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

couple of times. But I had gotten pretty mad upon both those occasions, and Rob
seemed to remember this, since he didn't try it now. Instead, he followed me
with nothing more than a deep sigh as I barreled past the police officers, and
toward that white light in the corn.
None of the emergency workers gathered around the body noticed me, at first. The
ones on the outskirts of the crime scene hadn't exactly been expecting gawkers
this far out from town, and on Thanksgiving night, no less. So it wasn't like
they'd been looking out for rubber neckers. There wasn't even any yellow
emergency tape up. I breezed past them without any problem. . . .
And then halted so suddenly that Rob, following behind, collided into me. Hisoof
drew the attention of more than a few officers, who looked up from what they
were doing, and went, "What the—"
"Miss," a sheriff's deputy said, getting up from the cold hard soil upon which
he'd been kneeling. "I'm sorry, miss, but you need to stand back. Marty? Marty,
what are you thinking, letting people through here?"
Marty came hurrying up, looking red-faced and ashamed.
"Sorry, Earl," he said, panting. "I didn't see her, she came by so fast. Come
on, miss. Let's go—"
But I didn't move. Instead, I pointed.
"I know him," I said, looking down at the body that lay, shirtless, on the
frozen ground.
"Jesus." Rob's soft breath was warm on my ear.
"That's my neighbor," I said. "Nate Thompkins."
Marty and Earl exchanged glances.
"He went to get whipped cream," I said. "A couple of hours ago." When I finally
tore my gaze from Nate's bruised and broken body, there were tears in my eyes.
They felt warm, compared to the freezing air all around us.
I felt one of Rob's hands, heavy and reassuring, on my shoulder.
A second later, the county sheriff, a big man in a red plaid jacket with fleece
lining came up to me.
"You're the Mastriani girl," he said. It wasn't really a question. His voice was
deep and gruff.
When I nodded, he went, "I thought you didn't have that psychic thing anymore."
"I don't," I said, reaching up to wipe the moisture from my eyes.
"Then how'd you know"—He nodded down at Nate, who was being covered up with a
piece of blue plastic—"he was here?"
"I didn't," I said. I explained how Rob and I had come to be there. Also how Dr.
Thompkins had been over at my house earlier, looking for his son.
The sheriff listened patiently, then nodded.
"I see," he said. "Well, that's good to know. He wasn't carrying any ID, least
that we could find. So now we have an idea who he is. Thank you. You go on home
now, and we'll take it from here."
Then the sheriff turned around to supervise what was going on beneath the flood
lamp.
Except that I didn't leave. I wanted to, but somehow, I couldn't. Because
something was bothering me.
I looked at Marty, the sheriff's deputy, and asked, "How did he die?"
The deputy shot a glance at the sheriff, who was busy talking to somebody on the
EMS team.
"Look, miss," Marty said. "You better—"