Page 94 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

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.