11. Chapter 11
Rocco
By the time I reach the south service entrance, the man in the dark jacket is gone. Evan waits beside the last row of vendor vehicles, one hand pressed to the radio at his shoulder. Beyond him, the gravel lot slopes toward a line of pines already darkening beneath the evening sky.
“Where did you lose him?”
“He cut between those two vans.” Evan points toward a white cargo van and an older pickup with woodworking decals on the doors. “When I came around the other side, three men matched enough of the description to slow me down.”
“Which direction?”
“One went toward the portable restrooms. One got into the pickup. The third kept walking toward the overflow lot.”
“And the baseball cap?”
“Two of them.”
Descriptions are useful until several thousand people dress for the same season.
“Did any of them look at you?”
“The one heading toward overflow did. He changed direction after he saw the radio.”
That may mean he has something to hide. It may also mean he dislikes security, has an outstanding warrant, or does not want questions about whatever he came here to do.
“Cameras?”
“South entrance caught him from behind. We’re checking the parking footage now.”
I scan the rows of vehicles. Families carry purchases toward their cars while vendors restock for the evening crowd. A woman secures a sleeping toddler into a car seat. Two men unload split firewood from the bed of a truck. Nothing looks wrong.
Loralee’s voice remains in my head anyway.
There’s going to be a gun.
I walk the route Evan describes and find no abandoned package, discarded clothing, or vehicle positioned for a fast exit.
The overflow lot has three ways out, including a narrow maintenance road leading toward the highway.
We blocked it to incoming traffic, but the barrier can be moved by anyone willing to get out of a vehicle.
“Put someone here,” I tell Evan. “No unattended post for the rest of the festival.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Have Wade review footage from every entrance. Start yesterday morning and flag anyone matching the original man, even if the clothing is different.”
“That could produce fifty possibilities.”
“Then we eliminate forty-nine.”
Evan nods and reaches for his radio.
I remain near the overflow entrance long enough to inspect the barrier and test the chain securing it. The lock holds. A vehicle could still cross the grass, but not without drawing attention or damaging its suspension.
My team has increased coverage. Deputies remain on-site. Emergency routes are clear, and every employee has the original description. We have taken every reasonable precaution based on the information available.
It does not feel like enough.
I return to the south lot, where Wade waits with a phone in his hand. He enlarges a still image from the camera. The man’s face is turned away, but the dark jacket, cap, height, and build match the person Evan followed.
“Next camera loses him behind the woodworking truck,” Wade says. “Then this man comes out.”
He moves to another image. The jacket and cap are the same. This time, the man’s face is visible.
I recognize him from the vendor files.
“Name?”
Wade checks the screen. “Travis Holt. He’s listed as an assistant for Holt Custom Furniture.”
The pickup beside us bears the same name.
“Bring the vendor over.”
The owner arrives several minutes later, wiping sawdust from his hands. He is in his late fifties and irritated about being pulled away from customers until I show him the image.
“That’s my nephew,” he says. “He came out to bring more brochures.”
“Why did he change direction when he saw security?”
“He probably thought you’d check his wristband. He forgot it in the truck earlier.”
“Where is he now?”
“At the booth, unless he wandered off again.”
We find Travis helping a couple load a small end table onto a cart. He produces identification and answers my questions without resistance. Evan confirms the shoes, jeans, and jacket match the man he followed.
Travis voluntarily unlocks his phone and allows Wade to review his recent photographs. Several show the festival, but none show locks, cash boxes, or booth 37. The original man remains unidentified.
The sighting resolves nothing except the immediate question of whether the man near the service entrance is the one we want.
I should feel relief. Instead, the absence of a usable lead leaves me with the same warning and less time.
I check the cabin camera on my phone. The porch remains empty. No movement appears near the windows or door.
Loralee has been alone for forty-five minutes.
My team can handle the festival while I finish verifying the sighting. They do not need me checking a cabin camera between every conversation. I check it again anyway.
When I reach the cabin, the door is locked. Light glows through the windows, and the curtains remain open. I knock once.
“It’s me.”
The lock turns immediately.
Loralee stands on the other side wearing her boots and canvas bag. Her hair has been gathered into a loose knot, although several honey-blonde strands have escaped around her face. She looks steadier than she did before I left, but the bag over her shoulder tells me she has already made a decision.
“You’re planning to go somewhere.”
“I’m planning to return to the festival.”
I close my eyes for one second. “I have not yet agreed to that.”
“You don’t have to agree.”
“I’m your transportation.”
“That gives you control of the vehicle, not me.”
She steps back and allows me inside. The room still carries the scents of rosemary and lavender from whatever she did while alone. They mix with coffee and the remains of dinner, making the cabin feel less temporary than it did earlier.
I remove my jacket. “The man my employee saw was connected to a furniture vendor. He was not the person who photographed your booth.”
“So the original man is still out there.”
“Yes.”
“Did this one have a gun?”
“Not that we found.”
“Then nothing has changed.”
“Something has changed. We received a report that brought my team’s attention to the south parking area, away from other locations.”
“Do you believe that was intentional?”
“I don’t know.”
Loralee absorbs the answer without dismissing it. “Do you believe the festival should close?”
“No.”
“Do you believe the vendors should leave?”
“No.”
“Then take me back.”
“You collapsed less than three hours ago.”
“I rested. I grounded myself. I ate. The dizziness is gone.”
“That does not mean your energy has recovered.”
A faint smile touches her mouth. “You’ve been listening.”
“I listen to relevant information.”
“And information only becomes relevant after you decide it is?”
“This is not the time to debate my decision-making process.”
“It may be the perfect time.”
The urge to tell her she is staying here is immediate. So is the knowledge that she will hear the command instead of the concern beneath it.
I place both hands on the back of the nearest chair. “Why do you want to return?”
“The vision happened when I touched the cash box, but that does not mean it happened at my booth. I saw fragments without context. Being back among the sounds and scents may help me recognize where they belong.”
“And if it drains you again?”
“I stop.”
“You said the first vision was different from anything you’ve experienced.”
“It was.”
“Then you cannot know whether you’ll have enough warning to stop.”
“No,” she says. “I can’t.”
Loralee’s answer does not reassure me, but it is honest.
“I’m not reopening the booth,” she continues. “I’m not taking appointments or performing readings. I want to walk through the festival while I still remember what the vision felt like.”
“With me.”
“If you want to come.”
“I’m not sending you into an active event alone.”
“Then I suppose you’re coming.”
She reaches for the door.
“Wait.”
Loralee turns.
“I’ll drive you back. You remain with me or a member of my team at all times. If you feel dizzy, disoriented, or anything resembling the beginning of another vision, you tell me immediately.”
“I can agree to that.”
“You do not touch the cash box again.”
“I don’t need to.”
I collect my jacket and open the door for her. Evening air has cooled the mountains, and the remaining daylight rests low between the pines. Loralee pauses on the porch and draws a deep breath.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I have enough of myself back to know the answer.”
“That was not an answer.”
“Yes, it was.”
We walk toward the SUV together. I remain close enough to catch her if her balance changes, but I do not touch her. She notices the restraint.
During the drive, I report our route to Wade and instruct him to place an employee near booth 37. Another will meet us at the vendor entrance. I request updated crowd estimates and direct the nearest patrol to make another pass through the food lane.
Loralee waits until I return the radio to its holder.
“Do you give every vendor this kind of individual attention?”
“No.”
My answer comes too quickly. I keep my attention on the narrow road.
Loralee shifts in her seat. “How many vendors have been inside your cabin?”
“Employees do not count.”
“That was not my question.”
“None.”
“How many have slept in your bed?”
“You were asleep when I put you there. That is not the same as inviting you into it.”
“So none?”
“None.”
Her satisfaction fills the vehicle before she speaks. “Good.”
I glance at her. “Why is that good?”
“I’m still deciding.”
The answer echoes her earlier refusal to explain how my presence affects her. This time, I can’t resist smiling.
The festival is transformed when we return.
String lights glow above the main paths, turning the vendor tents into warm pockets of color beneath the darkening sky.
Lanterns hang from wooden posts. Firepits burn in designated seating areas while families gather around them with cider and paper trays of food.
Music drifts from the stage, softened by distance and the noise of the crowd.
It looks peaceful. But I know that every shadow offers concealment. Every cluster of people limits sightlines.