“Miss Buxton said. “In what way?” “She must've tumbled out of bed and crawled. Dragged herself, really, for she only has the use of her arms. Dragged herself across the floor, and down the hall and . . . and freed them.” “Freed whom?” I said. “Or what?” “Where's his head?” Miss Buxton interjected. “The man's head is missing.” “Don't concern yourself,” I said. “This is no scene for a young woman to examine.” “I have to know! I don't know why, but I do!” I understood her reaction. During the Battl...e of the Canal du Nord, a good friend and comrade, Roger Whitcomb, had been decapitated by his own helmet as the result of a concussive blast, and I'd dropped my rifle to search for his head myself. “It must've rolled away,” I said to Miss Buxton after a brief scan. “It's no doubt hiding somewhere in the debris.” “Incorrect,” Noah said. “It was taken.” “Taken?” I said. “Explain.” “I can't,” he said. “I can't say more.” “Why in blazes not?”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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