Book of Days_ A Novel - James L. Rubart [46]
What should be his next move? On the cliff they'd decided Ann would stop by the library that afternoon and see if she could dig up anything he hadn't been able to find, but what should he do? He'd talked to all the possible leads in town—which had gotten him nowhere—except for his conversation with Taylor Stone. But getting Stone to help with his quest would be like swimming through concrete.
"I'm getting tired, Jessie."
He wasn't any closer to the book than when he'd arrived, and Brandon expected him to be back in Seattle in a little over a week. Cameron popped the steering wheel again. He needed answers now. Somehow. Some way.
He stopped for a long, late lunch and didn't arrive back at his hotel till four thirty. He tossed his keys and wallet on the desk and scanned his room. Something was out of place. Wait, not out of place—missing.
Where was his notebook? Didn't he leave it on the desk? It wasn't there. He glanced at the floor. The cleaning staff might have knocked it—no, not there. Not on the nightstand either.
He sucked in a breath and blew it out quickly as heat filled his body. Think! Where was it?
He wiped his forehead as he strode into the bathroom. Had he set the file on the sink?
Nothing. Not there.
Come on . . . Ah, there it was, resting at the base of the overstuffed chair next to the window. He snatched it up. "Don't go disappearing on me. I need y—"
Cameron stopped as he flipped it open and stared at a blank notepad. All his notes were gone, ripped cleanly out.
Another wave of heat coursed through him. A threatening letter was one thing; stealing his notes took things to another level.
He glanced around the room. Nothing else was out of place. At least that he remembered. And everything in the closet seemed to be there.
Cameron strode to the window and yanked back the curtains, as if the intruder would be standing under a streetlamp staring up at him.
The street was empty, but it didn't stop a shiver from running down his back.
He spun and smacked the chair.
He needed his notes!
He flopped into the chair and didn't know whether to scream or laugh. He was getting behind somebody's curtain, and that person wanted to kick him out of the theater. But Cameron had a ticket and wasn't about to leave.
After a long shower he glanced at his watch. Five thirty. Too early to catch a movie in the Five Pine campus at the east end of town.
He stared out his window and saw the banner promoting the jazz festival. It had just started. Hadn't he looked at the banner a few days ago? Yes. He remembered. A miracle.
Why not stroll down and listen for a while? It was better than sitting in his hotel room, wondering who had broken in for a second time and trying to ignore the nauseous gurgling that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his stomach.
About halfway to the park, he caught the sound of a band. A guitarist was playing riffs in fine Robert-Cray style, and the faint smell of barbecued chicken tantalized his taste buds.
There had to be at least five-hundred people spread out on blue and green and red checkered blankets or sitting in lawn chairs, bottles of red wine at their sides or pitchers filled with what looked like iced tea.
People sat in large groups, talking and laughing, kids running from blanket to blanket acting like everyone was their mom or dad, sister or brother. One of the amazing aspects of a small town. Community was real. You knew your neighbors and everyone in town was a neighbor.
So different from his life in Seattle, where he had a lot of acquaintances but not many deep friendships. He'd always envied Jessie in that regard. She had a big group of God-buddies who would do anything for her.
Cameron was about to sit on a gray, faded picnic table on the edge of the crowd