Page 43 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

A day later.

I t was suffocating inside the box. The interview room at the Adirondack County Sheriff's Department felt smaller than usual, the bulbs above casting harsh light across the metal table where Mack Hawkins sat hunched over a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

His orange jumpsuit hung loose on his frame, and the shackles around his ankles clinked softly whenever he shifted in the plastic chair.

Noah sat across from him, a digital recorder between them and a manila folder containing what little physical evidence they had connecting Mack to the drug operation.

McKenzie leaned against the wall behind Noah, arms crossed, watching Mack with the steady gaze of a man who'd seen too many criminals try to bargain their way out of life sentences.

"You said you wanted to come clean," Noah began, his voice neutral but focused. "So let's start with what we know. Your Airstream trailer was a mobile meth lab. We found enough precursor chemicals to supply half the North Country."

Mack nodded slowly. "That's right."

"And you killed Miles Benning and Logan Forrester."

Another nod, this one heavier. "Yeah. I did."

"Why?"

Mack raised his eyes to meet Noah's for the first time since they'd entered the room. "Because I was told to."

"By who?"

"That's where this gets complicated," Mack said, leaning back in his chair. "I want to make a deal first. Full immunity from the death penalty. After, I’ll give you the name, the whole network, everything. But I want it in writing before I say another word."

Noah exchanged a glance with McKenzie. "You're going to have to give me more than that, Mack. Otherwise they'll think you're playing games. Why did you kill Miles?"

Mack hesitated, his fingers drumming against the table. "He came sniffing around. That podcaster thought he was so smart. But he stumbled onto something else entirely."

"The Airstream?"

"One of them, yeah. Found it while he was poking around the lake, looking for some story about those dead kids. I couldn't let him leave."

Noah felt pieces clicking into place. "And Logan?"

This time Mack's hesitation was longer, more telling. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"Logan worked for me. Was one of my distributors in town. The kid had connections, knew people who wanted product. Everything was running smooth until..."

"Until the murders at the campsite," Noah finished.

"Yeah. Logan was there that night. Not camping with those rich kids, but nearby. Dealing to some local users. He heard what happened to those kids. He got spooked bad."

"He wanted out?"

"Wanted out, wanted to talk to police, wanted to clear his conscience." Mack's voice turned bitter. "Kid was young, dumb, and had become a liability. Couldn't have him running his mouth about what he'd seen."

Noah leaned forward. "So you hanged him in that motel room."

"Made it look like suicide. Guilt over those teens dying, or whatever story people wanted to believe."

“So you entered through the rear window?”

“Had to, you’d posted a cop out front.”

McKenzie stepped away from the wall. "What about the smuggling route? How extensive is this network?"

Mack's eyes lit up with something that might have been pride. "It’s wide. It's like veins across this state, Detective. You think this is just some local operation?"

"Tell me about it."

"I start at my dock near the silver Airstream, southwest end of Middle Saranac Lake. That's my staging area, hidden from the trails, just off Coreys Road. Perfect spot to prep product and coordinate drops."

Noah opened his folder and pulled out a map of the region. "Show me."

Mack traced a finger across the waterways.

"Middle Saranac Lake east through the Upper Locks at the Saranac River outlet.

I operate those manually, nobody bothers checking them at night.

From there into Lower Saranac Lake, then eventually to Lake Flower, which gets me right into downtown Saranac Lake. "

"How often?"

"Two, three times a week. Early morning fog is best, no boat traffic, minimal DEC patrol. I use several small coves on Lower Saranac as floating drop points. Waterproof bags tethered to buoys, sometimes submerged boxes with GPS markers."

McKenzie was taking notes now. "Who picks up the product?"

"Network of dealers. Some local, some from downstate. Money flows back the same route in reverse." Mack paused, studying Noah's expression. "This operation moves serious weight, Detective. We're talking millions in product annually."

"And you're what, middle management?"

"I handle physical logistics. Transportation, security, elimination of problems." The last phrase hung in the air like a threat.

Noah sat back in his chair. "That's good information, Mack. You said you want immunity from the death penalty for the two murders, but New York doesn't have the death penalty."

Mack's laugh was harsh. "I wasn't referring to the state murdering me."

Noah cocked his head, then understanding dawned. "You're scared. You're scared someone is going to kill you in prison."

Mack nodded. "You think this conversation stays secret? You think the person who gave me orders doesn't have reach inside state facilities?"

Noah thought back to Lena’s ex-boyfriend, Aiden West. He’d been murdered at the Adirondack Correctional Facility.

"Okay, then you've got to give me something more. At least tell me who's running this operation."

"I need something for my plea deal first. I can't give you all of it. I've already confessed to two murders and told you the smuggling route. Now I want a lawyer and the rest has to be in writing."

Noah felt frustration building. They were so close to breaking open what could be the largest drug network in the North Country, but Mack was holding the most important card.

"Help me understand the scope here," Noah pressed. "You're saying this network extends beyond the Adirondacks?"

"Buffalo to Albany to the Canadian border. Lake Champlain, the Saint Lawrence Seaway, dozens of remote drop points in state parks and wilderness areas. ATVs, boats, even snowmobiles in winter. It's a supply line that's been operating for years."

McKenzie leaned forward. "How many people are we talking about?"

"Dozens of transporters, maybe a hundred dealers, money handlers, security personnel. This isn't some mom-and-pop meth operation, Detective. This is industrial-scale drug distribution with military-level logistics."

Noah studied Mack's face, seeing the fear beneath the bravado. The man was genuinely terrified of someone, and that someone had enough power to order executions and reach into secure facilities.

"One more question, Mack. Off the record. Was it Luther Ashford who gave you the orders?"

Mack's face went pale. "I'm not saying."

"You don't have to say his name. Just nod if I'm right."

A long pause. Then, barely perceptible, Mack nodded.

Noah felt his pulse quicken. Finally, after all this time, he had a connection between Luther and the murders. Not admissible in court, not recorded, but enough to know he was on the right track.

"I'll have to make some calls," Noah said, standing up. "State prosecutor, protection for you on the inside. It might take a day or two, but I believe I can make this happen. You're doing the right thing, Mack."

As Noah gathered his files and headed for the door, Mack called after him.

"Detective? Make it fast. I don't think I have much time."

Noah paused at the door, looking back at the man who might finally give him Luther Ashford. "We'll keep you safe."

But even as he said it, Noah wondered if that was a promise he could keep.

Five hours later, Noah sat across from his daughter Mia at a corner table in Morrison's Diner, watching her work through a stack of pancakes while he picked at his club sandwich.

The lunch crowd was thinning out, and the afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting everything in a warm, golden light that made the morning's interview seem like something from another world.

"So we're really going camping in a couple of days?" Mia asked, cutting another bite of pancake.

"That's the plan. Ed's going to meet us at the campsite around dinner time. Says he's got some new Sasquatch calls to teach you and Ethan."

Mia grinned. "Think we'll actually hear one this time?"

"After everything that's happened the past few weeks, I'm not sure I want to encounter any more monsters in the woods."

"Dad, you know Bigfoot isn't real, right?"

Noah smiled, thinking about the very human monsters he'd spent his career chasing. "Yeah, sweetheart. I know."

His phone rang, interrupting the moment. McKenzie's name appeared on the screen.

"Sorry, honey, I have to take this." Noah answered the call. "What's up?"

McKenzie's voice was tight, professional, but Noah could hear the underlying tension. "Noah, we've got a problem. Mack's dead."

The words hit like a physical blow. Noah felt the diner fade around him, his daughter's concerned face blurring as the implications crashed over him.

"But I saw him this morning. What happened?"

"Found him in his cell about an hour ago. Slashed wrists, bled out. Looks like suicide."

"Bullshit." The word came out louder than Noah intended, and several other diners turned to look. He lowered his voice. "Wasn't anyone watching him?"

"That's the thing. Shift change happened right around the time it must have occurred. And the cameras..."

"Let me guess. Malfunctioned."

"Complete system failure for exactly forty-seven minutes. Just long enough."

Noah closed his eyes, feeling the case slip away from him like water through his fingers. "This is Epstein-level bullshit, Mac."

"I know. But the evidence is what it is. Suicide note and everything, confessing to the murders but not naming any accomplices."

"Convenient."

"Very. Look, Noah, I know this screws the case against Ashford, but?—"

"There is no case without Ashford," Noah interrupted, the bitter truth of it settling in his chest like a weight. "Mack's confession dies with him. The nod he gave me isn't admissible, wasn't recorded, didn't happen as far as any court is concerned."

Mia was watching him with growing concern, her pancakes forgotten. Noah tried to force a reassuring smile, but knew he was failing.

"What about the smuggling network?" McKenzie asked. "All that information about the route, the drop points?"

"Hearsay now. We can investigate it, maybe roll up some of the smaller players, but without Mack's testimony connecting it to Luther..." Noah let the sentence hang.

"I'm sorry, Noah. I know how much this meant to you."

Noah stared out the diner window at the ordinary afternoon traffic, people going about their ordinary lives while justice died in a jail cell miles away.

"Yeah."

He ended the call and looked across the table at his daughter, who was studying him with the too-perceptive eyes of a teenager who'd grown up around police work.

"Bad news?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah, sweetheart. Bad news."

"About the case?"

Noah nodded, not trusting himself to speak for a moment. The weight of it was crushing, all those hours of investigation, all the evidence they'd gathered, all the connections they'd made, and Luther Ashford would walk away clean. Again.

"Sometimes the bad guys just win," he said finally.

Mia reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "But you stopped the person who murdered those kids, right? Dale?"

"Yeah. We stopped Dale."

"Then you did win, Dad. Maybe not completely, but you saved people. You saved that girl."

Noah looked at his daughter's earnest face and felt something ease in his chest. She was right, in her way. They'd stopped Dale, exposed the truth about Wallface, saved Avery's life. It wasn't complete victory, but it wasn't complete defeat either.

"You're pretty smart, you know that?"

"I get it from my mother."

He laughed.

They finished lunch in comfortable silence, the shadow of the phone call gradually receding.

As they prepared to leave, Noah's mind was already shifting to the camping trip, to the simple pleasure of spending time with his kids away from murder investigations and corrupt officials and the endless grinding machinery of a justice system that protected the powerful and discarded the inconvenient.

But in the back of his mind, Luther Ashford's face lingered like smoke. The man had won another round, and got to disappear back into his world of wealth and influence and untouchable connections.

For now, Luther was free. But Noah had learned patience in his years as a detective. He'd learned that justice sometimes moved slowly, that the arc of investigation was long but could bend toward truth if you kept pushing.

Someday, Luther would make a mistake. Someday, the corruption would crack just enough to let the light in.

And when that day came, Noah would be waiting.

But for now, he had a camping trip to plan and a daughter who still believed her father could save the world, one case at a time.

That would have to be enough.