Page 95 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

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.