Silence. She was considering his statement. Shellinger liked her dignified thoughtful attitude. She was a bit more at ease, he noticed, and was sitting closer to him. Funny how a kid could sense that you wouldn’t do her any harm. Even a country kid. Especially a country kid, come to think of it, because they lived closer to nature or something.
He had won her confidence, though, and consequently rewon his. A week of living among thin-lipped ignoramuses who had been not at all diffident in showing their disdain had made him a little uncertain. This was better. And he’d finally got a line on the basis of a story.
Only, he’d have to dress it up. In the story, she’d be an ordinary hillbilly kid, much thinner, much more unapproachable; and the quotes would all be in “mountain” dialect.
Yes, he had the human interest stuff now.
She had moved closer to him again, right against his side. Poor kid! His body warmth made the wet coldness of her jeans a little less uncomfortable. He wished he had a heater in the car.
The road disappeared entirely into tangled bushes and gnarly trees. He stopped the car, flipped the emergency back.
“You don’t live here? This place looks as if nothing human’s been around for years. ”
He was astonished at the uncultivated desolation. “Sure I live here, mister,” her warm voice said at his ear. “I live in that little house over there.”
“Where?” He rubbed at the windshield and strained his vision over the sweep of headlight. “I don’t see any house. Where is it?”
“There.” A plump hand came up and waved at the night ahead. “Over there.”
“I still can’t see—” The corner of his right eye had casually noticed that the palm of her hand was covered with fine brown hair.
Strange, that.
Was covered with fine brown hair. Her palm!
“What was that you remembered about the shape of her teeth?” his mind shrieked. He started to whip his head around, to get another look at her teeth. But he couldn’t.
Because her teeth were in his throat.