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There was flurry of motion outside the window. Three Children stood in a tight triangle, heads tilted forward, communicating in the way they had even though no words were spoken. They were capable of speaking perfectly normal English—they certainly had no problem asking for help from people kind enough to stop and offer them a ride.
That much was known, even though most of the people who had heard those plaintive voices were never seen again.
One of the Children stooped, straightened, then all three turned toward the car. The Child who had bent over had a large rock in his hand.
Kerri’s heart gave a stutter-step.
She was as good as dead. They’d find Rivers’s car with a shattered window, and both of them gone. How many could she shoot before they overpowered her, dragged her away?
The Child with the rock lifted it, its thin arm showing no strain in lifting the heavy chunk of limestone. Kerri backed away from the window, raised an arm to shield her eyes.
But another Child put its hand on the shoulder of the one with the rock. It turned slightly, its arm aloft, still keeping its gaze locked on Kerri’s. There was a frozen moment in which nothing moved.
Then with a silent, fluttery movement, all three Children turned and vanished into the darkness. After a breathless minute, Kerri leaned toward the window, finally ending with her nose pressed against the glass.
There was nothing between her and the line of sagebrush. She was alone in the New Mexico night.