Bismarck, North Dakota

"Arriving in Bismarck. Arriving in Bismarck, North Dakota."

Kinch felt the train slow. With a groan he sat a little straighter and stretched. After travelling for nearly two days straight with little comforts available to him, his back was screaming. There was no sleeper car available to him, so he had spent the night trying to sleep on his bench, his head resting against the window.

The trip hadn't been easy. Along the way, he had tried not to obsess over the reason he was travelling. He already knew what Hochstetter wanted. And he couldn't formulate any plans for rescuing Carter until he had more information. And Kinch didn't want to speculate on what Carter was going through. Unfortunately, based on past experiences, he had a good idea.

The mental toll of the journey weighed down on him. But the physical aspect hadn't been a piece of cake either. His train from Detroit had arrived in Chicago late, and none of the hotels near Union Station would let him stay. Thankfully, Violet had been smart enough to send him off with his Green Book. The Prairie Hotel was the closest, but he couldn't find a taxi that would take him. It was so late the buses were no longer running either. Not wanting to stay at the station, Kinch had walked for over an hour to get there in the bitter cold. Paranoia dogged him the entire time and he continuously kept an eye out for anyone, civilian and police alike, who would take exception to a lone black man walking through the town at night. Luck, though, was on his side and he arrived safely at the hotel. The hotelier had greeted him warily.

"Moving to town?" he had asked Kinch. When Kinch said he was just passing through, the man sighed in relief. "I should have known. You don't sound like you're from the South. Problem is, we're just running out of room here in old Bronzeville. Folks just keep coming and coming!"

It was a quick night and, thankfully, he was able to catch a bus back to Union Station in the morning.

He didn't stay long in St. Paul, Minnesota— just long enough for his next train to depart. The trip from Chicago had taken eight hours, and the next leg would take another eight, meaning he would arrive some time in the morning. To him, it seemed the best course of action. His book didn't even contain a section for North Dakota. It seemed there was just no conceivable reason for a black person to ever travel there. Although, honestly, there probably weren't a lot of reasons for anyone to travel there.

Kinch had been to Bismarck before, about six years ago for Carter's wedding. He remembered folks were civil, but the wedding festivities had probably filled them with extra goodwill. There had been a few tense moments with Carter's in-laws, but it was obvious Carter had laid down the law before Kinch's arrival, so whatever objections they had were kept to themselves.

But this was no wedding. Now he was going to be there for a completely different reason. It was possible that they would all be relieved to have someone—anyone— who could help them find Carter. Or the stress of the situation was simply setting up a powder keg that could go off if Kinch took even one step out of line.

Either way, he wanted to arrive early. Arriving in the dead of night or late afternoon was likely to come off as suspicious.

The train finally came to a stop and Kinch stood, stretching again. He was the only person in the car, so he had no problem walking through the aisle with his luggage. He stepped onto the platform and looked around. Several people stopped what they were doing to gawk at him and whisper to each other.

"Boy, are you lost!"

Kinch knew the voice was referring to him and looked over to see a police officer approaching. He bit back a groan. The deputy— the small town kind of local yokel who looked like he barely had two brain cells to rub together— stopped and tipped his hat back to scratch his head.

"Although… I don't suppose you're that FBI agent I'm waiting for?" He sounded more surprised than nasty.

Kinch shook his head. "No, sir. But I may be here for the same reason. I'm a friend of Andrew Carter."

The deputy lit up. "Oh yeah. That makes sense. We don't get many of your kind out here. Actually, we don't get any of your kind out here." The officer tilted his head, studying Kinch with more curiosity than animosity. Kinch would take it. "Injuns, sure. We got lots of Injuns around here. But never seen a Negro. You say you're here about Mr. Carter?"

Kinch nodded. Carter's kidnapping must have been the biggest news to hit the town in a while. He wouldn't be surprised to find just about everyone talking about it. It was quite possible in a town this small, everyone knew everyone else.

"I'll tell you, it's the craziest thing I ever heard! A real live Nazi here in Bismarck? Course, I guess it's not so strange. I remember my dad saying a few guys left to fight for Germany back in the war. The thing I can't figure is why a Nazi would come here for Mr. Carter. I guess he's always been a little squirrely about his time in the war, so who's to say what happened over there. Course he's not the only one who has secrets. You can hardly ask anyone about what they did during the war without them getting all huffy. I was just a kid back then so of course I couldn't serve. I was going to go to Korea—was gonna sign up and everything—but I always wanted to be a police officer and I figured—"

Kinch made it a habit not to interrupt someone with a gun, especially a police officer. But there must have been something about North Dakota that made people want to talk and talk. And so, after about five minutes of listening to the officer ramble, Kinch politely coughed.

"My best friend Larry is in Japan right now trying to—oh, hey, am I talking too much?"

Kinch kept a neutral face. "Well, I, no. But I was wondering where I ought to go to see Carter's family. Or, maybe I should speak to whoever is running the investigation?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, sure. You can find both at the Morgan's. Uh, let's see…" The officer turned this way, then that. "If you go… You know what, it's cold. I'll drive you there."

Kinch hesitated. But it was obvious the deputy was harmless enough. "I'd appreciate that." The deputy nodded and went to reach for Kinch's luggage. "Oh, no. That's all right. I've got it."

"Hey, you're a guest, aren't you? If you're here to help Mr. Carter, the least I can do is take your bag." The deputy didn't wait for another protest before grabbing Kinch's suitcase. Then he beckoned for Kinch to follow him. "I'm kinda in over my head with this one. The boss won't admit it, but he is too. I suppose that's why he called in the FBI. This is just too big for us to handle."

Kinch didn't doubt that. In a place like this, the biggest crime was probably tricycle theft. But he wisely kept his comments to himself.

The deputy led Kinch to his car. "Go on and get in. I'll put your bag in the back seat." Again, Kinch hesitated before opening the back passenger door. The deputy was stowing his gear on the seat. "Don't worry, I'll make sure it's safe back here. There, nice and snug between the seats. It's not going anywhere."

Kinch took that to mean he was supposed to sit in the front. He closed the back door and slowly opened the front, waiting for the deputy to reprimand him. But the scolding never came. Instead the deputy slipped into the driver's seat.

"I just can't figure this thing out," the deputy continued as he started driving. "I know Mr. Carter was in the war, but what's a Nazi want with him? You know he was my chemistry teacher in high school? Boy, he really made all that chemistry stuff seem real interesting. He started teaching my senior year. That was, gosh, six years ago? No, eight. Seven?" He counted on his fingers. "Yeah, seven. Graduated in 1948 which means he started teaching at the end of 1947. Took over for Mr. Bishop. Now he had some great war stories. But not from the last war. The war before that. You know, World War One."

"I've heard of it," Kinch said dryly, unable to stop himself.

"So what do you think this is all about? You must know more about it than I do. I mean, I'm assuming you're a friend from the war. I can't think of any other way Mr. Carter would know someone like you."

"I have some ideas," Kinch said.

"Great. Oh, we're here," the deputy announced as he pulled over to the curb. There was another police car in front of them, and to the side sat a large white house. A sign posted on the fence informed him that Mr. George C. Morgan, attorney-at-law, had his office here.

"You grab your bag, and I'll go run up and let them all know you're here," the deputy said. They both got out of the car, and while Kinch grabbed his bag from the back, the officer opened the front gate and jogged up to the front door. He gave a little knock before opening the door and poking his head in. Then he looked over his shoulder at Kinch and waved him forward.

"The boss said you can go in, but I've gotta get back to the station to wait for the FBI agent. I'll see you later."

"Sure. Thanks, Officer…?" With all the talking the man had done, he hadn't once said his name, nor asked for Kinch's.

"No worries. I'll see you later." The deputy started back towards his car, then stopped and turned back to face Kinch. "You know, I better spread the word that you're here. Just so you don't startle anyone. No doubt the office is getting phone calls about you already. We're used to Injuns and stuff, but not negroes, and that might make you a curiosity 'round these parts." He studied Kinch for a long moment. "Yep, you sure are a curiosity. But now that I've gotten a closer look at you, you're not too different on the whole. I wish I could grow a mustache, but all I've got is fuzz. Any advice?"

"Err… Eat your vegetables?" Kinch told the young man. The deputy tilted his head, then nodded sagely. Before he could launch into a soliloquy about how he never was a fan of veggies, Kinch quickly continued. "I appreciate you spreading the word, officer," Kinch said. "And for bringing me here. I better go in and tell your boss what I know."

"Sounds good." And with that, the deputy turned and went to his car. Kinch watched him drive off before looking up to the heavens and heaving a great sigh. Dear Lord, was everyone from North Dakota like that? It wasn't the worst thing. In fact, if everyone was that friendly, it would make Kinch's stay so much easier. But he wasn't convinced his sanity would survive. A whole town of Carters? Saints!

Kinch mimicked the deputy by knocking on the door before opening it and looking in. Four people were gathered in a large sitting room. Two men stood close together, talking, while two women sat on the couch. The older woman held the younger's hand. Kinch recognized the younger woman as Carter's wife, Lucy.

"What the hell? Who the hell are you?!" a man in a Sheriff's uniform—obviously 'the boss'— cried upon seeing Kinch.

Kinch carefully stepped inside and took off his hat. In a situation like this, it was best to be as meek and mild as possible. "Begging your pardon—"

"Kinch!" Lucy jumped up. "You came!"

"Yes, ma'am. I said I would."

Lucy sighed with relief and ran up to him, throwing her arms around his middle and hugging him. "Oh thank goodness," she said shakily. "Thank you for coming."

Kinch stood stiffly, afraid to move or even reply to her.

"Lucy!" one of the men snapped.

Lucy quickly released Kinch and stepped back. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she said quickly as she held herself. "I'm just so relieved that you… you know what's going on, don't you? I know we didn't have a chance to speak much on the phone, but you came, which means you must be able to help!" The desperation in her voice was evident.

"I'm here to try," Kinch replied.

Lucy gave him a grateful smile and then turned around. "Mom, Dad, you remember Andrew's friend? James Kinchloe? He was at our wedding?"

Lucy's father, who Kinch assumed was the George C. Morgan named on the sign, didn't look pleased as he crossed his arms over his chest. Her mother looked nervous, but stood and nodded to Kinch.

"Sheriff Wetzel, this is James Kinchloe," Lucy continued. "He was in the same camp as Andrew during the war. He'll be able to help piece this together."

Sheriff Wetzel was a big, middle-aged and balding man with a pot belly. He tipped his nose up and eyed Kinch suspiciously. Then he turned to Lucy with a patronizing smile. "That's nice of you to invite him, Mrs. Carter, but I don't think we'll need him."

"Of course we need him," Lucy insisted. She turned to Kinch. "Come and sit down. Would you like some coffee or something to eat? You must have had a long trip."

Kinch glanced at the other people in the room who were obviously displeased by his presence. But he wasn't there for them. He was there for Carter.

"I am hungry," Kinch admitted.

"I thought so. Mom, will you fix a tray for him?"

Lucy's mother went stiff, her eyes wide. But then she managed a strained smile. She had the veneer of civility, but obviously not far under that surface was an immense amount of discomfort. "Of course," she said tightly. "But I don't know if I have anything that you would be used to eating."

"Coffee, eggs, and sausage should be all right, Mom. Come, sit." Lucy led Kinch to the couch. With every step he took, Mrs. Morgan took a step back until, finally, she turned and left the room. Kinch sat on the couch and Lucy was about to sit next to him when she apparently thought better and instead sat on the coffee table.

"So you know this, uh, Major Hochstetter fellow?" Sheriff Wetzel asked as he came around to stand next to the couch, hovering over Kinch. Meanwhile, Lucy's father came and stood behind her, arms still folded, with a hard look directed at Kinch.

"Yes sir," Kinch said with a nod.

"Uh-huh. This him?" Wetzel pulled a sheet of paper from out of his pocket and unfolded it. He held it in front of Kinch's face. A sketch of Major Hochstetter's face stared back at him. He looked a little thinner and sported a beard, but it was him, all right.

"That's him," Kinch confirmed.

"All right. Thanks for your help," Wetzel said dismissively as he folded the paper up and jammed it back into his shirt pocket.

Lucy looked up at the Sheriff with an angry expression before turning her attention to Kinch. "But what does he want with Andrew? Or, rather, Colonel Hogan? That's who he said he was really after."

Kinch let out a long sigh. He knew Lucy would have a lot of questions—although he had been hoping the police would ask more—but he didn't know how much he should, or wanted to reveal. The operation at Stalag 13 was still deeply classified. If only he had been able to find Colonel Hogan, he wouldn't have felt compelled to co-operate with the police at all. There would be no risk of disclosing anything classified. The colonel would have joined Kinch and together they would have investigated Carter's kidnapping themselves.

"He was in charge of the Gestapo in Hammelburg. That's the town near Stalag 13 where we were prisoners."

"The Gestapo?" Wetzel repeated, turning a little pale. "Damn, they're a nasty lot."

"The Gestapo?" Lucy repeated.

"The secret police," Wetzel explained. "Had my own run-in with them when I was shot down over France. They only held me for a day, but that was enough."

Lucy looked between Wetzel and Kinch with wide eyes. Mr. Morgan put his hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you let us talk, Lucy? Maybe help your mother in the kitchen?"

Lucy shook her head. "No. I need to know. I… the only stories Andrew ever tells about the war are ridiculous. They're all about the jokes you guys played on the camp commander and the guards. But I know there was more to it than that. He… I think he's just trying to protect me from some of the harder truths by making things up."

Kinch reached out to pat her hand, but stopped himself. "We had our share of good times, but we were prisoners."

"So what about this Hochstetter guy? What's the deal?" Wetzel asked.

"Well… There was apparently a lot of sabotage around Hammelburg. Hochstetter was in charge of tracking down the culprits. But I guess he couldn't find them, so he found someone convenient to blame: the prisoners from the nearby camp. He became obsessed with us."

"And…" Lucy hesitated, her brows knitting together. "You… What sort of sabotage?"

Kinch shrugged. "I'm not sure. Hochstetter accused us of all sorts of things."

Lucy became quiet as if she were lost in thought. But Wetzel snorted. "Yeah, that's like the Gestapo. I was a prisoner, too, and they always thought we were up to no good. I don't think they realized we were trapped behind barbed wire with armed guards and vicious dogs!"

"This has all been fascinating, but how is any of it going to help us find Andrew?" Mr. Morgan interrupted.

"Good point, George. Look, you," Wetzel said, banishing any camaraderie stemming from their shared experiences as POWs, "do you have anything helpful to add to my investigation? Do you know where this Hochstetter could have taken Mr. Carter? Does he have any connections here? Do you know where he's been hiding out for the last ten years?"

"No," Kinch admitted with a frown.

"I thought not."

"But any information we have can be useful, can't it?" Lucy said.

"We'll just let the FBI handle things, Mrs. Carter," Wetzel said.

"But—" Lucy started to protest when a child upstairs began to cry. Lucy briefly looked up, then shook her head and spoke to Kinch. "Please, Kinch, anything you know—" The wails continued and Lucy winced as she put a hand to her chest. She peeked under her hand and frowned. "Sorry, I have to go get the baby. Sheriff Wetzel, Dad, please. Just talk to him." And with that, she stood and hurried upstairs.

Kinch watched his only ally leave and tensed.

"Like I said, I think we have everything we need from you," Wetzel told Kinch. "Now why don't you just pack on up and head back to where you came from? The FBI can handle this."

"I think that would be best," Mr. Morgan agreed. "Leave it to the professionals and all."

Kinch wanted to jump up and yell at them. Or punch them. They didn't know Hochstetter. They didn't know who they were dealing with. Maybe Kinch didn't have any information that would help them, but his knowledge of Hochstetter could only help the investigation. Were they so ignorant that they would rather risk Carter's life than ask for his help?

Kinch forcefully quelled his anger. "I suppose I should be going then." He grabbed his hat from where it lay beside him, and stood up. Nodding to the other men, he marched to the door. He paused, his hand on the door knob, waiting for them to come to their senses. But, of course, they didn't. Suppressing a grunt of frustration, Kinch opened the door and walked out.