent more time aboard the ship than he did on land.
“You know,” Bray said. “You guys sometimes have this psychic communication thing where you think the same thing—usually something bad—and don’t tell me what it is. It’s kind of annoying.”
As Hawkins turned to Bray, he felt something hard beneath his foot. He glanced down and saw a strangely shaped stone poking out from beneath the sand. He nearly didn’t give it a second thought, but a portion of the sand covering the object slid away. Not away, Hawkins thought. Inside. The shape of the opening left behind was instantly recognizable. He’d seen it before, when he recovered the body of a woman who’d been lost in the woods for three months. She’d been scavenged by wolves, birds, and bugs. She was just bones when they found her, just five hundred feet from a marked trail.
The skull confirmed Hawkins’s suspicions. He bent down, put his finger in the eye socket, and pulled. The skull came free, sand pouring through its various openings, concealing its shape.
“What is that?” Joliet asked.
“Confirmation.” Hawkins turned the skull over so that its blank stare faced at the other two.
Bray jumped back. “Holy shit!”
Joliet gasped, but then quickly took the skull from Hawkins, inspecting every inch.
“This is what we were thinking,” Hawkins said. “We’re not the first people to find this island.”
“It looks like he was bludgeoned,” Joliet said, pointing out the caved-in hole in the top of the skull.
“Yes,” Hawkins said. “She was.”
Somehow the idea that the skull belonged to a woman revolted Joliet. She handed the skull back to Hawkins and wiped her hands on her
shorts.
“How can you tell it’s a woman?” Bray asked after taking a few steps back.
“The narrow jaw, chin, and cheekbones. The skull size and lack of a brow line are good indicators, too.” Hawkins turned the skull over in his hands. “The skull is discolored, so she’s been dead for a long time, but there’s no way to say how long. Could be ten years. Could be a hundred. She’s been buried beneath the hot, dry sand, above the waterline, so she’s been well preserved.”
“What’s holding you up? Over,” Drake’s voice said from the two-way radio in Hawkins’s pocket.
Everyone, including Hawkins, jumped at the sound, and he nearly dropped the skull. After fishing out the radio, he pushed the Talk button and replied, “Drake, we found a skull. Over.”
“A skull?”
“She’s old, sir. Nothing to worry about. But we’re not the first people to find this island. Over.”
“Copy that,” Drake said. “Would have been surprised if we had been. Any idea what happened to her? Over.”
“Honestly,” Hawkins said, holding down the button. “Best guess is that she was murdered. Over.”
“Murdered?” Drake said, his voice full of surprise.
Hawkins inspected the caved-in skull. “Yes, sir. Without a doubt. But I think it’s safe to say that this is a mystery to be solved another time. She’s long since dead. Over.”
After a moment, Drake replied. “Agreed. Over.”
“Actually,” Bray said. “I think I’m going to stay behind. See if I can’t uncover more of the body.”
“What?” Joliet said. “Why?”
“Doesn’t seem right just leaving her here,” Bray said, stepping closer and taking the skull for the first time.
“I don’t mean to be micromanaging you all from the ship,” Drake said. “But what’s the holdup? The sun isn’t going to stay in the sky all day. Over.”
Hawkins sighed. “Sir, Bray is requesting to stay behind and exhume the rest of the body. Over.”
After a moment, Drake replied. “Let him stay. The pudgy bastard’s just going to slow you two down. Over.”
Hawkins and Joliet laughed.
Bray bristled and said, “Hey!”
With a shrug, Hawkins said, “He’s right.”
“Assholes,” Bray said, but he couldn’t disguise the thin smile on his face.
Hawkins pushed the Talk button on the radio. “Joliet and I are heading out now. Bray is staying behind. Keep an eye on him. If we’re not back by nightfall, help him get back to the ship without crashing the Zodiac into the side. Over.”
“Copy that, Ranger, good hunting. Out.”
After shaking hands with Bray, Hawkins led the way into the humid jungle. The air was thick with the scent of rot. He knew there was little to fear on the island. Beyond a few bird species, the island would be unpopulated. Even though he’d never admit it, the skull had him spooked. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but had no doubt something awful had happened here. The very air seemed tainted by it. He pushed his irrational fears aside and focused on the mission at hand: Find Kam and get the hell off this island.
11.
Ten feet into the jungle, Kam’s footprints included deep, round heel marks. This was good news because they would catch up to him more quickly if he was walking, but also added one more layer of confusion to the young intern’s disappearance. If he’d entered the jungle in a panicked state, why had he stopped running as soon as he’d no longer been visible? Since then, the footprints revealed a calm, measured gate, which stayed on the muddy path.
This is going to be easy, Hawkins thought. Howie GoodTracks had taught him to notice the minutest aberrations in the natural world. Every scuff, scratch, indentation, or patch of grass bent in the wrong direction told a story. The depth of a footprint in mud could reveal the target’s size, weight, and sex. When tracking people, the gait, or distance between steps, and what part of the foot sank deepest revealed a person’s mind-set—calmly strolling, running flat out, or ambling randomly, like most lost people do. The angle of a bent branch could even hint at the target’s speed and, based on the freshness of the break, when they’d passed through. Skills like these weren’t taught in many schools, and certainly not by people like GoodTracks, who didn’t just know these things, but lived them. With Kam not hiding his path, most of these skills wouldn’t be necessary, but if Kam wandered off the trail, Hawkins would be able to follow him just as easily.
Twenty minutes into their rapid-paced hike, the trail rose up a steep grade. They slowed as they followed the path up, occasionally needing to scale short rock walls. At the top of one such stony rise, Hawkins leaned over the edge and reached his hand down to Joliet.
She took his hand and quickly scaled the eight-foot wall. At the top, she sat with her legs hanging over the edge and caught her breath. Hawkins sat next to her and opened his pack. After taking a swig of water, he offered her the bottle and she helped herself. The air in the jungle felt thick enough to drink and their bodies were saturated. But they still sweated in the late-afternoon heat and needed to drink often.
Hawkins took the bottle from Joliet when she offered it back to him, took one more swig, and capped it. Neither had said a word as they followed the path to this point, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. They’d often spent quiet days on the deck of the Magellan, reading books, writing, or just catching some rays. It was one of the things he liked most about her, but the silence was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Joliet spoke first. “What are you thinking?”
“You don’t want to know,” Hawkins answered. And he believed it. During the last twenty minutes, he’d allowed his imagination to run wild, filling in the blanks of Kam’s disappearance and working out several different scenarios. Some were farfetched and easily dismissed. Others fit, but seemed unlikely, which was unfortunate because they had happy endings. But there was one scenario that nagged at him. The sequence of events lined up and the evidence seemed to support it. Unfortunately, that scenario wouldn’t have a happy ending.
“Can’t be as bad as what I’m thinking,” she replied.
Hawkins knew she wouldn’t give up. Her dogged persistence in all things was one of her attributes that he respected, but with which he often felt annoyed. Still, he’d learned that giving in right away kept things pleasant. “Okay, here’s my theory. Kam and Cahill had some kind of falling out. Best guess is that Kam somehow screwed up the computers by accident. When Cahill confronted him, he ran and ended up on deck. When Cahill followed into the storm, he was knocked overboard. Kam made it back inside and hid until the storm ended. Fearing discipline or even legal action because of Cahill’s death, Kam fled to the island. He wasn’t running from a shark, which is why he ran along the shoreline, rather than straight across it. He ran because he didn’t want to be seen. Concealed in the jungle, he slowed to a walk. Kam feels responsible for Cahill’s death, and possibly for screwing up the ship. That’s my best theory.”
Joliet sagged. “I came up with the same thing. Do you really think Kam would run? If it was an accident—”
“There is the possibility that it wasn’t an accident,” Hawkins said. “That their confrontation on deck ended in violence.”
Joliet’s eyes widened. “You think he murdered Cahill?”
“Not premeditated. But if they fought, and that’s what caused Cahill to fall overboard, it’s still manslaughter.”
Joliet shook her head. “I just can’t picture Kam doing something like that. He’s such a sweet kid, not to mention half the size of Cahill.”
“People do stupid things,” Hawkins replied, thinking of the drunk man who’d been gored by a bison after walking up to the sleeping giant and slapping its snout. “Was Cahill a drinker?” It was an awful thing to hope for, but he wanted Kam to be innocent, too.
“I’ve never seen him drink,” Joliet said. “Not even before we left.”
Captain Drake had taken the crew out to a restaurant the night before they
’d left. Hawkins tried to remember that night now, but his own drinking fogged the memory. He did remember flirting with Joliet, and being shot down, but had no memory of Cahill imbibing.
“You didn’t drink that night, either, did you?” he asked.
“Nope, and I remember every word, story, and grope.”
Hawkins froze. He slowly turned to her. “I didn’t…?”
Joliet’s serious expression softened with a smile. “Don’t worry, Ranger. Wasn’t you.” She stood up, brushed off her shorts, and straightened her tight, blue T-shirt.
As she started up the trail again, he stood and gave chase. “Wait, who was it then? If it was Bray, I’m going to—”
Joliet stopped and raised an open palm in his direction. He fell silent and stood next to her. She pointed up the steep, jungle-covered hillside.
“I don’t see anything,” he whispered.
“Between the trees near the top,” she said. “There’s something gray.”
It took him a moment, but when he saw it, the flat gray surface stood out. “The hell?”
His hand went to his waist, feeling the handle of his hunting knife. Its presence put him at ease. “Let’s check it out.”
Following the path, they wound their way up the hillside. As they neared the top, the incline grew steeper and the path became a series of switchbacks. Hawkins didn’t like that they had to pass in front of the aberration several times. Something about it made him wary, and every pass left him feeling more exposed. Vulnerable.
But nothing happened. They followed the last path to the top where it wrapped around a stand of trees. Hawkins’s hand went to his knife again as they rounded the palms, but when he got his first look at what waited for them, he knew the weapon wasn’t needed.
Vines covered much of the gray concrete, but given its location at the top of the hill, Hawkins could see the structure for what it was. “It’s a pillbox.”
“A what?”
“Pillbox. From World War Two. The Japanese must have occupied this island.” Hawkins stepped through the open backside of the concrete octagon. A long, thin opening stretched across the side facing the hill. He looked out and could see patches of the path below. “Anyone advancing up the hillside would have had a hell of a time reaching the top without being cut to pieces by machine gun fire. They probably had a lot of the brush and trees cleared away back then.”
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