Island 731

“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—”