Page 69 of Silent Bones
His breath clouded as he exhaled.
A shape shifted near the shed again, the same figure. Noah couldn't make out the face, but the frame matched Mack. Broad shoulders. Slower gait. He reached for something on the ground, yanked it into a shadow, and vanished from view.
Noah crouched lower and pulled his phone.
“McKenzie,” he whispered when the line picked up.
“Aye, you watching him?” McKenzie asked, voice low.
“He’s got a second trailer. Silver. Same era. Hidden behind the shed.”
“How the hell did we miss it?”
“I don’t know. The property line extends out. I came in a different way this time. Maybe he used his truck to bring this one in. Oh, and he’s moving something heavy.”
“You think it’s a body?”
“Hard to tell.”
“You got visuals?”
“Just movement. But I’m telling you, something’s off. Get me another warrant. This one for the shed and surrounding structures. I want to see what’s inside.”
McKenzie hesitated. “We’ll need to cite probable cause.”
“Get creative. Work your magic.”
“Alright,” McKenzie said. “I’ll run it past the judge.”
“Do it fast. If he moves this trailer again, we lose our shot.”
The line clicked dead.
How many of these Airstreams did he have in the forest?
Noah stayed crouched for a few more minutes. Watching. Listening. An owl called once. Something cracked deeper in the woods, a branch or maybe a footfall. Eventually, he slipped back into the trees and toward his vehicle, the questions chasing him down the trail like echoes. Two trailers. And a man who kept playing dumb while the forest whispered otherwise.
Noah droppedhis keys on the counter, stripped off his coat, and went straight for the whiskey cabinet.
One finger poured. No ice. He didn’t sit.
Instead, he crossed to the corkboard in the corner of the living room where maps, case photos, and printed screenshots formed a jigsaw puzzle of guesswork. He thumbed a fresh tack into a photo, a blurry image he’d snapped through binoculars. The tarp. The figure. The glint of aluminum behind the shed.
He pinned it above a map of Middle Saranac Lake and scrawled across the margin: Hawkins. Confirmed second Airstream.
Then he stood back and took it all in.
Photos of the five dead teens. Stephen’s file. Logan’s motel statement. A printout of Mack’s poaching citation. And beneath it all, a faded case summary from eight years ago, a meth lab bust that uncovered product but no names.
He drew a fresh line between the Airstream and an old press photo of Luther Ashford. What was the connection? Was there one? Would Luther be dumb enough to leave the production of meth in the hands of Mack?
Who is the drug broker?
Was Mack a possible mule?
Did the teens see something out there?
Noah moved to the table and flipped open his field notebook. On a clean page, he wrote "MACK HAWKINS" in block capitals at the top, then drew two lines to create three sections.
