Page 34 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“Sometimes. Not always. I can control what I do with it.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You asked for no readings and no surprises. A fragment of an experience you had no intention of sharing belonged to you, not me.”

The explanation is logical. I still don’t believe touching someone allows access to memory. There are other possibilities. My muscles reacted to an old injury. Loralee knew it resulted from a rollover and unconsciously built images around that information. She may have noticed changes in my breathing when she reached certain areas.

None of that explains the restraint.

I had been strapped into the rear seat when the vehicle rolled. The belt locked across my chest and held while metal collapsed around us. I never told her that.

Before I can question her further, a customer enters the booth carrying two candles from another vendor. Loralee steps behind her sales table.

“We can talk later,” she says.

I nod and return to the main path.

The festival opens at nine. Within minutes, crowd density increases around the food vendors and children’s area. My team reports no significant problems, but the scattered inconveniences begin on schedule. A lost child is reunited with his parents. A customer trips over an unsecured extension cord without injury. Two vendors disagree over storage space until one of my employees separates them.

Routine incidents. Predictable and solvable.

At ten forty, I notice a man studying the rear of a jewelry booth.

He appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Gray cap, dark jacket, worn jeans. Nothing distinctive enough to draw attention. He stands near a display of handmade bracelets but watches the vendor each time she opens the cash box.

I alter my route without looking directly at him. The man moves toward a pottery booth. He touches nothing, speaks to no one, and positions himself where he can see behind the sales counter. When the vendor turns to assist another customer, he raises his phone.

The camera points toward the lock securing the rear canvas panel.

I approach from his left.

“Can I help you?”

His phone lowers. “Just taking pictures.”

“Of the pottery?”

“Yeah.”

“You were photographing the back of the booth.”

He gives me an easy smile. “My girlfriend sells crafts. She wants ideas for displays.”

“Where is she?”

“Home.”

“What does she sell?”

The smile remains, but his eyes move briefly toward the nearest exit.

“Different things.”

“What kind?”

“Jewelry. Decorations. Stuff like that.”

I hold out my hand. “May I see the photograph?”