A man’s voice came clearly to my ears: “I tell you, there’s no use in tramping through these miserable woods looking for their bodies. Nobody could survive going down this hill at the speed they went over. Come on, let’s go.”
The crashing in the underbrush grew louder. From my hiding place, all I could see between sumac stalks were the feet of the approaching men. Afraid to move so I could see better, I tried to breathe silently.
A rough laugh and then a second voice asked, “What’s the matter? No stomach for a little blood? Help me open this car door. We’ve got to make sure they’re dead.”
The door of the Passport creaked as the men wrenched it open. I heard a muffled exclamation. “Not here! Then, where…”
Holding my breath, I heard footsteps nearing our hiding place. Mom’s hand on my arm shook. Trying not to blink, I saw through the thicket, rain stained boots step ever closer. The owner of those boots must have bent over to shove aside some low-hanging branches. His hands were inches from my face. In his right hand he held a big, black gun. On the third finger of his left hand, he wore a gold ring, a ring whose replica now resided in my mother’s recipe box.
Feeling, more than hearing my mother gasp, I knew that she saw the ring too. I prayed that she would not give away our hiding place.
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