Page 42 of Silent Bones

“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 footjammed the accelerator to the floor. The Bronco tore down the dirt-packed road, suspension rattling with everypothole. 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.”