By Henry Louis Gates
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There's no surgeon. ' Younger went to the corporal, said a few low words in the man's ear, and disappeared into the woods the way he had come. The moon had risen when Younger returned. He found the encampment as it had been that morning: intact but deserted. One of the tents was illuminated by electric light. The truck was parked next to it, engine on, a set of cables running from the vehicle along the ground into the tent. The girl was using the truck's motor for power. Younger lifted the tent's flap and walked in.
He took a long time at it, rinsing the dirt and blood from his mind as well as his skin. Meanwhile the girl applied more chloroform to Corporal Dubeney, who pushed at her hands ineffectually until slipping off again. Younger set to work, the silence broken only by his requests for instruments and, a short time after his incision was made, the occasional plank of a metal fragment dropping into a ceramic bowl. Sweat began to form on Younger's brow. 'Wait,' said the girl in English. It was the first word she had spoken.
Littlemore drummed his fingers on the table. ' Colette had told the police that the kidnapper who escaped - the leader of the three men - had been called Drobac by his confederates. 'And why'd he ask us, "Where are they"? ' rejoined Younger. ' Littlemore put his heels up on the table, and his voice changed tone. ' 'What exactly I'm doing with Colette,' said Younger. 'You bring her back from France,' said Littlemore, warming to the theme, 'but you got her living in Connecticut. ' 'Why'd you bring her across the Atlantic otherwise?
A PRIVATE EXCHANGE by Henry Louis Gates