Page 82 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

McCall runs the partial plate against the vehicle description, but the search produces too many possibilities. Without a complete number or probable cause, the deputies cannot enter the vehicle or force it open.

We maintain surveillance.

By eleven, the public areas are empty. Vendors remain behind lowered panels while completing inventory. The lodge doors are locked, the auction items rest inside the office safe, and the money collected during the evening has been transferred under escort.

Whatever the man planned, Loralee’s warning changed the opportunity. That may be enough to prevent it. Or it may only delay him.

I stand beside the silver sedan with McCall after the last vendor leaves. Mud covers the plate in a deliberate horizontal smear. The doors are locked. Through the windows, I see fast-food wrappers, an empty water bottle, and a gray blanket across the rear seat. No weapon is visible.

“We’ll keep a deputy near it,” McCall says. “If someone returns, we can ask questions.”

“And if no one does?”

“Property owner can have it towed tomorrow. If the plate comes back stolen or false, we proceed from there.”

It is not the result I want, but it is the limit of what the evidence permits. I check the time. 11:26.

Loralee has not sent another message. My patrol passed her rental twice and reported no activity. She is safe.

I tell Wade I will be off-site for thirty minutes. He does not ask where I am going. The drive takes eleven.

Lights remain on inside Loralee’s cabin. Her SUV sits where she left it before I brought her to mine. The curtains are drawn now, and no movement appears around the neighboring rentals. I park beside her vehicle and turn off the engine.

Going inside would be a mistake. I am carrying too much of the festival with me. I’m full of unresolved evidence, incomplete descriptions, and the certainty that someone tested my security response.

Loralee needs sleep, not another discussion about what might happen. She also needs the truth.

I cross the porch and knock.

The curtain near the door moves. A moment later, the lock turns.

Loralee stands barefoot in a long rust-colored sweater and black leggings. Her hair falls loose over her shoulders, the lighter strands catching the glow from the lamp behind her. She looks rested but not surprised.

“You knew it was me.”

“I hoped.”

The answer does nothing to reduce my awareness of her mouth.

Her gaze moves over my face. “You found something.”

“Yes.”

She steps back from the doorway. “Come inside.”

“I can tell you from here.”

“You could.”

I wait. Loralee’s mouth softens into a wide smile.

“But you came back because you don’t want to stand out there and give me a security report. You came because neither of us finished what happened before you left.”

My body responds before I can deny it.

“The man was studying the auction case,” I say. “We have photographs.”

She absorbs the confirmation. “Then the vision was connected to him.”