Page 44 of Silent Bones
He banged a fist against the ambulance in frustration, then stepped back, the morning chill cutting through his jacket. The trees stood still. No birds, no rustling, only the faint hum of the ambulance engine and the weight of failure pressing into his spine.
Stephen Strudwell, their one link, their one chance at an easy answer, was dead.
And someone had made damn sure of it.
11
The road narrowed as they left Route 30 behind, pines leaning in like they were guarding something. Noah sat behind the wheel of the Bronco, knuckles tight on the steering wheel. McKenzie rode shotgun, humming tunelessly, fingers tapping against a cup of gas station coffee.
“Stephen’s tox screen will take a few days,” Noah said, breaking the silence. “If he was drugged, we’ll know soon.”
McKenzie grunted. “And the zip ties?”
Noah kept his eyes on the gravel road, the trees flickering past. He never answered.
Callie had split off earlier to deal with the warrant for an Airstream located less than half-a-mile from where Stephen was found. The silver bullet was believed to belong to Mack Hawkins. For now, it sat behind a wall of red tape. Noah didn’t like waiting. Not when bodies were piling up.
McKenzie cleared his throat. “You think Mack’s responsible?”
“I think anyone with a hundred-eighty-grand trailer and no job is worth a closer look.”
“Could be crypto,” McKenzie muttered. “Or he’s got a sugar daddy.”
Noah didn’t respond.
“So, this Voss lady,” McKenzie said after a beat. “You said she used to be a he?”
Noah flicked a glance his way. “Tread lightly.”
“Oh, have a little faith in me, laddie. I’m not completely made of fossil fuel.”
“You’re half diesel and half scotch.”
McKenzie smirked. “You know, back in my day?—”
“Don’t.”
He ignored the warning. “Look, in my day. Men played men’s sports. Women played women’s sports. And now we got guys named Liam winning gold in the hundred-meter breaststroke.”
Noah groaned. “Please don’t say anything like that.”
“I’m just saying if I slip up, it’s not malicious. My wiring’s from a different decade.”
“That’s not comforting.”
McKenzie sipped his coffee, unfazed.
“Look, why did you assign Callie to get the warrant. I told you I wanted her with me on this.”
“I didn’t assign her, Rivera did.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. With your encouragement.”
McKenzie smiled.
The sign for Whispering Pines Campground appeared ahead, hand-carved wood with curling vines around the letters. They turned off onto a gravel driveway that wound downhill, revealing a sprawling private campground nestled along the edge of a glimmering lake. The scent of pine resin, firewood, and sunscreen dominated. Canoes bobbed at the shoreline, and a pair of kids kicked a soccer ball near the communal firepit. Solar lights lined the gravel paths.
Compared to DEC-run camps, this one was boutique. No state logos. No ranger trucks. Just a polished welcome center built from knotty pine logs, with wraparound porches and hanging flower baskets. It looked like the kind of place you booked in a glossy magazine, not a state website.
