"Cabot, Meg - 1-800-Where-R-You 04 - Sanctuary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cabot Meg)

And so I did.
Only it turned out we didn't get very far.
C H A P T E R
4
Not, may I point here and now, because of my poor driving skills. As I think
I've stated before, I am an extremely good driver.
But I didn't know that at first. That I wasn't being pulled over on account of
my driving ability, or lack thereof. All I knew was one minute I was cruising
along the dark, empty country road that ran from Rob's house back into town,
with Rob purring along behind me on his Indian. And the next, I rounded a curve
to find the entire road blocked off by emergency vehicles—county sheriff's SUVs,
police cruisers, highway patrol … even an ambulance. My face was bathed in
flashing red and white. All I could think was,Whoa! I was only going eighty, I
swear!
Of course it was a forty-mile-an-hour zone. But come on. It was Thanksgiving,
for crying out loud. There hadn't been another soul on the road for the past ten
miles. . . .
A skinny sheriff's deputy waved me to the shoulder. I obeyed, my palms sweaty.My
God , was all I could think.All this because I was driving without a license?
Who knew they were so strict?
The officer who strolled up to the car after I pulled over was one I recognized
from the night Mastriani's burned down. I didn't remember his name, but I knew
he was a nice guy—the kind of guy who maybe wouldn't bust my chops too badly for
driving illegally. He shined a flashlight first on me, then into the backseat of
my mom's car. I hoped he didn't think the stuff my mom had in the backseat—boxes
of cassette tapes by Carly Simon and Billy Joel, and some videos of romantic
comedies she kept forgetting to return to Blockbuster—were mine. I am so not the
Carly Simon,Sleepless in Seattle type.
"Jessica, isn't it?" the cop said, when I put the window down. "Aren't you Joe
Mastriani's daughter?"
"Yes, sir," I said. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Rob pull up right
behind me on his Indian. His long legs were stretched out so that his feet
rested on the ground, keeping him and the bike upright while he waited for me to
get waved through the roadblock. Rob was gazing out at the cornfield to the
right of us. The brown, withered stalks were bathed in the flashing
red-and-white lights from the dozen squad cars and ambulance parked alongside
the road. A few yards deeper into the field, a giant floodlight had been set up
on a metal pole, and was shining down on something that we couldn't see, with
the tall corn in the way.
"Too bad you have to work on Thanksgiving," I said to the cop. I was trying to
be way nice to him, on account of my not having a driver's license, and all.
Meanwhile, my palms were now so sweaty, I could barely grip the wheel. I had no
idea what happens to people caught driving without a license, but I was pretty
sure it wouldn't be very nice.
"Yeah," the cop said. "Well, you know. Listen, we kinda got a situation over
here. Where you coming from, anyway?"
"Oh, I was just having dinner over at my friend's house," I said, and told him
the address of Rob's house. "That's him," I added, helpfully, pointing behind
me.
Rob had, by this time, switched off his engine and gotten down from his bike. He