Part 7

The man shook his head. He ran his hand through his wet hair and sat down on the edge of the couch beside his partner. "We're not lost; not exactly. I'm Special Agent DiNozzo. My partner's Special Agent McGee. We're NCIS from Washington."

"NCIS?"

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service." DiNozzo scooted to the edge of the couch and hunched forward, his eyes narrowing with intensity. "I saw your mailbox - the M.D. Are you a doctor? McGee's hurt."

Shock froze words in his throat. He dropped his arms to his sides and moved a step closer. "A doctor? - Well, I - " Flustered with the unexpected request, Vernon hid behind his gruffness and roughly moved DiNozzo aside. "Let me look at him." DiNozzo stood out of his way.

Grasping the edges of the afghan, Vernon pulled it open. "What happened to you - oh -" Redness and light bruising discolored the skin along the left side of McGee's belly and flank. While it wasn't the worse he'd seen, it was bad enough. Eyes glued to McGee, Vernon probed gently. Fingers bent and gnarled with age exhibited surprising agility and tenderness. He murmured quiet reassurances when McGee groaned softly and tensed beneath his touch. Standing, he leaned over McGee to check his breathing and pulse. McGee watched through half-lidded eyes as Vernon pressed gently into his carotid artery.

When DiNozzo bumped gently into him, he snarled, "Go get my bag and stethoscope. They're in the office to the left of the front door. Look behind my desk." Footsteps hurried away, then returned just as quickly. He took the bag and placed it on the floor, then put the stethoscope in his ears and checked McGee's heartbeat. He had a weak pulse and his skin felt cool and clammy. He moved to McGee's abdomen and held still, listening for two minutes with the stethoscope pressed firmly against his body. Satisfied, he stood and removed the instrument from his ears.

DiNozzo took his place on the couch. He carefully tucked the afghan closed, then looked at Vernon. "We were in an accident. We had a blowout and went off the road. I lost consciousness. When I woke up, McGee had pulled me out of the car."

Vernon reached to touch the closed cut on DiNozzo's forehead. He moved to a nearby chair as DiNozzo continued.

"We'd been in Sutton Town, questioning witnesses about Petty Officer – about Phillip Jefferson's murder."

"I heard about that. Folks around here in Braxton County believe Henry Michaels' boy did the killing. He and those two lumberjacks who follow him around like lap dogs. Stuart Michaels was jealous of Phillip from the day he was born."

DiNozzo nodded. "That's the conclusion we were coming to, too. They followed us out of town. After our accident -"

"I wouldn't put it past those three to fix your car to arrange that little accident of yours."

" - We were trying to get back to the road. That's when McGee spotted Michaels and his cronies looking for us, and we figured we'd better find a different route. They shot at us, but we got separated by a flashflood and managed to get away. They probably circled around and may be heading this way. Do you have a phone?"

Vernon shook his head and signed. "Storm took the lines down. There's too much interference in these hills and trees to get a good cell signal, not that I have a cell phone, anyway."

"What about a car?"

"You're welcome to it, but the roads are out, too. The flashflood that separated you from Michaels probably took out the bridge, and that's the only way back to town." He stood and motioned for DiNozzo to follow him into the kitchen. Once there, he turned down the bubbling soup and turned to face the worried man. "Your friend needs surgery."

"What? How?"

Vernon held up his hands. "I don't know what or how, but he needs it. Looks like he has some internal bleeding. How long's it been since the wreck?"

DiNozzo's eyes shifted back and forth as he thought back over the day. "With the time we were both unconscious, I'd say at least twenty-four hours, maybe a little more."

"If he's gotten this far and hasn't slipped into a coma, chances are the bleeding isn't severe. But with that bruising over his belly and flank, there's bound to be some tearing to his spleen. He needs a hospital and a doctor."

"You're a doctor!" Desperation sharpened DiNozzo's voice, and it cut through Vernon like a knife.

He pushed away and stirred absently at the soup. "I haven't practiced medicine in nearly ten years. The most surgery I can do is removing a splinter." A hand gripped his shoulder and spun him back around.

"He'll die without your help."

"I can't, don't you understand?" He lifted his hands between them, displaying the frozen claws his fingers had become. "Arthritis has a hold on me and there's nothing I can do about it." Vernon dropped his arms, disgust coloring his words. "Besides, the town's already forced me into retirement. They knew I was washed up, even if I didn't."

"Then I'll do it. You tell me what to do."

Incredulous laughter huffed unexpectedly out of Vernon's mouth. "Boy, I don't have the first thing we need for an operation." He lifted his arm and pointed in the general direction of his office. "Antiques and outdated medicine is all you'll find on my shelves. Besides, we'd more likely kill him than help him."

DiNozzo's mouth opened to argue, and Vernon realized with dread that the young man wouldn't give up. A loud knock at his front door halted the discussion. DiNozzo stared at him. "Are you expecting company?"