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It
was
pretty cold, sitting there with the window rolled down. I felt especially bad for Rob, who was just going to have to climb back on his motorcycle when we were through being questioned and ride behind me all the way into town and then back to his house, without even a chance to get warmed up. Unless of course I invited him into my mom’s car. Just for a few minutes. You know. To defrost.
    Suddenly I noticed that those police officers, hurrying in and out of that 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 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