Island 731

“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 pina 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.”