Page 19 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

N oah rubbed a thumb into the corner of his eye as the call came through. He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours, and even that had been fractured. McKenzie was already sipping his second thermos of coffee when Savannah poked her head through the briefing room door.

"Warrant came through. Hawkins’ Airstream. We’ve got the green light."

Callie looked up from her phone. “Finally. That thing’s been sitting there like a goddamn time capsule.”

They headed out fast. The forest felt heavier than usual.

Dense heat clung to the air, and distant thunderheads bruised the northern sky.

Noah drove the gravel road slow, tires crackling as they turned toward the small forest cut where the Airstream sat, gleaming like a coin flipped face-up in the brush.

"Let’s see if the bogeyman left us a present," McKenzie muttered.

Noah parked. No signs of life. Just the silver tube of the trailer, tucked between overgrowth and pine, quiet and smug like it had been waiting.

Noah stepped up first, gloves on, hand brushing the cool metal skin. An officer busted open the door, as they weren’t able to get keys from Mack. He had managed to slip past the patrol officer they had stationed outside his home. No one had seen him since.

The door gave a long, dry creak as he opened it. A strong smell hit them immediately. “That’s…” McKenzie said, pulling his collar up.

“Bleach,” Callie finished. “And lemon cleaner," she added under her breath.

Inside, the space was tight, low-ceilinged. Gleaming counters. Fold-down table neatly aligned with its brackets. Sheets folded. No dust, no crumbs. Every surface had that artificial gleam that only happens when someone scrubs for show.

Callie crouched by a narrow drawer. “Travel mug. Two protein bars. An old copy of Survive! Quarterly magazine.”

McKenzie tapped the fridge open. “Four bottles of water. A six pack of beer. That’s it.”

Noah checked a small cubby above the sleeping berth. Empty. The bed looked barely used, though the sheets had been washed recently. He could still smell the lemon detergent under the chemicals.

In the sink, scrub marks curled in overlapping ovals. It was the work of a scouring pad. Deliberate. Showy.

Callie peeked under the futon with her Maglite. “Even the dust bunnies have been exorcised.”

McKenzie opened the tiny bathroom door. “He even cleaned the goddamn grout.”

Trash bin: empty. But the faint ring of dirt still outlined its base. A tiny detail, but telling, something had been there recently.

“Looks like someone was in a hurry to erase themselves," Noah murmured.

Callie, just behind him, ran a gloved finger along the bottom lip of the window screen. “Duct tape.” She peeled a half-hanging strip loose. “Maybe it held something. Maybe it didn’t.”

Noah’s eyes caught a faint set of boot prints under the fold-out table, muddied, drying. Not from any of them. Old. Faint. But real.

Then Callie’s voice: “Here.”

She pointed to the floor near the back hatch. There was a long, faint scratch mark.

“Looks like something heavy was dragged out of here,” she said.

No one answered that.

They regrouped outside, squinting into the heat-hazed trees. Thunder grumbled in the distance. Noah glanced at the paperwork again. Time stamps showed the warrant had sat idle for hours in someone’s inbox before it was forwarded.

“No rush, right?” he muttered, voice flat.

Callie crossed her arms. “Somebody delayed the warrant, maybe tipped him. Either that, or Mack’s just five steps ahead.”

“He's ex-Ranger,” McKenzie said. “Maybe he's got someone inside the department who warned him.”

“Or he knows Luther,” Noah added.

A voice startled them. A man in a black T-shirt and camo hat had stepped out from a neighboring camper across the dirt trail. A seasonal worker. Probably pushing sixty.

“You folks looking for the bearded fella?” he asked. “That trailer guy?”

“We are,” Noah said. “You see anything unusual?”

The man shrugged. “Saw him loading gear real late, one night back. Maybe 1, or 2 a.m. Dark pickup. Couldn’t tell the make. No plates on the back.”

“Did he load any boxes?” McKenzie asked.

“Hard to tell. Plastic totes, maybe. Could’ve been camping stuff. Could’ve been something else.”

Noah made a note. Still no real timeline. Just glimpses. Clues without edges.

As the man walked off, McKenzie squinted toward the trees. “If he’s this good at cleaning, what else is he hiding out here?”

Noah looked back at the Airstream. Every time they got close to truth, it felt like the air shifted. Like someone was rearranging the furniture just to keep them guessing.

Savannah stared at the silver hull. “That meth bag we found. You think he’s got a cache of meth somewhere else?”

“He’s not dumb,” Noah said. “And he’s got land out here. If he moved something, we may never find it.”

Then Callie looked at her phone. “The Linwood interview is in twenty. You ready for another dance with the town’s kindest?”

Noah lingered; a hand pressed to the Airstream’s side. The metal was cool. Hollow. Impenetrable. They walked to the SUV. As they pulled out, Callie glanced at the rearview mirror.

“You think Mack is watching us somewhere out there?”

Noah didn’t answer for a long moment.

“If he is,” he said finally, “he knows we’re chasing our tail.”

Behind them, the silver shell of the Airstream caught the first drops of rain.

The wind pushed against Noah’s jacket as he stepped out of the Bronco, the screen door of the Linwood house already rattling in its frame like it wanted to flee.

The place looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.

It had half-painted siding, an old John Deere mower rusted under a torn tarp, and a porch sagging under the weight of tools, along with firewood, and a broken bird feeder.

One shutter dangled sideways above the front window like it had lost the will to stand straight.

The kind of place where grief didn’t just settle, it soaked in.

McKenzie parked behind him, engine still running, and stepped out with a low grunt. “Charming,” he muttered, brushing rain off his shoulder. They noted a cross on the door. “Think he’s the type to answer the door with a shotgun, or a sermon?”

Noah didn’t answer. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder holster and made his way up the stairs, every step creaking like a warning. From inside, the muffled static of a news broadcast buzzed under the hum of a window unit. Then a bark, loud and aggressive came from the other side.

“Get in your crate!” Someone bellowed.

A moment later, the door cracked open.

Mark Linwood stood in the frame; eyes sunken. He looked like he hadn’t slept since Jesse died. His gray T-shirt was stained at the collar. He had bruised knuckles on his right hand. His gaze slid past Noah to McKenzie.

“I’m…”

“I know who you are. You gonna keep standing there like Girl Scouts, or you want to come in and piss me off properly?”

Noah offered a neutral nod. “Appreciate your time, Mr. Linwood.”

“I didn’t say you were welcome,” he muttered, pushing the door wider and stepping back.

The inside smelled of beer, sweat, and Pine-Sol, like someone had made a half-assed attempt at pretending they cared. The living room was small and dark, windows half-covered with old drapes. A TV blared low from the corner, tuned to local news looping footage of the Saranac crime scene.

Family photos lined the mantel. Jesse, age five, holding a trout. Jesse in football pads. Jesse with a black eye, smiling next to Mark on a hunting trip. One frame was shattered, the glass missing. Someone had turned another face-down on the shelf.

Mark dropped into a frayed recliner and pointed toward the couch. “Sit if you have to. Don’t expect coffee.”

McKenzie stayed standing. “We won’t be long.”

“Lotta people saying that lately.” He picked up a bottle from the side table. cheap whiskey, half full. He didn’t drink it, he just cradled it like it gave him permission to be hostile.

Noah leaned forward, arms on his knees. “We’re sorry about your son. We’re just trying to understand what happened.”

Mark scoffed. “Yeah? Well, you should be poking around in his friends’ lives not mine. ”

“We’re not making assumptions,” Noah said. “But you knew Jesse. You knew his circle.”

“I knew my son,” Mark snapped. “And whatever the hell you’re fishing for, you better bring better bait.”

The silence between them was thick. Heavy with things unsaid.

And the worst of it? Noah wasn’t sure if they were talking to a grieving father, or someone else entirely.

“Where were you the night Jesse was killed?” McKenzie asked.

Mark’s jaw worked like he was chewing glass. “Home. Here. Drinking. Ask my dog.”

“You live alone?”

“Ever since Jesse moved out, yeah. His mother took off before he could walk, so if you’re looking for someone else to cross-examine, you’ll have to dig her up.”

McKenzie didn’t blink. “Anyone talk to you that night? Call you? Text?”

Mark waved the whiskey bottle like it might ward off questions. “Didn’t answer. Didn’t want to. Didn’t think I’d wake up to half the town thinking I’m some kind of goddamn monster.”

Noah leaned in slightly. “No one thinks that.”

Mark’s gaze flicked to the family photos. “Bullshit. I hear what people say.”

Noah let the silence sit for a second, let the man stew in it. “You and Jesse. How were things lately?”

Mark barked a humorless laugh. “Lately? How are things with any eighteen-year-old who thinks he’s smarter than his old man? He didn’t come near me much. Said I was stuck in the past. Maybe I was. Doesn’t mean I didn’t love him.”

“Did you two argue?”

Mark’s shoulders stiffened. “Of course we did. Over stupid shit mostly. His friends. His job. His mouth. But I didn’t lay a hand on him if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

Noah stayed calm. “Nobody said you did.”

“You’re thinking it. Everyone is. Like I must’ve whipped the kid bloody just because I wasn’t some hug-it-out kind of dad.”