Page 24 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

I t was typical. The case had stalled. Days had turned into a week before they got their next lead.

The radio crackled to life as the sun dipped behind the ridge.

"Station, this is Field Two. Hawkins here with another violation. This time it’s an unlawful snare targeting deer. Subject was also carrying an unregistered rifle. Citation issued and logged."

McKenzie straightened in his chair, pulling the pen from between his teeth. He drew the radio closer. "Copy, Field Two. What's your location?"

"Same area as before, off Coreys Road near the runoff creek past the cut trail. Subject cooperated, signed the citation and headed west."

Noah looked up from the open case file spread across the table. “He’s back at it?”

McKenzie nodded, sliding the call log over so Noah could see the coordinates.

“What did he say?” Noah asked Field Two.

“Didn’t say anything. Took the citation like he was picking up groceries. Just muttered something about varmints getting bold again.”

Callie turned from the whiteboard, arms crossed. “The Airstream came back clean. Forensics said it was scrubbed. No blood and no other trace evidence. If he was moving drugs, he is careful.”

“Or he had help,” McKenzie added.

Noah stepped to the board and traced a finger along the arc between Middle Saranac Lake and Coreys Road. “That’s the third snare citation in a week. All close to the old fire road. I wonder if he wants us to notice.”

“Why?” Callie asked.

“Because the more times we catch him doing something technically illegal, the more normal his movements become. Pattern builds comfort. Comfort builds blind spots.”

McKenzie leaned back in his chair, exhaling. “So you think he wants us distracted with animal snares while something bigger plays out behind the scenes?”

“It’s the old magician’s trick,” Noah said. “You are distracted looking one way, when something else is being done elsewhere. The question is, by who?”

McKenzie gave a small nod. “Or he’s just that arrogant.”

“I’m sure there is some of that involved too.”

A long silence followed.

Finally, McKenzie said, “You’re not suggesting another knock on his door, are you?”

“No knock,” Noah said. “No flashlight. No cruiser. Just me visiting from a distance.”

Callie looked unconvinced. “If he’s moving product, he’s not going to do it while he’s being tailed.”

“He’s not being tailed,” Noah said. “Not officially.”

McKenzie looked toward the wall map, then back to Noah. “He’s smart. Slippery as hell. You need to be careful.”

He grabbed his coat and keys. “I’ll be back before midnight. I just want to watch. See if he moves. See if he meets anyone.”

McKenzie gave a half-nod, but his eyes held weight. “You see anything resembling a deal or a dump site, anything that’s not wildlife, you call. No playing lone ranger.”

Hours later, Noah killed the engine and let the quiet settle over him like a net.

He was parked on the shoulder of an old forest access road, pine needles crunching beneath his tires. No signs, no driveways, just a break in the trees he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking. A half-mile in, behind brush and stunted birch, lay Mack Hawkins’ off-grid world.

He stepped out into the deepening dusk and closed the door without slamming it. No badge tonight. No notepad. Just instinct and a growing unease in his gut.

The air hung thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and woodsmoke.

Noah moved carefully, his boots silent against the wet ground as he crept along the embankment.

From this vantage point, the cabin emerged in fragments through the darkness—a corrugated metal roof streaked with rust, weathered log walls, and a crooked stovepipe threading pale smoke into the air.

Golden lamplight flickered behind a curtained window.

Through his night vision binoculars, shadows drifted across the illuminated glass. A figure passed once, then again—unhurried movements of someone simply going about their evening routine.

Noah adjusted his focus and panned left.

A ramshackle shed crouched deeper in the treeline, its tin roof buckled and sagging, one corner door hanging askew from a broken hinge. But it wasn't the dilapidated structure that caught his attention, it was what lay in the clearing beside it.

A blue plastic tarp stretched across the ground, heavy and rumpled as if hastily abandoned.

Alongside it, a disturbed patch of earth showed drag marks, shallow but distinct grooves carved through the mud.

Someone had hauled something substantial across this ground, and recently.

The effort it must have taken was written in those tracks.

This wasn't about moving firewood. It was effort.

Farther to the left, nestled in the trees, something made his pulse skip.

Something silver.

A faint glint between branches. Just enough curve and shine to identify it.

An Airstream.

His brows drew together. “What?,” he muttered.

Could that be the same one?

It couldn’t be. They’d already processed it. Seized. Cleaned out. Locked it down under chain of custody. And yet there it was, the same model, same decade, tucked in a different location.

Unless…

Unless there were two.

He raised the binoculars again. This one had a cracked vent cover and a dent over the back fender. The one they’d searched had no damage. He was sure of it.

His breath clouded as he exhaled.

A shape shifted near the shed again, the same figure. Noah couldn't make out the face, but the frame matched Mack. Broad shoulders. Slower gait. He reached for something on the ground, yanked it into a shadow, and vanished from view.

Noah crouched lower and pulled his phone.

“McKenzie,” he whispered when the line picked up.

“Aye, you watching him?” McKenzie asked, voice low.

“He’s got a second trailer. Silver. Same era. Hidden behind the shed.”

“How the hell did we miss it?”

“I don’t know. The property line extends out. I came in a different way this time. Maybe he used his truck to bring this one in. Oh, and he’s moving something heavy.”

“You think it’s a body?”

“Hard to tell.”

“You got visuals?”

“Just movement. But I’m telling you, something’s off. Get me another warrant. This one for the shed and surrounding structures. I want to see what’s inside.”

McKenzie hesitated. “We’ll need to cite probable cause.”

“Get creative. Work your magic.”

“Alright,” McKenzie said. “I’ll run it past the judge.”

“Do it fast. If he moves this trailer again, we lose our shot.”

The line clicked dead.

How many of these Airstreams did he have in the forest?

Noah stayed crouched for a few more minutes.

Watching. Listening. An owl called once.

Something cracked deeper in the woods, a branch or maybe a footfall.

Eventually, he slipped back into the trees and toward his vehicle, the questions chasing him down the trail like echoes.

Two trailers. And a man who kept playing dumb while the forest whispered otherwise.

Noah dropped his keys on the counter, stripped off his coat, and went straight for the whiskey cabinet.

One finger poured. No ice. He didn’t sit.

Instead, he crossed to the corkboard in the corner of the living room where maps, case photos, and printed screenshots formed a jigsaw puzzle of guesswork.

He thumbed a fresh tack into a photo, a blurry image he’d snapped through binoculars.

The tarp. The figure. The glint of aluminum behind the shed.

He pinned it above a map of Middle Saranac Lake and scrawled across the margin: Hawkins. Confirmed second Airstream.

Then he stood back and took it all in.

Photos of the five dead teens. Stephen’s file. Logan’s motel statement. A printout of Mack’s poaching citation. And beneath it all, a faded case summary from eight years ago, a meth lab bust that uncovered product but no names.

He drew a fresh line between the Airstream and an old press photo of Luther Ashford. What was the connection? Was there one? Would Luther be dumb enough to leave the production of meth in the hands of Mack?

Who is the drug broker?

Was Mack a possible mule?

Did the teens see something out there?

Noah moved to the table and flipped open his field notebook. On a clean page, he wrote "MACK HAWKINS" in block capitals at the top, then drew two lines to create three sections.

FOR:

Secluded locations

Proximity to lakes for covert transport

Airstreams used for meth labs (mobile op?)

Reputation for silence

Ties to Luther?

AGAINST:

Prior arrests make him obvious target

Known poacher - too desperate, too sloppy?

Loner - where's his network?

No real source of income

Someone saw him?

UNKNOWNS:

Clean trailer was a cover-up or distraction?

Who's his contact?

Why now?

He stared at the three columns, frowning. The pieces were close, but they weren't locking together yet. There was something missing in the unknowns that would tip the balance.

Noah lifted the crime scene photo of the tree. Claw marks. Tufts of fur still waiting on lab results. He tapped the edge of the photo with his pen.

“Poachers don’t stick around. Dealers don’t stage monster attacks.” He said it aloud, like if he heard it, it might sound less ridiculous.

But there it was, someone was trying to send a message, and doing it theatrically.

That also wasn’t Mack’s style. Mack was practical. Military. Blunt force. Duct tape. Bullets. He didn’t do costumes.

Unless he wasn’t alone.

Unless someone else, someone smarter, colder was using Mack to run interference. Clean trailers. Scare off suspicion with local legend bait.

Noah exhaled slowly.

He grabbed a black Sharpie and wrote in thick letters across the bottom of the page: WHO BENEFITS? WHO’S AFRAID? WHO’S NEXT?

He stood in the quiet a while longer, just listening to the wind against the cabin siding. Then he added one final note, underlined twice: Luther is the mastermind.

He capped the pen, turned off the light, and left the board exactly as it was.