Hawkins had never been more proud. When he finished college with a degree in conservation and a minor in English, he decided to carry on the GoodTracks legacy by becoming a park ranger specializing in rescue and recovery. And no one was better.
But the beautiful landscape of Yellowstone was sometimes a very dangerous place to be. The scars on Hawkins’s chest were a stark reminder of what could happen when people lower their guard. He’d become so good at his job—a legend in the business of finding people—that it went to his head. Blinded by overconfidence, he’d stood his ground, hunting knife in hand, against a grizzly bear intent on ransacking a campsite. The campers had fled, but rather than join them, Hawkins had stayed. The result was etched on his chest … and dead at his feet. He would have likely died himself if one of the campers hadn’t returned and dragged him out of the woods.
Howie had visited him in the hospital. “You’ve lost respect for the power of nature,” he had said. “Step back and find your path again.”
Trusting Howie above all else, Hawkins had taken his mentor’s advice and pursued his second passion: writing. But his thoughts and dreams remained in the forest, which he still visited but hadn’t worked in for the past five years. And he wasn’t sure he ever would again. But now, someone—likely Kam—had fled into the jungle and was likely lost.
Joliet turned to him and said, “Don’t you mean, ‘did’? Past tense. You’re a writer now. You don’t find people lost in the woods anymore.”
Hawkins looked out at the distant shoreline and the barefoot tracks lining the beach. “Today, I do.”
9.
Mark Hawkins’s father had been a strict man. Not the modern “time out” kind of strict. Closer to the “boy, don’t make me take off my belt and give you a whuppin” kind. His father’s belt’s sheen had been worn off, mostly on Hawkins’s backside. But he’d grown accustomed to the anger, and the violence, and even the angriest man, woman, or animal couldn’t make him flinch.
So when a furious Captain Drake went on a verbal rampage upon hearing the news that Cahill’s body had been snatched away, that Kam was missing and likely lost on the island, and that his ship was still dead in the water for no reason anyone could fathom, he vented his uncommon rage with a string of curses punctuated by throwing a mug across the wheelhouse.
The sharp crash of shattering porcelain against the hard metal wall snapped the man from his flare-up. He put his hands behind his head and turned away from the crew, taking a deep breath as he looked out at the island.
Hawkins waited for the man to speak. Joliet, Bray, Jones, and Jim Clifton, the younger of the two Tweedles, stood silent, waiting for the captain to regain his composure.
Despite being the second-largest man on the ship, outsized only by his brother, Clifton looked ready to bolt. His face glowed red. His bald forehead and jowls were slick was sweat. The big man did not like confrontation. Hawkins felt bad for the man. His job was to cook, a task he and his brother were quite good at, so he wasn’t accustomed to being on the receiving end of the captain’s anger. Hawkins was about to tell the man he could leave when Drake turned to face them again.
“Let me make sure I understood everything,” the captain said. “A shark took Cahill’s body.”
“My daughter didn’t think it was a shark,” Jones said.
Drake nodded. “Noted. But I think we can all agree a shark is the only thing that makes sense.”
Hawkins, Joliet, and Bray all nodded. Jones didn’t look so sure, but eventually consented. The younger Clifton just stared, looking petrified. Drake noticed and softened his tone. “Jim, how are things in the galley?”
“Everything works. Power is on so all the food is good. We can cook. Just need to finish cleaning up the, ahh, the mess.”
Drake offered the man a smile and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “First good news I heard all day. Why don’t you head back down and help Ray finish cleaning. Then see about lunch.”
“I’ll need mine to go,” Hawkins said.
“Mine, too,” Joliet added.
Bray raised his hand. “Make that three.”
“Okay,” Jim said before hurrying belowdecks.
When the nervous chef was gone, Drake’s scowl returned and he turned to Hawkins. “May I remind you that I’m the captain of this ship and no one—” He glanced at Joliet. “I mean no one, makes a decision about what happens aboard the Magellan without my say-so.” His eyes turned to Bray. “That goes for you, too, funny man. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Hawkins said, knowing that a show of respect would help calm the man.
“Fine,” Joliet said.
“You think I’m funny?” Bray asked.
Hawkins gave his head a slight shake. Drake was an old navy man and as captain of the Magellan, his orders were as though from God himself. Hawkins made a mental note to explain this to Joliet and Bray.