11. Chapter 11 #2
Wade meets us at the entrance and gives me the current status. No unusual activity near booth 37. No additional sightings of the original man. The deputies have received both descriptions and understand that the second man has been cleared.
Loralee watches the exchange.
“You assigned two people to my booth.”
“One is covering the intersection.”
“While facing my booth.”
“It provides the best line of sight.”
She gives me a look that says she recognizes the distinction and does not believe it matters.
We move onto the main path. Loralee walks without assistance, her steps steady and her attention concentrated on one side of the aisle, then to the other.
At first, I assume she is looking at faces.
Then we pass a booth selling spiced nuts, and she stops.
Cinnamon hangs heavily in the air. A copper kettle turns beneath a heating lamp while sugar darkens around pecans and walnuts.
“Is this what you smelled?” I ask.
“Partly.”
The vendor lifts the kettle. A cloud of sweet smoke rises when caramelized sugar touches the heated edge. Loralee closes her eyes.
I position myself between her and the crowd. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.”
“That is not enough information.”
She opens her eyes. “The scent is close, but this isn’t the place. In the vision, I smelled cinnamon after the glass shattered. Here, it surrounds everything.”
“Sequence matters?”
“It may.”
We continue.
A child runs past wearing a red coat, pursued by his father. Loralee turns sharply, but the boy is laughing. He reaches a woman carrying three cups of cider and wraps both arms around her legs.
“Red clothing,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Not the same?”
“No. The flash moved differently.”
Near the center lawn, a worker adds wood to a firepit. One of the logs splits with a loud crack.
Loralee flinches. My hand closes around her upper arm before I think to ask. She looks down at it.
“Reflex,” I say.
“I know.”
I release her, but she catches my hand before it falls away. Her fingers slide between mine. The contact has nothing to do with balance. She does not pretend otherwise.
We walk through the crowd holding hands. The simplicity of it affects me more than it should. I have touched her while she worked on my shoulder. Held her upright after a collapse. Carried her against my chest. None of those moments prepared me for the quiet claim of her palm against mine.
“Does this interfere with your energy?” I ask.
“I’ll let you know.”
At the cider station, clear glass dispensers rest on a long wooden counter. Cinnamon sticks and slices of apple float inside amber liquid. A server opens the small stove beneath one container, and a ribbon of smoke escapes.
Loralee slows.
A girl in a red sweater stands near the counter, crying because cider has spilled down the front of her clothes. Her mother reaches for napkins while the child’s distress rises above the music.
Glass. Red. Smoke. Cinnamon. A child crying.
I feel Loralee’s fingers tighten around mine.
“This matches.”
“Some of it.”
“Glass. Red. Smoke. Cinnamon. A crying child.”
“But not the way I saw them.”
The words are quiet, but a nearby man glances toward us. I lead Loralee away from the serving line before we draw more attention.
“Could this be what you saw?” I ask.
“No.”
“You have every element.”
“The child in my vision wasn’t crying over something already finished. She was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know.”
“That matters.”
“I know.”
Frustration edges the answer. I stop pressing.
We reach booth 37. The canvas panels have been lowered across the entrance and secured with clips and a lock. Nothing appears disturbed. My employee stands at the opposite intersection, exactly where I assigned him.
I inspect the exterior, check the fastenings, and examine the narrow space between Loralee’s booth and the one beside it.
“No one entered,” I assure her.
“I believed you the first time.”
“I didn’t ask whether you believed me.”
“Do you know how exhausting you are?”
“Yes.”
The answer draws a reluctant smile from her.
“You can go inside if you still want to,” I say.
Loralee places her free hand against the canvas panel but does not reach for the key. Her eyes close briefly.
“No.”
“Why?”
“The vision isn’t pulling me toward the booth.”
“Then where?”
She turns toward the center of the festival.
The stage lights have come on. Beyond them, the main lodge glows through tall glass doors and windows.
A red harvest banner stretches across the entrance.
It moves slightly whenever the doors open.
Smoke from the nearest firepit drifts toward the building while visitors carry cider and sweets between the indoor exhibits and the lawn.
Loralee releases my hand and walks toward it. I signal my employee to follow at a distance.
Her pace increases as we pass the stage. Music swells behind us. A group of teenagers crosses our path, forcing us to slow, but Loralee moves around them without taking her attention from the lodge.
“What are you feeling?”
“I don’t know yet.”
We reach the edge of the lawn. A family exits through the glass doors, and the red banner lifts in the rush of warm air behind them.
Loralee stops. Her face loses color.
I move in front of her. “Are you dizzy?”
“No.”
“Another vision?”
“Not exactly.”
A firepit crackles behind us. Cinnamon drifts from the cider station. A child calls for his mother near the lodge entrance.
The pieces exist here too, but Loralee is no longer examining them one at a time. Her gaze follows the glass doors, the red banner, and the flow of people between the building and lawn. Then she looks toward the covered display positioned just inside the entrance.
A glass-fronted case holds items donated for the festival’s charity auction. Jewelry, gift certificates, carved figures, and several wrapped baskets fill the shelves. Visitors stop in front of it, narrowing the passage before moving on.
Loralee grips my forearm.
“What?”
Her eyes remain fixed on the entrance.
“This is where it happens.”