Page 76 of Silent Bones
“No, there was a police report. I just want to see if there are any others over the last few years.”
They worked in silence for the next twenty minutes. Noah kept a pen between his teeth, chewing the cap absently as he flipped through carbon copy citations and field notes. Most of the offenses in the region were small: unauthorized fires, trash left behind, expired tags. McKenzie read a few aloud in mock horror, including one about someone attempting to roast a raccoon over an open flame.
But Noah wasn’t listening.
He had started cross-referencing campsite assignments, permits issued, and field inspection logs. It was slow, meticulous work, the kind he had once loved. There was something about building a case from scraps. This was the kind of day-to-day police work TV shows didn’t show. No, they wanted car chases, fights, shootouts, anything to keep the dopamine addicted glued to their sets.
Midway through the second binder, something shifted in his posture. He sat straighter.
“This,” he said, tapping a citation sheet stamped August 12 of last year. “Unauthorized camping. Location listed as ‘above alpine boundary. The Wallface Mountain perimeter.’”
McKenzie leaned in. “That’s just outside the legal elevation for overnight stays. Rangers flag that every season.”
Noah held up a finger. “But look, ‘Group of six in the area. An environmental disturbance.’”
McKenzie squinted. “Kind of an odd phrase to use for a permit infraction.”
“Right.”
But it was the line beneath it that stopped Noah. A thick black rectangle of redaction, as if someone had used a Sharpie instead of a digital sanitization tool.
Noah tapped the blackout mark with his knuckle. “Somebody didn’t want this one getting around.”
He sat back and stared at the page. It wasn’t just the phrasing. It was the date, the lack of follow-up, the fact that no names were attached, not the campers, not the ranger. In most field notes, there was always someone to pin things on, someone accountable.
McKenzie gave a low whistle. “Think it’s connected?”
Noah didn’t answer. Not yet. He slid the sheet into a folder of his own, added a few other pages: some citations from earlier that summer, some follow-ups from the same zone. He wasn’t ready to say what he was seeing. But something about the language, the omissions, the bureaucratic fingerprints told him this wasn’t just a forgotten infraction.
It had been buried.
And he was starting to wonder why.
They’d keep digging. But now, he had a place — Wallface Mountain.
And a story someone wanted forgotten.
They needed to dig deeper.
"You ever wonderhow deep Luther Ashford's reach really goes?"
"What do you mean?"
"If he's got his fingers in multiple businesses, paying people to look the other way—what happens when we finally take him down? Does the whole network collapse, or does it just keep running without him?"
Noah said nothing. He was already scanning handwritten labels on the shelves: INCIDENT FILES – 2008–2011, REGION 5 / SOUTHERN, WALLFACE, RANGER NOTES (VARIOUS). Most boxes had been recycled from printer paper or were outdated shipping cartons, scrawled over with marker or masking tape.
He moved slowly at first, his fingers dragging over brittle tabs. Half the folders were warped or misnumbered. McKenzie trailed behind, flipping one lid, then another. “You know the Sheriff’s Office doesn’t have anywhere near as much as this in the archives?”
“Most was put in storage or destroyed,” Noah said.
Noah reached the shelf marked INCIDENT LOGS – 2012–2025 (FIELD SUBMISSIONS – NOT OFFICIALLY PROCESSED). He scanned the box tops until his eyes caught one labeled: #407-F / WALLFACE ZONE / REPORT / 8.14. The handwriting was tighter, angrier than the rest.
“This one.”
McKenzie helped him lift it down. They carried it to a metal table beneath a buzzing fluorescent bulb. Noah opened it carefully, the cardboard giving a soft crack.
Inside was a beige folder marked Wallface Incident #407-F. No tags. No DEC header. Just a manila cover, stamped “Internal Review Only.”
