Page 15 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

Noah returned to the clearing and squared up with Mack, who leaned lazily against the porch beam.

“What do you do for a living?”

“Self-employed.”

“Doing what?”

“A little of this. A little of that. Handyman shit.”

“Sounds handy,” McKenzie said. “I could use one.”

“Sorry, I don’t fix ugly.”

McKenzie narrowed his gaze at him.

Noah nodded. “That truck yours?”

“Yup.”

“Must’ve cost a pretty penny. You buy that with cash too?”

Mack raised an eyebrow. “Is that illegal now?”

“No, just rare. Being a handyman doesn’t pay much. What about the Airstream?”

“What about it?”

“You bought one. Brand new. Silver. Where is it?”

Mack took a step forward, annoyed now. “Well, clearly not here. Why are you asking me these questions?”

Noah stared him down. “Let’s cut the shit. Where’s the money coming from to pay for all of this, Mack?”

Mack smiled, a crooked thing full of defiance. “I’ve got a rich uncle. Name’s Mr. None of Your Fucking Business.”

Noah didn’t blink. “We’ll find it.”

“Sure you will,” Mack replied with a smile.

Just then, McKenzie’s phone buzzed. He stepped away to answer, voice dropping low.

Seconds later, he motioned for Noah. “You need to hear this.”

“Not now.”

“Noah.”

Noah walked over. “What is it?”

“It’s Stephen Strudwell. They’ve found him.”

Noah’s jaw tightened. “Is he alive?”

McKenzie held up a hand. “Still breathing. But barely.”

Noah turned back to Mack. “This conversation isn’t over.”

“It is with me,” Mack replied. “I’m calling a lawyer.”

Noah’s foot jammed the accelerator to the floor. The Bronco tore down the dirt-packed road, suspension rattling with every pothole. Red and blue strobes flashed in the morning haze, slicing through mist and shadow as the forest blurred past.

Finally, a break in the case that would answer everything.

Stephen was alive.

The radio chatter crackled from the passenger seat, confirmation that a male matching his description had been found stumbling along a remote turnoff near Route 3, maybe a mile east of the Raquette River bridge.

Dirty. Bleeding. Disoriented. Hands zip-tied, according to the woman who’d seen him stagger from the treeline before collapsing.

“Don’t you dare die,” Noah muttered, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Not yet.”

The truck fishtailed on loose gravel as he swung hard onto the shoulder road marked only by a faded trail sign and two orange cones.

An EMT van and a sheriff’s SUV were already there, parked half in the ditch, rear doors open. A paramedic knelt by a figure on the ground; another rummaged through a med bag. Noah threw the Bronco into park and bolted out.

“Is he still alive?” he called, even before the door slammed shut behind him.

“He’s alive but unresponsive. Found him maybe ten minutes ago,” a deputy replied.

Noah hurried over.

Stephen lay on the forest floor, partially turned onto his side, his face bloodied and pale.

A long gash ran down the left side of his head, caked in dried and fresh blood.

His wrists were bound in front of him with plastic zip ties, streaked with dirt.

His shirt was ripped open and his ribs jutted sharply beneath his skin.

“Damn,” Noah breathed. “Did he say anything?”

The lead EMT shook his head. “He was semi-lucid when we got here. Eyes opened, then closed again. Vitals were shallow. We’re prepping him for transport now.”

Stephen let out a low moan, almost a whisper. His eyes fluttered. Noah crouched beside him, careful not to touch.

“Stephen. Stephen, it’s Noah Sutherland, BCI. You’re safe. You’re okay. Who did this?”

The boy’s lips moved slightly, cracked and dry. No words came out. Just a strained breath.

Noah leaned closer. “Who did this to you? Do you remember what happened?”

Stephen’s eyes opened again, barely. His pupils were glassy, unfocused. He started to lift his hands, but they barely moved an inch. A spasm rippled through his chest. Then he coughed hard, and his whole body jerked.

“We have to take him!” the EMT ordered. “Get the gurney over. We’re loading now.”

Noah stepped back as they secured Stephen’s limbs and rolled him onto his side, slipping a backboard beneath him. The teen let out a small, gurgled groan.

He’s going to make it, Noah told himself. He has to.

They hoisted him onto the gurney and rushed him to the ambulance. Noah followed behind, heart pounding, catching pieces of radio updates and medical jargon: low BP, borderline hypothermic, possible concussion, signs of dehydration.

One of the EMTs climbed in and reached for the oxygen mask. Stephen’s head lolled.

Then his chest seized. His body arched slightly, once, then again.

A flat sound cut through the tension.

“Shit,” the EMT barked. “He’s coding! We’re losing him?—!”

“Get the paddles!” the other shouted.

Noah stood frozen just outside the rear doors, watching as they started compressions. The driver turned and yelled to someone, but it was all a blur.

“Clear!”

Stephen’s body jumped once. Nothing.

“Clear!”

No change.

The monitor beeped once, then flatlined again.

“C’mon,” the EMT grunted, sweating now. “Don’t do this. Don’t?—”

Another shock. More compressions.

Noah swallowed hard, fists clenched. “Come on, kid,” he whispered. “Hold on. Just a little longer.”

Inside the rig, one of the EMTs slowed his rhythm, then stopped. He looked to the other, who was still holding the defibrillator.

“No response,” he said quietly.

“Time?” the second asked.

The EMT checked his watch. “8:58 a.m.”

A long silence.

“He’s gone.”

Noah exhaled a single word. “Shit.”

He banged a fist against the ambulance in frustration, then stepped back, the morning chill cutting through his jacket. The trees stood still. No birds, no rustling, only the faint hum of the ambulance engine and the weight of failure pressing into his spine.

Stephen Strudwell, their one link, their one chance at an easy answer, was dead.

And someone had made damn sure of it.