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

cornfield? Yeah, those weren't toolboxes they were carrying. No, not at all.
Suddenly my palms were sweaty for a whole different reason than before.
Let me just say that in Indiana, they are always finding bodies in cornfields.
Cornfields seem to be the preferred dumping ground for victims of foul play by
Midwestern killers. That's because until the farmer who owns the field cuts down
all the stalks to plant new rows, you can't really see what all is going on in
there.
Well, suddenly I had a pretty good idea what was going on in this particular
cornfield.
"Who is it?" I asked the policeman, in a high-pitched voice that didn't really
sound like my own.
The cop was still busy writing down what I'd said about not having seen anyone.
He didn't bother to pretend that he didn't know what I was talking about. Nor
did he try to convince me I was wrong.
"Nobody you'd know," he said, without even looking up.
But I had a feeling I did know. Which was why I suddenly undid my seatbelt and
got out of the car.
The cop looked up when I did that. He looked more than up. He looked pretty
surprised. So did Rob.
"Mastriani," Rob said, in a cautious voice. "What are you doing?"
Instead of replying, I started walking toward the harsh white glow of the
floodlight, out in the middle of that cornfield.
"Wait a minute." The cop put away his notebook and pen. "Miss? Um, you can't go
over there."
The moon was bright enough that I could see perfectly well even without all the
flashing red-and-white lights. I walked rapidly along the side of the road, past
clusters of cops and sheriff's deputies. Some of them looked up at me in
surprise as I breezed past. The ones who did look up seemed startled, like
they'd seen something disturbing. The disturbing thing appeared to be me,
striding toward the floodlight in the corn.
"Whoa, little missy." One of the cops detached himself from the group he was in,
and grabbed my arm. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm going to look," I said. I recognized this police officer, too, only not
from the fire at Mastriani's. I recognized this one from Joe Junior's, where I
sometimes bussed tables on weekends. He always got a large pie, half sausage and
half pepperoni.
"I don't think so," said Half-Sausage, Half-Pepperoni. "We got everything under
control. Why don't you get back in your car, like a good little girl, and go on
home."
"Because," I said, my breath coming out in white puffs. "I think I might know
him."
"Come on now," Half-Sausage, Half-Pepperoni said, in a kindly voice. "There's
nothing to see. Nothing to see at all. You go on home like a good girl. Son?" He
said this last to Rob, who'd come hurrying up behind him. "This your little
girlfriend? You be a good boy, now, and take her on home."
"Yes, sir," Rob said, taking hold of my arm the same way the police officer had.
"I'll do that, sir." To me, he hissed, "Are you nuts, Mastriani? Let's go,
before they ask to see your license."
Only I wouldn't budge. Being only five feet tall and a hundred pounds, I am not
exactly a difficult person to lift up and sling around, as Rob had illustrated a