Page 9 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“Delivery truck at Gate Three. Driver isn’t on the approved list.”

“I’m coming.”

The festival grounds occupy most of the town park and two blocks of the adjoining street. Artisan booths fill the center section. Food vendors line the western edge, where their generators, propane, and cooking equipment can be monitored without placing open flames beneath the trees. The children’s area sits near the library parking lot. Live music will run from noon until nine on the temporary stage.

On paper, the arrangement is sensible. In practice, seven thousand people, temporary structures, cash-heavy vendors, wandering children, cooking fires, and alcohol service create risks no map can eliminate.

The mayor mentioned that Cady Springs has held an autumn festival for years without serious trouble. That history made several committee members reluctant to hire private security. The mayor changed their minds after two neighboring towns experienced coordinated vendor thefts, several fights, and one incident involving a firearm.

Blackridge Protective Services is not here because Cady Springs suddenly expects violence. We are here because believing something cannot happen is not a security plan.

At Gate Three, I verify the driver’s identification and discover the approved vendor has subcontracted delivery without notifying anyone. The supplies are legitimate, but the oversight costs twenty minutes and another reminder that procedures exist for reasons.

By the time I finish, two tent crews need access to the same lane, a volunteer has misplaced a ring of storage keys, and one of my employees has found an unsecured electrical panel behind the stage.

Problems arrive in patterns. Most people see individual inconveniences. My job is to recognize when they begin connecting.

The shoulder pain becomes a steady pulse as I cross the grounds. I rotate my arm once and feel the joint catch. Cold weather sometimes aggravates it, particularly after several nights of poor sleep. I can manage both. I have managed worse.

The vendor pavilion is already half-full when I arrive for the briefing. Folding chairs face a low platform where the festival coordinator stands beside a projected map. Vendors talk over one another while unpacking information packets they should have read before arriving. I remain near the rear exit and scan the room.

Two emergency doors. One blocked by a stack of unused chairs. A narrow center aisle. Six extension cords running beneath the refreshment table.

A man in a red jacket without a visible credential stands near the eastern wall. I watch him for several seconds before he turns, revealing a volunteer badge tucked beneath the jacket. Harmless, as far as I can determine. I still memorize his face.

Loralee enters at five fifty-eight.

She has changed her clothes, or added to them. A wide rust-colored wrap covers her black shirt, and her hair is now twisted over one shoulder in an elaborate braid. Silver leaves catch the overhead light. She carries a notebook beneath one arm and a paper cup in each hand. Her eyes move through the pavilion and find me immediately.

I’m not standing near the entrance. I’m partially obscured by several vendors, but she looks directly at me without searching. A small smile touches her lips. Then she walks over.

“I brought you coffee.”

She holds out the cup.

I don’t take it. “You don’t know how I drink it.”

“Black.”

“Why is that your impression?”

“Milk would be too comforting. Sugar requires optimism.”

The vendor beside us laughs. I don’t. Loralee continues holding out the coffee.

“What if I don’t drink caffeine?” I ask.

“You do.”

“What if I already had enough?”

“You haven’t.”

“Is my energy telling you that?”

“No.” She smiles more fully. “Observation isn’t exclusive to security specialists.”

I take the coffee.