17. Chapter 17
Rocco
Red clay marks the bottom edge of the Tower card.
The old equipment road runs along the northern boundary of the festival property, separated from the vendor grounds by almost a mile of dense pine and uneven terrain.
It hasn’t been used since summer, when crews brought in materials to repair the lodge roof.
According to Grant, the entrance remains chained, but anyone on foot could follow it without being seen from the county road.
I study the property map on his tablet. The equipment road curves above the festival grounds before ending near an old maintenance shed. From that elevation, a person could see the lodge, the eastern vendor row, and part of the main stage, including Loralee’s booth.
“We need to search it,” I say.
Deputy Carver nods. “Backup is five minutes out.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Loralee’s voice carries from inside the booth. She stands several feet from the table while another deputy finishes photographing the open drawer. The portable light catches the bright strands in her hair, making her easy to locate even in the half-dark. Too easy.
“No,” I say.
She steps through the open panel. “I knew you were going to say that.”
“Then we’ve saved time.”
“You said I was safer beside you.”
“You are not walking an unlit service road while we search for someone who may be armed.”
Her attention moves to the map. “The road overlooks the festival.”
“It appears to.”
“Then he may have left more than a footprint.”
“That is what we intend to determine.”
She folds her arms. “Without me.”
“Yes.”
The answer comes easily. What does not come easily is deciding where she will be while I search.
Her cabin is no longer an acceptable option.
I have no evidence the intruder knows where she’s staying, but he knew which booth belonged to her and where she kept a deck most customers never saw her put away. I will not underestimate him again.
“Grant stays with you in the lodge,” I say. “The doors will be locked, and a deputy will remain outside.”
Loralee’s lips press into a thin line. “You’re assigning me guards?”
“I’m assigning you protection.”
“That sounds suspiciously similar.”
“It isn’t.”
Her gaze holds mine. Behind the frustration is something else. She knows I’m leaving her because the alternative would be taking her toward a possible threat. Understanding does not make her like it.
I step closer and lower my voice. “I need to know you’re secure while I do this.”
The resistance in her posture eases slightly.
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“That is an estimate.”
“It is.”
“And if you aren’t back?”
“Grant will update you.”
“I asked when you would be back.”
I look into eyes that seem capable of extracting promises before I decide whether to give them.
“Twenty minutes,” I repeat.
She exhales. “Fine.”
I take her hand and lead her toward the lodge.
The building has been cleared, but I inspect the first floor again before allowing her beyond the entrance. The cheerful red banner hanging above the glass doors is visible in the emergency lighting. Inside, covered display tables wait for morning, their white cloths turning gray in the dim room.
The scene resembles what Loralee described after her vision, but only in pieces. Glass. Red fabric. A crowd that will fill the space tomorrow. One wrong action could assemble the rest.
Grant locks the doors after us. “I’ll keep her here.”
“You’ll keep the building secure,” Loralee corrects.
Grant glances at me.
“She remains inside,” I say.
“I’m standing right here.”
“That makes the instruction easier to hear.”
Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t argue again. I check the rear exit, then return to where she waits beneath the red banner.
“I need your phone.”
She hands it over without asking why. I activate location sharing with mine and return it.
“You can track me?” she asks.
“I can locate the phone.”
“Which is attached to me.”
“That is the general idea.”
Her expression softens despite herself. “Come back, Rocco.”
The words reach the same place as stay did earlier.
“I will.”
Outside, Carver’s backup has arrived. Deputy Morales carries a flashlight and a rifle, though the weapon remains pointed toward the ground. Carver leads us beyond the final vendor row and through the locked northern gate.
The temperature drops as soon as we enter the trees. Our lights sweep across trunks, exposed roots, and fallen branches. We move without conversation, placing each step carefully to avoid destroying any prints. The trail rises sharply for the first hundred yards before meeting the old road.
Red clay begins where the gravel ends. Carver crouches near a shallow impression. “Same damaged heel.”
The triangular gap appears clearly along one side of the print.
“He came through here,” Morales says.
“Possibly more than once.” I angle my light across the road. Several impressions overlap, some softened by wind and recent moisture. “He knew the route.”
We follow the tracks uphill. In places, the red clay clings to exposed roots. Elsewhere, the prints disappear beneath pine needles before reappearing several yards later. Whoever used the road moved with care but not urgency.
He didn’t run after leaving the booth. He believed he had time.
The road curves near the maintenance shed, bringing the festival grounds into view through a break in the trees. From here, the portable lights appear small and distant. The deputies move below us like figures on a model landscape.
My attention finds the eastern row. Even in darkness, I can identify booth 37.
“He could see her booth,” I say.
Carver follows my line of sight. “He could see most of the grounds.”
“But that booth is directly below us.”
Morales examines the shed while Carver photographs the surrounding ground. I move toward the tree line, following a narrow disturbance in the pine needles. Several branches have been bent back and wedged behind a trunk to keep them from obscuring the view. This position was prepared.
A patch of compressed earth marks where someone sat or crouched for an extended period. Beside it lies the circular indentation left by the base of a bottle or travel mug. There are no cigarette ends, food wrappers, or other careless pieces of evidence.
“He watched from here,” Carver says behind me.
I scan the trunks. Most people look at the ground when following a trail.
Military training taught me to look where a person’s hands would naturally reach and where his eyes would need to be.
A narrow scrape marks the bark of a pine several feet above my head.
Another appears on the opposite side at the same height.
Something was strapped around the trunk.
“Light up there.”
Carver aims his beam above me. For a second, I see nothing beyond rough bark and dark branches. Then a small reflection flashes between two clusters of needles.
A lens.
“Don’t touch it,” I say.
The trail camera is mounted more than eight feet above the ground and wrapped in a camouflage shell. It faces the festival, angled wide enough to capture the eastern vendor row and the main path leading to the lodge.
Carver steps back. “Could belong to the property owner.”
“Not mounted like that.” I point to the fresh cuts on a lower branch. “Someone cleared its view recently.”
Morales returns from the shed. “Nothing inside except old equipment.”
“Call this in,” Carver tells him. “We’ll need someone who can process electronics.”
I study the camera without stepping into its field of view. There is no visible antenna, but newer trail cameras don’t need one. If it has cellular capability, every photograph could have been transmitted the moment it was taken.
“He didn’t have to remain here,” I say.
Carver looks toward the device. “You think it’s sending images?”
“I think we should assume it is.”
The shape of the incidents changes.
The first man photographed the booth and refused to show me his phone.
Later, someone approached the grounds from an unmonitored direction, entered Loralee’s booth, and left the Tower where it would be found.
Each time, security responded. Deputies arrived.
Gates were checked. Personnel moved into assigned positions.
And from above, a camera recorded all of it.
“He’s studying us,” I say.
Carver’s expression becomes grim. “Response times.”
“Routes. Staffing. Which entrance we use. How long it takes us to secure the lodge.”
“And Loralee,” he adds.
I look toward the festival below. Through the lodge’s glass front, I can see one person standing beneath the emergency lights. Even at this distance, I recognize the pale color of her sweater and the brighter movement of her hair as she turns toward Grant.
The camera can see her too.
My phone vibrates.
I remove it, expecting an update from Grant, but the message is from Loralee.
I KNOW YOU FOUND SOMETHING
A second message appears before I respond.
I CAN FEEL YOU TRYING NOT TO TELL ME
Despite everything, I almost smile at her uncanny intuition. I type with one hand.
STAY INSIDE
Her answer is immediate.
PLEASE TELL ME
I put the phone away.
Carver is watching me. “She giving you trouble?”
“She is following instructions.”
My phone vibrates again. Carver raises an eyebrow.
“She's worried.”
Morales begins photographing the camera from outside its probable field of view. The device must remain in place until the technician arrives, but leaving it active carries its own risk.
“If it’s transmitting, whoever owns it may already know we found this location,” Carver says.
“He does.”
I step sideways until I stand directly in front of the lens. A faint black circle stares back at me from inside the camouflage casing.
Somewhere beyond the trees, a man may be watching the photograph arrive.
He has observed us react to every move. He has seen which gates open, which deputies respond, and how quickly I reach Loralee whenever something goes wrong. He may believe that makes her my weakness.
He is about to learn the difference between a weakness and the one person I will not allow him to touch.