Page 44 of Her Final Hours (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #3)
T hey operated under a code of silence.
If it wasn’t for Patrick running his mouth, there was a good chance the connection wouldn’t have been made. Fortunately, no search warrant was required as they had reasonable belief that evidence would be destroyed and others would be placed in danger in the time it would take to secure one.
As such, the scene at the Fish and Game Hunting Club had turned into chaos and intensity.
The Adirondack Sheriff’s Office and State swarmed the area, their vehicles lining the gravel road that led to the club’s main building.
Flashing lights and blaring sirens pierced the frozen forest, shattering the atmosphere that enveloped the usual hunting grounds.
The relentless snowstorm enveloping the region became the barrier where crime scene tape would have usually been stretched around the perimeter, creating a divide between law enforcement officers, media, and curious onlookers.
Residents had been instructed to stay indoors, the homes serving as fortresses against the raging elements outside.
The swirling snowflakes and biting wind had effectively locked down the community, creating an isolated and lonely atmosphere.
The few club members who had braved the weather for early morning breakfast were taken aback as deputies took over, detaining those inside while others diligently searched for evidence.
Inside the building, Callie and McKenzie were on a mission to uncover any clues that could shed light on what Patrick had told them, Mia’s whereabouts, and the location of holding areas. The air inside was tense, thick with the scent of wood polish and lingering anxiety.
They had started their search in an office, hoping to find files or documents that might hold answers.
But frustration was mounting, evident in McKenzie’s voice as he slammed shut a metal filing cabinet door.
“Nothing! Not a damn thing,” he exclaimed, irritated.
“And there’s so much paperwork here we would be drowning in this until next year. ”
“Keep looking,” Callie said, scanning the surroundings as she exited the office.
She found herself in a lounge, an inviting space where club members could relax, socialize, and build camaraderie.
The walls were adorned with mounted deer heads and skulls of various animals, creating an eerie yet unmistakably hunting-theme ambiance.
Taxidermy specimens were strategically placed, their glassy eyes watching over the room.
Adjacent to the lounge was a bar displaying an assortment of liquor bottles, hinting at the revelry that often took place in the room. The sounds of glasses clinking and laughter from past gatherings seemed to echo in the air .
It disturbed and burned her to think that conversations about hunts could involve the capture of young girls.
As Callie continued exploring, she was captivated by the visual narrative of the photographs adorning the walls.
Black-and-white and colorful images chronicled the club’s rich history, achievements, and community involvement.
Hunters were captured in frozen moments of triumph, posing proudly beside their kills.
Fishermen held up their trophy catches, grinning from ear to ear.
Group BBQ events showcased a sense of camaraderie and shared enjoyment.
Her gaze shifted to a plaque featuring the club’s charter and founding members, a testament to the roots and values that had shaped the organization.
Framed photographs revealed past presidents and officers of the club, highlighting their contributions and dedication.
Community service projects and international exchange programs were documented, portraying a sense of global connection and engagement.
How vast was the human trafficking network? She mulled the question, disgusted by its existence.
Her eyes were drawn to an awards and recognition area, where certificates and trophies hung on the walls, honoring the club’s accomplishments. Each one told a story of success, dedication, and the shared passion of its members.
Amidst the chaos of the investigation, Callie couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the victims and those club members not involved and who genuinely had no idea of the violation of the sanctuary.
“Hey, McKenzie, take a look at this,” Callie called out, her voice cutting through the air.
McKenzie, wandering in deep thought, turned to face her, muttering something about archaic forms of punishment.
Curious, he approached, and Callie pointed to a black-and-white photograph taken from above the area.
It showcased the Fish and Game Hunting Club, a common sight in clubs that aimed to highlight their property’s renovation and expansion over time.
“You notice something out of place here?” she said, her finger indicating a particular shot of a farm.
McKenzie squinted at the photograph and shrugged. “It’s a farm. And?”
Her eyes gleamed with realization. “All of these photos are from Elizabethtown and the club, except this one. This one is from Westport.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”
“Noah went out to the railroad and collected drone footage of the area where Jane Doe was found,” she explained. “I recognize that farm. It’s one of the only properties close to the tracks.”
McKenzie nodded with understanding. “You think that’s where they’re holding girls?”
Callie shrugged, not entirely sure but driven by intuition.
“Can’t be sure, but it would make an ideal place for transporting girls from a holding place to a freight train without being seen.
All of this around here is dense woodland.
Cut through there,” she said, tracing her finger across from the farm through the trees to the tracks, “and you could easily do it.” She quickly took a snapshot of the photograph with her phone and turned, walking away purposefully.
“Where are you going?” McKenzie called after her.
“To speak to the detained,” she replied, her voice determined.
She strode into the meeting hall, where deputies stood guard over multiple club members.
Her gaze roamed, singling out a man others had been conversing with — a man whose face matched those shown among the charter members.
Callie approached him, her presence commanding attention.
“Andrew Roberts?”
He glanced up, his expression tinged with annoyance. “Yeah? ”
“Who owns this place?” she asked, presenting him with the farm photograph.
Andrew seemed hesitant to respond, but Callie’s smile held a glimmer of leverage. She crouched to his level, her eyes locked with his. “Right now, your cooperation will go a long way with the court if it’s found that you are involved in the abduction of girls.”
Before Andrew could answer, another nearby voice interjected, clearly looking for an opportunity to strike a deal. “It’s club property.”
“Shut your pie hole, Pete,” Andrew snapped.
But Pete refused to back down. “I won’t. Whatever this place has brought down on themselves, I’m not going down with them.”
Callie’s mind absorbed the exchange, sensing that not everyone present was involved in the darker aspects of the club — this confirmation aligned with what Patrick had hinted at, the presence of factions within the organization.
Standing upright, Callie approached Pete, her gaze piercing. She pressed him for more information. “Who owns it?”
Pete hesitated for a second, then responded. “That, I can’t tell. I don’t know. But I know it’s used for long-term paying members for BBQs and weekend hunting retreats.”
Callie considered his words, her eyes scanning the vast expanse of surrounding woodland in the photo.
The location was remote, hidden from prying eyes, making it the ideal setting for the private parties Patrick had mentioned.
It was becoming clear that secrets were buried within the depths of the club that only a few were privy to.
“Thorne!” McKenzie called out, capturing her attention.
She turned and saw him gesturing with a jerk of his head, silently urging her to follow. Her curiosity was piqued as she went over to where he stood against a wall adorned with photographs capturing club events, barbecues, and member gatherings.
McKenzie stood before a particular photo and pointed to a group of gold members from 2022, all clad in orange vests, camo hunting gear, and holding rifles.
In front of them lay a collection of dead game birds.
Callie’s eyes scanned the faces, and there, amidst the group, she recognized Lucas Blackwood, Joseph Collins, Caleb Mitchell, and several others.
“And that’s not all….” McKenzie’s voice trailed off as he pointed to an older photo.
A group of younger men who would now be in their late fifties stood together in it.
Among them was Adrian Lopez, a man who had been caught abducting a girl and had died in prison due to cancer.
The realization hit Callie like a punch to the gut.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, her mind racing to connect the dots. “Spotters, holders, collectors.”
“And probably deliverers,” McKenzie said. The roles of the other seven men involved in the club’s dark activities began to take shape in her imagination.
Callie locked eyes with him; her expression matched his. “McKenzie, find out who the owner of that farm is.”
“Oh, I’m taking orders from you now?” he replied.
“Yeah, and you know you love it,” she said.
He grinned as she turned away from him, her mind already focused on the next steps.
Callie swiftly called, requesting deputies to be dispatched to bring in all the individuals whose faces adorned the photographs.
The net was closing in, and they needed to gather every piece of evidence to dismantle the twisted operation of the elite members of the Fish and Game Hunting Club.