Page 78 of Silent Bones

Noah shifted in his seat, exhaling through his nose. “Not sure right now. What we do know is that Ranger Dale Thurston filed a report about some event last August. That report was smothered. And months later, he left the DEC with no commendation, no ceremony, no transfer.”

McKenzie grunted. “Guys like him don’t retire early unless something’s breathing down their neck.” He glanced over briefly. “You think the murders this year are tied to casualties from last year?”

Noah didn’t answer right away. He watched the shadows of the trees flicker across the windshield like bars, one after another. “I think something happened in the Wallface area,” he said finally. “I think that group of kids were involved. Perhaps, it’s a case of wrong place, wrong time. Someone got hurt. Or worse. And it got buried.”

“But that would have been on the news.”

Noah turned to him. “Be real McKenzie. How often do you or I pay attention to every accident, or search and rescue, that occurs in the wilderness with thousands of tourists coming here every year?”

“Good point.”

Outside, the lake shimmered through the trees, gold catching on its surface. They were close to the cabin now, and the air was starting to shift, cooler, heavier with the weight of evening.

Noah leaned forward, tugged the yellow pad from the glove box, and scribbled something onto a sticky note.

WAS WALLFACE THE FIRST INCIDENT?

WAS THE DEC PROTECTING SOMEONE?

He underlined the last question twice, then stared out the window, his reflection barely visible against the glass. Somewhere, past the pines and ridgelines, a first incident waited like an echo. Unseen. Unheard. But not gone unnoticed.

And someone, whoever they were, hadn’t forgotten.

19

The road narrowed the deeper Noah drove. Asphalt gave way to gravel, then to pitted dirt scabbed with runoff scars. Trees pressed in from both sides, their limbs arched overhead like they were holding their breath. His tires crackled over frost-hardened ruts as he rounded a bend and found the cabin. It was low, dark pine, half-swallowed in shade.

A thin coil of smoke drifted from the chimney.

D. Thurston.

The ranger’s name had stuck with him since last night. A set of initials on a forgotten permit. A quiet thread buried in a stack of old reports. He wasn’t here to make accusations. Just to see what the past might still remember.

He parked behind an aging green pickup. A weathered deer rack was zip-tied to the grille. The air smelled of cold sap, woodsmoke, and old rust. Before he could knock, the screen door creaked open. A man in his mid-fifties stepped out like he’d been expecting company.

“Detective,” he said. Not unkindly. “Didn’t think it’d take this long.”

Noah blinked. “You know me?”

Dale gave a dry smile and nodded to the lights on the Bronco. “Who doesn’t?”

He was taller than Noah expected. Wiry frame, trimmed gray beard, weatherworn eyes. His shirt was canvas, tucked into a leather belt polished by habit. Behind him, a stove glowed orange through a glass panel.

Noah nodded toward the porch. “You’ve got a peaceful place.”

“I like it,” Dale said. “Come on in.”

Inside, the warmth wrapped around Noah like a weighted blanket. Boots lined the wall, a cast-iron kettle hissed softly, and a black-furred dog thumped its tail once before going back to sleep.

“I just boiled the kettle. You want tea?” Dale asked. “Coffee?”

“Tea’s good.”

Dale moved like a man who’d learned long ago not to rush. He poured from a chipped enamel pot into two mismatched mugs and handed one over. “I thought you were McKenzie.”

“You know him?”

Dale gave a noncommittal grunt. “Met him a few times.”