19. Chapter 19
Rocco
Iget Loralee through the rear exit as Deputy Carver orders everyone else out of the lodge.
The night air hits us hard. She stumbles once on the uneven ground but recovers before I can lift her.
I keep one hand at her back and move her beyond the nearest line of trees, putting the lodge between us and the rest of the festival grounds.
Grant follows with the event coordinator while the evidence technician carries nothing except his phone. The laptop, camera, and every other piece of equipment remain inside.
“How far?” I ask Carver.
“Until we know what’s beneath that display, farther is better.”
We continue toward the south parking area.
Morales directs the responding deputies to close the county road while Grant moves our employees to the outer perimeter.
No one approaches the lodge. No radios transmit within range of the building until the bomb squad determines whether the object can be triggered remotely.
Loralee remains beside me, moving quickly without complaint. She doesn’t ask what I think the man placed beneath the cloth. She already knows enough.
When we reach the parking area, I open my truck and position her behind the engine block.
“I don’t need to sit in your vehicle.”
“You’re not sitting. You’re using it as cover.”
“That is not more reassuring.”
“It isn’t intended to be.”
Her hand closes around my wrist before I can turn away. “Don’t disappear into whatever happens next.”
I look down at her fingers against my skin.
“I need to coordinate my people.”
“I know. I’m asking you not to disappear from me.”
The distinction lands harder than it should.
I bring her hand to my mouth and press my lips against her knuckles. “I’m here.”
For the next forty minutes, the parking area becomes a temporary command post. Carver speaks with the state bomb squad while Grant accounts for every employee and volunteer still on the property.
The coordinator works through a list of people with access to the lodge, storage buildings, vendor credentials, and service gates.
There are forty-seven names.
Too many.
We need the man in the video, but his cap hides his face and the vendor jacket provides no help. Hundreds were ordered for the festival. Staff received black jackets. Vendors received brown. The man wore brown.
“He knew where the cameras were,” I say.
The coordinator looks up from her list. “Anyone who worked setup could have noticed them.”
“He entered through the rear hall and never looked around. He knew the interior camera didn’t cover that doorway.”
“We don’t have an interior camera.”
“You do. The one he installed.”
She looks toward the lodge.
“He chose the only entrance that kept his face turned away from it,” I continue. “He also knew about the equipment road, the storage decorations, and the blind side of Loralee’s booth. That eliminates most vendors.”
The coordinator lowers the clipboard. “You think he worked here.”
“I think he knew the property before this week.”
Something changes in her expression.
Carver sees it too. “Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t what your face says,” I tell her.
She exhales and looks toward the dark lodge. “Owen Mercer.”
The name means nothing to me. Carver, however, becomes still.
“You should have mentioned him earlier,” he says.
“I haven’t seen Owen in almost a year.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“He was our assistant operations manager for three festivals. He handled vendors, parking assignments, storage, maintenance schedules—whatever needed to be done.”
“He had keys.”
“To everything.”
“Why was he fired?”
Her fingers tighten around the clipboard. “Vendor deposits went missing last year. At first, we thought there was a bookkeeping error. Then several vendors arrived and learned their booths had never been reserved, even though they had paid cash directly to Owen.”
“How much?” Carver asks.
“Almost fourteen thousand dollars.”
Loralee stands beside my truck, close enough to hear. I see recognition settle over her face.
“He felt exposed,” she says.
The coordinator turns toward her.
“When I sensed the man who left the Tower, humiliation was stronger than fear. He believes someone took something from him.”
“I didn’t take anything from Owen,” the coordinator says. “He stole from the festival.”
“That distinction may not matter to him.”
Carver makes a call to dispatch, requesting Owen’s address, vehicle information, and criminal history. I return my attention to the lodge. The red banner is visible through the glass even from here.
“Was he charged?” I ask.
“Yes, but the investigation became public before he was arrested. His wife left. His landscaping business lost customers. He blamed me for all of it.”
“Did he threaten you?”
Her hesitation gives me the answer.
“He said I’d destroyed his life.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“That I had brought everything down around him.” She looks at Loralee. “He said one day he would do the same to me.”
The Tower.
Not merely Loralee’s interpretation of the threat. A message chosen to echo a promise made a year ago.
My phone vibrates with a call from Carver. He has moved closer to the road so he can transmit safely.
“Mercer owns a dark gray SUV,” he says. “Same general size as the vehicle caught on your cameras. Plate isn’t visible in the recording.”
“Where is he?”
“Deputies are headed to his house.”
“Current employment?”
“Maintenance contractor. He services commercial properties throughout the county.”
That would provide tools, access to restricted areas, and an explanation if anyone saw him near a business after hours.
It also means he knows how buildings function and how crowds move through them.
The bomb squad arrives seventeen minutes later. Their vehicle rolls into the north parking area without lights or sirens. Two technicians confer with Carver before unloading equipment and approaching the lodge.
Loralee moves closer to me as a small wheeled robot crosses the path and enters through the rear door.
The camera feed appears on a portable monitor. The image jerks slightly as the device moves over the threshold and travels between the rows of displays. White table coverings pass on either side until the camera reaches the central arrangement.
The cloth shifts when the robotic arm lifts one corner.
Beneath it sits a black equipment case.
The bomb technician manipulates the camera angle, exposing wires, a battery unit, and several cylindrical objects secured inside. Even on the small screen, I recognize enough to understand that the device is improvised.
Loralee’s shoulder presses against my arm.
“Is it a bomb?”
“Possibly.”
The technician keeps his eyes on the screen before speaking quietly to his partner. Carver joins them. Their discussion lasts less than a minute, but each second seems like an eternity. Finally, Carver approaches us.
“It contains pyrotechnic material, smoke canisters, and a remote receiver,” he says. “The bomb squad believes it was designed to produce multiple loud reports, a bright flash, and enough heat to ignite nearby fabric.”
“Could it shatter the doors?” Loralee asks.
“If the case was positioned close enough when it activated.”
“It was on a wheeled display,” the coordinator says. “Tomorrow morning, that table would have been moved beside the entrance.”
The image forms exactly as Loralee described it. Shattered glass. Smoke. A flash of red from the banner or something worn by a person nearby. Cinnamon and scorched sugar drifting in from the vendors outside.
A child screaming.
“Would it kill someone?” she asks.
Carver chooses his words carefully. “It could cause serious injuries. The larger danger might be panic. People hear explosions inside a crowded building, they run. Anyone near the doors could be crushed or cut by glass.”
Engineered chaos.
Not random violence. Not an angry man lashing out without thought.
Mercer has studied the event long enough to know when the lodge will be crowded and which display will be moved.
He planted cameras to observe the setup, then used Loralee’s booth to draw security toward the opposite side of the grounds.
“What happens after everyone runs?” I ask.
Carver looks at me. “What do you mean?”
“The device creates panic, but Mercer’s grievance is with the festival coordinator. If he wanted only to frighten people, he could have triggered it tonight after we found the camera. He chose a time when the grounds would be full.”
“You think the panic covers something else.”
“I think this device is the beginning of his plan.”
Loralee closes her eyes.
I turn toward her. “What is it?”
“The impression I felt at the card.” Her voice is quiet. “He didn’t only want people frightened. He wanted them to understand what it felt like to lose everything at once.”
A deputy approaches Carver before he can respond. “They reached Mercer’s house. No one home. SUV is gone.”
“Put out the vehicle description,” Carver says. “Advise officers he may be armed.”
The deputy returns to his cruiser.
Carver looks at the event coordinator. “The festival is canceled. No delay. No negotiation.”
She nods without resistance.
The bomb technician calls him back toward the monitor. I watch the two men enlarge part of the image from beneath the display. Something rectangular is attached to the inside of the case, separate from the receiver.
A phone.
“If that has cellular service, he could activate the device from anywhere,” I say.
“That’s what they’re determining.”
“Can they recover the number?”
“If the components remain intact.”
Loralee’s phone vibrates.
The sound is ordinary, but every person near us turns toward it.
She removes the phone from her coat pocket. Her face changes as she reads the screen.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A message through my business account.”
“From whom?”
“There’s no name.”
She holds the phone toward me.
The message contains a photograph taken from above. In it, the bomb squad vehicle sits near the lodge while deputies and security personnel gather along the perimeter. Loralee and I stand beside my truck at the edge of the frame.
The image was taken within the last five minutes.
Beneath it are seven words.
YOU KEEP SEEING WHAT I WANT YOU TO SEE.
I scan the ridges surrounding the parking area.
The trail camera is already in police custody.
This photograph came from somewhere else.
“He’s still here,” I say.