Duby's Doctor

by Iris Chacon

  Kyle Averell was planning a wedding.

  At mid-day, Mitchell and Jean returned to her apartment to have lunch and rehydrate themselves after a morning out in the broiling sun. Mitchell detoured on her way from the kitchen to the dining table, to answer a knock at the door. She frowned when she discovered Frank Stone slouched on her threshold.

  “What do you want?” she said flatly.

  “It’s time you knew some things,” he mumbled, as if he were reluctant to share information even now, after making the trip to her door. “I have some surveillance photos to show you – both of you.”

  He waited. She glared at him, but he remained calm and determined. Finally, she stepped aside and he lumbered inside.

  Jean was having a cheese sandwich at the dining table, across from Mitchell’s half-finished lunch. Mitchell set down the fresh glass of iced tea she had been bringing from the kitchen for Jean. She sat down and gestured for Stone to take the chair opposite her, on Jean’s right. She did not offer him food or drink.

  Etiquette demanded an introduction, since Mitchell did not think Jean had any conscious memory of his former superior officer. “Jean, this is Mister Stone. Mister Stone, I believe you know Jean.”

  Jean swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. “Hello,” he said to Stone. Then he smiled at Mitchell. “See, I didn’t talk with my mouth full.”

  “Very good,” she said, unable to resist returning his smile, if only briefly.

  “It’s a rule,” he said to Stone.

  “It’s a good one,” Stone agreed, nodding. He reached inside his jacket and drew out an envelope.

  Mitchell explained to Jean, “Mister Stone is a sort of policeman. He says we need to look at some pictures he brought.”

  “Okay,” said Jean, and took another bite of his sandwich.

  Stone emptied the envelope and spread across the tabletop numerous surveillance photos of Kyle Averell, of Iglesias with a regal-looking man, of Rico and Lazaro and the boys, and of the Averell fortress masquerading as a home.

  Stone tapped one picture. “This is Kyle Averell,” he said. He watched Jean’s face, but no recognition entered those features. Jean chewed placidly as a cow, waiting for the rest of the story.

  “He is a very bad man. He has become very rich by selling guns and bombs and rockets, even tanks and airplanes, to other bad men. Have you ever seen him?” Stone looked to Jean for an answer. Jean chewed and shook his head.

  Stone shoved the pictures of Averell’s security team, including Rico, toward Jean’s plate. “These men work for Averell. Do you know any of them?”

  Again, Jean shook his head.

  Mitchell interjected sharply, “If you know who he is and what he’s doing, why don’t you just arrest him?”

  “He has been arrested many times,” Stone answered. “And, with his money and his connections, he has been released, dismissed, acquitted, almost canonized by the people in authority. I can only guess at their reasons. I have my suspicions, but that’s not enough to arrest the people at the top of the political and industrial food chain.”

  “That’s too bad, but c’est la vie,” she said. “What does this have to with J—with us?”

  Jean winked at her. “Good French.”

  She nodded her thanks for the compliment.

  “Not c’est la vie, Doctor; it’s c’est la guerre. This man sells death, and he sells a lot of it.”

  “Everyone speaks French today,” said Jean around a mouthful of cheese sandwich.

  “Why are you here, in my house, at my table, Mister Stone?” Mitchell demanded.

  Stone looked at Jean. “I’m here because you’re connected to Averell.”

  “How?” said Jean, looking from Mitchell to Stone and back again.

  “Kyle Averell has a daughter. She is going to be married soon,” he pointed to the photo of Iglesias and another man. “This man’s name is Iglesias. He is the number two to this man, who likes to be called His Excellency. He is the self-appointed president of a small country called Mirador, near Venezuela.

  “Averell is using the bridegroom’s diplomatic immunity to ship weapons disguised as ‘wedding presents’ and ‘personal baggage’ to His Excellency’s leftist love nest in Mirador. It’s the biggest deal Averell has ever made. He’s even using his own daughter to sweeten the deal.”

  Mitchell’s brow furrowed. “How? How is he ‘using’ his daughter?”

  “Miss Averell will be marrying His Excellency not ten miles from where we sit, in just a few days,” Stone said. “His Excellency’s obsession with virgins is well known. It’s a tribute to Averell’s skill as a negotiator that His Excellency will actually enter into marriage this time. Although, the divorce laws in Mirador are literally made to order for situations like this. Miss Averell may not stay married long after he gets her back to the presidential palace.”

  Mitchell shook her head. “Surely, no one can force this woman to marry a criminal if she doesn’t want to. And, you still haven’t explained how Jean is connected to these awful people.”

  Stone reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a photo that had not been in the envelope with the others. He laid on the table a picture of Averell’s entourage, including Yves Dubreau, standing very close to Averell, with all the appearance of a trusted companion and able servant.

  Jean was shocked. He dropped the last bit of his sandwich onto his plate and stared at the picture. “I was one of them?” he said. “I was one of these bad men?”

  “Apparently, you weren’t quite bad enough,” said Stone. “They tried to kill you. They think they succeeded.”

  “What! Why?” Jean cried.

  Mitchell reached across the table and picked up the entourage photo. She studied it closely. In the middle of the pictured group was a young woman. A face Mitchell recognized.

  “I don’t know why, exactly,” Stone was saying. “You were very deep in the organization, close to Averell himself, in good favor it seemed. But, you must’ve made a mistake.”

  “You know he did,” Mitchell said. With a heavy heart, she pocketed the photo and stood up. “He made a big mistake. Come with me.”

  Stone and Jean rose from their chairs and followed her down the hall to Jean’s studio-bedroom. They stood in the center of the room, and Mitchell gestured in a circle at all the portraits of Carinne Averell lining the walls of the room.

  “He made the worst possible mistake,” Mitchell murmured. “He fell in love.” She took the photograph out of her pocket and gave it to Jean. While Jean gaped at the young woman in the photo, Mitchell fled the room.

  Carinne climbed out of the pool, without knowing that an artist called Jean Deaux had once painted a water nymph rising out of a fairyland lagoon. A nymph with Carinne’s face.

  Trish brought Carinne a robe, not because it was chilly – this was South Florida after all – but to allow her some respite from the relentless eyes of Rico, standing guard, and Lazaro, patrolling nearby with his dog.

  Trish and Carinne left the pool and walked together to the house. On the way, they were aware of a phalanx of bodyguards and sentries, a second dog team patrolling the lawns, a second sentry watching from the tower, and Rico trailing them like a barracuda.

  When they reached the house, a black-suited henchman opened a door for them, and they entered. The heavy door slammed shut behind them like a prison gate.

  Neither Jean nor Mitchell wanted to finish lunch. Stone and Jean sat at the dining table while Mitchell took the dirty dishes to the kitchen. When she returned to the table and took her seat on Jean’s left, she looked directly across at Stone. Jean was staring at the photograph of Carinne in the palm of his hand.

  He looked up at Stone. “She is real. I didn’t just dream her.”

  “Yes. She is real. And, I’m trying to help her.”

  Jean pointed to Kyle Averell in the entourage photo. “She is in danger from this man?”

  Mitchell spoke fiercely at Stone. “Oh-h-h-h, no. Don’t even start. I don
’t know what you’re trying to do here, but I know it’s a con, and it won’t work. We – well, I – I wasn’t born yesterday, y’know!”

  Jean turned an earnest face toward Mitchell, who tried not to look at him. “We have to help her,” he said.

  Mitchell faced him. “Have you been sniffing the turpentine? Listen, Tom Terrific, this isn’t Saturday morning cartoons! We are not going to disappear in a cloud of purple smoke and become super crime fighters!”

  “I didn’t come here to talk you into going after Averell,” Stone interjected.

  “Pick up your feet,” said Mitchell, rolling her eyes. “Here it comes.”

  “I came to tell you that Averell’s people will probably come after you. In fact, I sort of sent them an invitation.”

  “I knew it,” Mitchell moaned.

  “I’ll be ready,” said Jean.

  “Are you nuts?” shouted Mitchell.

  Jean ignored her and focused on Stone.

  From within his coat, Stone produced a handgun and pushed it across the table to Jean. Jean unloaded and dismantled it in seconds, almost without looking at it.

  “Mitchell will be ready, too,” said Jean.

  A squeak of indignation burst from Mitchell’s throat. “Oh, no, she won’t. Call Hector. No, call Kavanaugh. That’s it. Ring up old kid-clobbering Kavanaugh. This ought to be right up his— Where did you learn to do that!” She had suddenly realized how thoroughly and quickly he had dissected the handgun.

  Jean didn’t answer her. He probably didn’t remember learning how to do it. But his hands remembered the motions. Athletes call it muscle memory, and it comes from countless hours of diligent practice.

  He examined every cranny of the pistol and then reassembled it even faster than he had taken it apart. To Stone he said, “It’s very clean, to be so old.”

  “Thank you,” said Stone. “I try.”

  Jean sighted down the barrel. “I can adjust this sight for you,” he offered.

  “I’ve told you a thousand times, leave the danged sight alone. I’m used to it.”

  Two sets of eyes snapped toward Stone. Jean and Mitchell stared at him, mentally replaying his words.

  “You black-hearted, scheming, son of a—” snarled Mitchell.

  But, Jean was already talking over her. “You knew me? Who was I ... when you told me this thing a thousand times?”

  “No!” cried Mitchell. “That was not Johnny, and well you know it, Agent Stone. That was a very different man.”

  To her surprise, Stone nodded. “You’re right,” he said to Mitchell. Then he turned and spoke to Jean. “His name was Yves Dubreau. Special Agent Yves Dubreau. He was my friend.”

  “He darn sure didn’t need any enemies,” Mitchell quipped.

  She watched Jean’s face and body language as he struggled to wring some meaning, some remembrance, from what Stone had told him. She saw the instant when he stopped trying. No light dawned, no bells rang. He handed the pistol back to Stone.

  “Is that why he went to work for those bad men?” Jean asked. “Because you are a sort of policeman, and he was your friend?”

  Stone nodded. “I asked him to pretend to work for them. You see, I thought he would be perfect for the job because he was a hard man. But, I was wrong. He was tough, but he wasn’t hard.”

  Jean thought about this a moment, then he shrugged. “No matter. He is dead.”

  Jean took the photograph with Carinne’s face in it and left the room.

  “Get out of my house,” Mitchell told the sort-of policeman.

  It was late, but Mitchell found herself unable to sleep. She donned her bathrobe and padded toward the kitchen. She was surprised to find Jean in the dining room. He sat staring at the photographs, all of which Stone had simply left scattered on the table. He fingered the picture showing Yves Dubreau and Kyle Averell together.

  “Thought you’d gone to bed,” she said. “Big day tomorrow. Want a soda?”

  She went to the kitchen and took a can of diet soda from the fridge for herself. She waited, head cocked, to hear an answer from Jean, but nothing came. She shut the refrigerator, popped the soda top, and joined Jean at the table.

  Jean continued to study the photos Frank Stone had left on the table. With an index finger, he slid the pictures around, forming different patterns with the paper rectangles. Mitchell sipped her drink and watched him, waiting.

  “Is that man, Stone–”

  “Agent Stone,” Mitchell inserted.

  “—Agent Stone,” Jean echoed. “Is Agent Stone a good man?”

  “Well, uhm, I, uhm, he’s a policeman, right? Police officers are good, right?”

  Jean shook his head, “No, I mean, is he a good man, even if he wasn’t a sort of police man?”

  “I don’t really know him,” Mitchell said. “He seems to love his niece. That’s a good thing. Is he perfect? Of course not. Nobody is.”

  Jean fingered the photo of Averell’s entourage, including Duby and Carinne. “This man,” he tapped Averell’s face with a fingertip, “is not a good man.”

  “Probably not, if Agent Stone is telling the truth.”

  “What about this man?” Jean tapped Duby’s granite-hard face in the photo.

  Mitchell leaned in to be sure which man was indicated. She looked at the face of the undercover agent/bodyguard, then she looked at the face of the gentle, sweet-natured artist sitting at her table. She relaxed back in her chair and sipped her drink. “I never knew that man,” she said.

  “Yes, Michel, you know him. He is me.”

  “No. He is not you. And you are not him. You are you. And you’re a good man.” Unconsciously, she reached across the table and placed her hand on his forearm.

  He covered her hand with his own, with enough pressure to ensure that she could not withdraw easily. He seemed to be hanging on for dear life, searching for an anchor in a sea of confusion. He looked up and met her eyes, and his voice contained a hint of the desperation he tried to hide.

  “What if I am not good? I knew about Stone’s gun. I knew how to hit Dan Kavanaugh, Michel. I knew how to hurt him, and I knew how to kill him. I just knew. And, it would have been easy. I think I killed people, Michel. Before. And, I don’t think it bothered me. I wasn’t sorry.”

  He looked down at the table, but he focused on nothing. He was looking inward. “I don’t remember,” he whispered, “but I’m afraid — I think I was a monster.”

  Mitchell put down her drink and laid her hand against his jaw. Gently she turned his face toward her own. “You’re wrong. Whatever Special Agent Yves Dubreau did in his life, that was his life, and his life ended when they brought you into my ER. You are Jean Deaux, a brilliant artist, with a wonderful knee, which I built myself, so I know. You have been given a new life. All that matters is what you do from now on, not what happened before you were even, well, ...born, ...sort of.”

  He looked into her eyes and saw the strength of her convictions. His lips curled into a modest smile. “Sister Elizabeth said I’m a new creation; old things are passed away. That’s in the Bible.”

  “Yes, it is. And yes, you are. All new.”

  “Thank you for believing in me, Michel.”

  “You’re easy to believe in, Johnny.” She rose and placed a kiss on top of his head, then she picked up her soft drink and went back to bed.

  A few minutes later, she heard him ascend the stairs and retire to his room.

  CHAPTER 16 – FESTIVAL

  The painting of "Girl With Rabbits" was still propped up in one of Kyle Averell’s exquisite office chairs. He stared at it while he responded to the person sitting on the opposite side of his desk. “Out of the question. This close to the wedding ... what if she made a run for it? She’s as stubborn as her mother was.”

  Trish, his visitor, also studied the portrait of Carinne and her bunnies. “Still don’t know who painted it?”

  Averell shook his head, glaring at the painting as if he could intimidate an answer out of it. />
  “Could it be the chauffeur?” Trish wondered. “You know, the one who ‘saved her,’” Trish made finger quotes in the air, “from Iglesias? She said he drew cartoons for her.”

  Averell waved off the suggestion. “Dubreau was fish food a long time ago,” he said. He pointed to the portrait, “This is somebody new.”

  “I believe she knows who the artist is,” Trish said. “You should have seen her face when I unwrapped it. I think he sent the portrait to her, along with that advertising flyer, because he wants her to meet him at the art festival. So, let her meet him – on your terms.”

  Averell’s eyes lifted from the painting and came to rest on Trish’s eager face. “On my terms.”

  She nodded, smiling.

  After a moment’s thought, he returned her smile. “What will you tell Carinne? If she suspects a trap, she won’t cooperate, you know.”

  “It’s a treat for just us girls. A last fling before the wedding,” Trish said. “And, it’s, sort of, a peace offering from Daddy.”

  Mitchell took pictures with her smartphone while a professional photographer shot the official version of artist Jean Deaux and the chief judge of the Coconut Grove Arts Festival posing on either side of the painting entitled "Girl With Roses." On the top right-hand corner of the painting’s frame was mounted a large, gilt-edged blue ribbon proclaiming Best New Artist.

  When the photos had been snapped and the official photographer had moved on to his next assignment, Jean shook hands with the chief judge. Mitchell came forward and shook the judge’s hand as well.

  The judge congratulated Jean one last time and departed while they were yet again expressing their thanks for the honor.

  The judge was not even out of sight when Jean folded Mitchell into his arms, pulled her tight against his chest, and planted a kiss on her lips. As he passed from tentative to confident to passionate, she went from surprised to pleased to amazed. Then, they both stopped thinking for several seconds and simply enjoyed being overwhelmed with sensations.