It blew against a big rock and then sand covered the bottom half. Like with the doll. If he’d dropped it six inches to the right or left, it’d prob’ly be halfway to Mexico by now.”
He jogged to where she was standing. “What? What is it?”
“Little notebook,” she said, and held it out. “I guess he was here, all right. J. Marinville, printed right on the front. See?”
He took the small wirebound notepad with the bent cover and paged through it quickly. Directions, maps Steve had drawn himself, and jotted notes in the boss’s topheavy scrawl, most of them about the scheduled receptions. Under the heading St. Louis, Marinville had scribbled, Patricia Franklin. Redhead, big boobs. Don’t CALL HER PAT OR PATTY! Name of org. is FRIENDS OF OPEN LIBES. Bill sez P.F. also active in animal-rights stuff. Veggie.” On the last page which had been used, a single word had been scrawled in an even more flamboyant version of the boss’s handwriting:
For
That was all. As if he had started to write an autograph for someone and then never finished. He looked up at Cynthia and saw her cross her arms beneath her scant bosom and begin rubbing the points of her elbows. “Bruh,” she said. “It’s impossible to be cold out here, but I am just the same. This keeps getting spookier and spookier.”
“How come this didn’t just fly away in the breeze?”
“Pure luck. It blew against a big rock and then sand covered the bottom half. Like with the doll. If he’d dropped it six inches to the right or left, it’d prob’ly be halfway to Mexico by now.”
