Burt Macklin: Raptor Wrangler
The sun was nearly setting as Burt Macklin stepped onto the dock to survey the day’s newest batch of park guests. The day’s dying light was harsh and orange and bright as he slipped on his trademark aviators, the only thing left from his days in the FBI. Macklin’s eyes scanned the crowd of incoming tourists, looking for a familiar face- not that he’d ever admit to himself who exactly he was looking for.
…Not that he’d ever admit to himself the real reason why he’d turned his back on the boys at Kwan-ta-crow.
It had been the late John Hammond that had offered Macklin the job as Head of Park Security at the newly renovated Jurassic World. He’d gone home to frame his “I was in the FBI” certificate and there he’d been, waiting with a frosty bottle of champagne.
Now the certificate hung behind his desk in his office. They’d given him a nice office- one of the nicest, he ascertained using his elite government training. From his desk he could look out over all of Isla Nublar: From the Tyrannosaur Paddock in the east to the Ichthyosaur training pool in the west. It was his kingdom and Macklin ruled over it like a kind, aviator-sporting monarch. He’d even found a way to train and befriend the raptors- they said it couldn’t be done but Macklin had found a way. He learned. He learned a lot. He’d learned that you could hide from a lot of things on an island like this. Hide in the revelry, hide in the dinosaur scat, hide in those round shirt-racks full of licensed tees.
But you could never hide from your past.
Especially if your past was a dame named Janet Snakehole with mile-high legs and eyes like chocolate M&Ms that he said were for the raptors but secretly were for him and stained his teeth and tongue and one time melted in his standard-issue park khakis on an especially humid day.
Eyes that found him from across the crowded dock and pulled him from his thoughts.
It couldn’t be.
She came closer, moving like a shadow in all black with a giant floppy black sunhat. She carried no luggage with her, just a mimosa with a single flower petal floating in the top.
“Miss Snakehole.” He hoped his tone didn’t betray his surprise… or his happiness at seeing her again. “I thought I’d seen the last of you after retrieving the President’s rubies from Judy Hitler. Don’t tell me the leader of the free world has misplaced his valuables again.”
“Don’t be silly, Macklin. I’m here on family business.” She knocked back her mimosa in a single gulp and tossed the glass behind her without looking. It shattered at the feet of a very confused tourist who’d already tripped twice AND spilled au jus down the front of his Hawaiian shirt on the journey over.
His name was Larry… or Jerry? Gary, maybe? It didn’t matter. His disproportionately hot wife was already brushing the delicate glass out of his way. Macklin turned his attention back to the only woman to ever win his heart. A snakebite that never healed, if you will.
“What family is that, Miss Snakehole?” Her father was a small business owner in Pawnee, Indiana- hardly the type of place that would warrant Janet’s trip to the small island off the coast of Costa Rica.
She smiled, a sly big-bad-wolf type of grin. “You don’t know? Of course you don’t know. My mother is Roberta…” She paused and leaned in so close Macklin could nearly smell her perfume. But he couldn’t and that was probably a good thing because he had very delicate sinuses. “Roberta Hammond. John Hammond was my grandfather.”
She scanned the crowd before continuing. “Something’s gone missing from the labs. Dinosaur DNA. Enough to build an army of super-smart raptors. This is big, Macklin. Bigger than you or me or the damned President’s rubies! We need you, Burt… I need you.”
“Well then, Miss Snakehole…” He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her in close as the sun set over Isla Nublar and the last of the boats pulled away from the dock. “…Janet. It would appear that a game is the foot.”