Chapter Two

"Well? Is he or isn't he?" Newkirk leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, watched Carter watch the man they had brought back with them.

"Is he what?" Carter gently worked at the blood crusted around the man's fingernails.

"Ruddy Gestapo, that's what!" Newkirk snapped.

Carter threw a quick look in his direction, then returned to his self-appointed task. "I don't know. He hasn't woken up yet."

Newkirk sullenly eyed the recumbent form on the cot. O'Malley, their camp medic, had been by, had checked the man over and declared he would live. With the blood and dirt washed out of his hair, their unexpected guest appeared better than when they had found him – but not by much. The swelling around his eyes seemed to have worsened and the bruises had darkened to an ugly black. The man's breathing was slightly labored, but O'Malley had reassured Carter that none of the broken ribs had punctured a lung.

"It's probably just the pain," O'Malley said, patting Carter on the back before gathering his supplies and leaving the room.

"What are you going on about there?" Newkirk demanded, fed up with watching his friend wait hand and foot on a man Newkirk fully believed to be a threat. "You going to wash his feet next, Andrew? Give him a pedicure or such?"

"Stop it, Newkirk," Carter said in a low voice. He suddenly froze in horror. Two of the man's fingernails were gone. The exposed nail beds were raw, inflamed, looked like raw meat. He felt a moment of anger that O'Malley had not caught the injury in his quick examination. It had almost seemed to Carter that the Irishman had not wanted to spend any more time on the man than necessary. Swallowing hard, Carter gently laid the cleaned hand on the bed and moved on to the next. He glanced at Newkirk, disappointed that his friend was acting so callously.

"Why are you here, anyway?"

Newkirk came off the door post like a shot. "I'm here to make certain that he hasn't bloody well wrung your scrawny neck, that's why! Why are you here? You don't even know the --"

Carter slowly shook his head, kept his eyes fastened upon his task. "It doesn't matter."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Newkirk snapped.

"Because it's true," Carter calmly replied.

HH HH HH HH

Hogan and Kinch stood in the tunnel, shamelessly listening to the argument.

"That's our Carter," Kinch said with evident fondness. "Always ready to believe the best of everyone until proven wrong."

"Why couldn't it have been a frog or rabbit?" Hogan plaintively asked. "Or a raccoon? Or even one of those ratty-things we saw the other night?"

Kinch grinned. "That was an opossum. You aren't into nature very much, are you sir?"

"Oh, I don't know," Hogan leered. "I like the birds and bees."

Chuckling, Kinch leaned forward slightly, peeked down the tunnel past Benson, who was standing guard, and into the room. Looking back at Hogan, he said, "I checked around like you asked, sir."

"Anybody missing?"

"Not so far as we know at this point. Some of Tiger's people are out of contact for a few days, but she'll talk with them when they get back."

"A few days," Hogan grumbled, somber now.

Neither said anything for a few moments, then in a quiet voice, Kinch asked, "Would you have left him?"

"I've been asking myself the same question." Hogan's gaze became distant. Enough time passed that Kinch realized an answer was not coming. Clearing his throat, he pulled Hogan's attention back to the tunnel.

"You know, I hope Carter's right and he is with the Underground. It would sure neatly tie up our problem."

"Well," Hogan drawled, his sense of humor coming out again. "If he is with the Underground, they'll have to identify him. Otherwise, we won't give him back. After all the trouble Carter went to for him, we wouldn't want him going to a bad home."

Kinch laughed, was about to comment, when Carter's cry caused them both to tense and turn toward the room.

Continued in Chapter Three . . .