Page 30 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

M ack was linked to the case. They just weren’t sure how until the second warrant came through.

All the pines above Cold Brook Road creaked in the morning breeze, their high branches whispering secrets only the wind could carry.

McKenzie shifted in the passenger seat of Noah’s cruiser, chewing at the corner of his thumb.

Ahead, a narrow dirt trail twisted through the brush, rutted, wet in patches, barely navigable by anything that wasn’t lifted and armed with four-wheel drive.

Noah lowered the binoculars.

“Truck’s coming up the north approach,” he said, voice low but certain. “It’s him.”

Behind them, a line of dark vehicles lay hidden under camo netting, a quiet joint task force of DEC officers, narcotics detectives, and multiple state troopers. No lights. No sirens. Just engines off and radios turned to a whisper.

McKenzie adjusted the strap of his vest, eyes still on the trail. “You really think he’s dumb enough to show up with game strapped across his rig the same day we’ve got a warrant?”

“I don’t think he’s dumb,” Noah said. “I think he’s used to being ignored.”

The hum of an ATV broke through the treeline.

Then the growl of tires on gravel. A moment later, Mack Hawkins emerged from the forest on his four-wheeler, a gutted whitetail deer folded over the back like a bloody saddlebag.

His face looked hollow, cheeks sunken, the red of his eyes washed pale by meth and sleepless nights.

His hands shook slightly as he pulled to a stop outside his ramshackle cabin.

Noah signaled with two fingers.

Officers peeled out of the woods. One of them, DEC Sergeant Marla Grier, approached from the left, already holding a wildlife citation pad high.

“You know that’s out of season, right?” she said casually.

Mack blinked at her like he hadn’t heard. His mouth moved, but nothing came out.

Grier tapped her pen against the notepad. “Got a tag for it?”

He shook his head slowly, still trying to process what was happening.

Another officer stepped behind him, unclipping cuffs.

“That’s a poaching violation,” Grier added. “I’m going to need to check the rest of the property.”

“You can’t, not without?—?”

Noah stepped forward from the trees, holding paper in his hand. “A warrant?”

“Oh, come on, man.” Mack didn’t argue. He didn’t run. He raised his hands, slow and robotic, like every motion had to fight through fog. When the cuffs clicked around his wrists, he didn’t flinch.

McKenzie checked the ATV, glancing at the deer, then at a crude plastic bag tied under the seat, half-hidden, but familiar.

“Bag that,” he said, nodding at the clear wrap inside.

A tech in gloves peeled it out with tongs. “Looks like crystal. Could be cut meth. We’ll test it.”

Noah turned to the cabin. “Okay, start the sweep. Check the shed and the Airstream.”

The shed was what they expected, more cluttered than criminal. Tools, beer cans, a portable generator with loose wires taped down. But ten minutes in, a deputy flagged them.

“Noah,” came the voice over the radio, quiet and crackled. “You’re going to want to come look at this.”

Noah followed the voice, stepping through a thicket of saplings. Behind a collapsed shed and a wall of stacked pallets, toward the old Airstream.

It didn’t take long to get inside.

Then the stink hit them.

Burnt plastic. Ammonia. Acetone. A chemical bouquet that turned the stomach and hit the eyes like pepper spray.

Inside, the space was tight and dim. Busted lab glass coated in residue.

Tubing coiled around a propane burner. Melted plastic containers stacked against the rear wall, some crusted white, others still filled with amber sludge.

A digital scale with powder still on the tray sat next to a rack of scorched Pyrex cookware.

A portable fan sat in the corner, unplugged, caked in dust and fumes.

Noah covered his mouth with his sleeve.

“This is a lot of product. Definitely not for personal use,” McKenzie muttered behind him. “This was distribution.”

“Yeah,” Noah said.

They backed out.

Mack sat cuffed on a tree stump now, watched by two officers. He didn’t look up when Noah approached. Just stared at the ground like he’d dropped something important and forgotten what it was.

“You’re under arrest,” Noah said evenly. “Meth production, possession with intent, and unlawful hunting on protected land.”

Mack nodded once, like he’d been expecting the moment since before the sun came up.

When they lifted him from the stump and guided him toward the cruiser, he glanced once at Noah.

There was no fear in his eyes. No anger.

It was just a deep, bone-level fatigue. As if the game had ended days ago, and nobody bothered to tell the scoreboard.

He almost looked relieved.

The interrogation room was colder than usual.

Not by temperature, but in mood. All that was inside was sterile gray walls, a humming vent, and a steel table that seemed designed to absorb confessions.

Noah sat at one end, a yellow envelope in front of him.

McKenzie leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

Neither had spoken in more than a minute.

They used silence to their advantage. It made suspects feel uncomfortable. It often made them talk.

Across from them, Mack Hawkins rested his cuffed hands flat on the table. A fresh scrape bloomed across his right knuckle from when he resisted stepping into the cruiser. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer. He hadn’t said anything at all.

Noah slid the first photo across the table.

The gutted deer.

Then the second.

The bag of crystals from the ATV.

Then a third, larger print, the interior of the second Airstream. Tubes, burners, containers. Every sign of a mobile meth lab carefully documented in frame.

Mack didn’t blink. He barely breathed.

“You’ve been quiet all morning,” Noah said. “So let’s skip the usual dance.”

He tapped the last photo.

“This alone is enough to bury you. Forget the poaching charge. That’s just a ticket. This is years, Mack. Federal territory. Production, contamination, intent. You know how it looks?”

Mack kept staring forward, unfocused. His right thumb twitched once, then went still again.

McKenzie stepped forward.

“We can do this two ways,” he said, calm but clipped. “We bring in the DA. You get the full weight of this dumped on your back. Or you help us understand what the hell was going on in those woods, who you work for, and maybe someone cuts you a deal.”

No response.

McKenzie opened a smaller envelope, slid out one last photo. It was grainy, taken from their drone footage last week, an image of the silver Airstream parked near the Strudwell site, just visible beyond the tree line. Different from the lab trailer, but similar enough to make a point.

“This isn’t the only Airstream you own, is it?” McKenzie said. “You’ve got more stashed around the county. Cook trailers. Drop sites. Right?”

Mack’s lip curled, not in defiance, but in something like disgust. “You think I’m some kind of kingpin?”

“No,” Noah said. “I think you’re a tool. The question is, whose tool?”

That made Mack’s eyes shift. The first sign of attention.

“You’re out there keeping these rigs warm, watching game trails, making the rounds,” Noah continued. “You’re not the one calling shots. You’re running errands. And now you’ve been cut loose from the leash, you’ve got no cover. You think whoever’s behind this is going to bail you out?”

Mack’s mouth twitched, a tired smile with no joy behind it. “I ain’t asking for bail.”

“Good,” McKenzie said. “Because there isn’t any.”

Noah leaned forward.

“This is your one chance. Talk to us. Who’s paying you for this? Who are you working for? Is it Luther Ashford?”

Mack stared at the table. His voice, when it finally came, was low and slow, like he was unspooling it from someplace deep inside.

“The product ain’t mine.”

Noah exchanged a glance with McKenzie. A line that could’ve been literal. Or code. Or just a man too afraid to say more.

“Who does it belong to?” McKenzie asked.

Mack shrugged. “Not my place to say.”

Noah slid the drone photo closer.

“And the murdered teens? What, did one of them stumble upon your meth lab? Did you kill them off?”

Mack leaned forward with venom in his eyes. “Hold on. No fucking way. You are not pinning that on me.”

“You were near the crime scene where four kids died. Your airstream was close to where the fifth was found. You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?”

“I wasn’t anywhere near there,” Mack said.

“So you have an alibi for that night?” Noah asked.

Silence.

Noah shifted tone. Softer now.

“You said something earlier when we were placing you in the cruiser. ‘I’m not the one who took those kids’ lives.’ That’s not the same as saying you don’t know who did.”

Mack didn’t move. Just flexed his fingers against the cuffs.

“I get a sense you know who did,” Noah said again.

Finally, Mack lifted his head. His voice was steady. “I know what happens to people who open their mouths. That’s all.”

McKenzie stepped back. He knew the look in Mack’s eyes. It wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t loyalty. It was fear.

Not of jail, but of whoever would still be out there once the cell door closed.

The door to the hallway opened behind them. Assistant DA Corinne Myles stepped in and spoke just loud enough.

“That’s enough for today. We’ve got him on the meth charges. Let’s hold him until we finish mapping the Airstream network. No bail.”

Noah stood, the weight in his chest familiar now. The ache of being close, but not close enough.

“Listen, you’ve still got a chance to help yourself,” he said quietly. “Do what is right.”

But Mack didn’t look up again.

When the cuffs clicked off the table and Mack was led out, he didn’t fight. He didn’t ask where they were taking him. He just walked like someone who’d already decided where he was headed.