Duby's Doctor

by Iris Chacon

  When he pulled back at last and looked down into her face, she gasped, “When did you learn to do that?”

  “Just now,” he smiled. “Did I do it right?”

  “Did you d—? Uh, I, uh, I d-don’t really have much to c-compare it with, but, uh, I think it was, uh, it was g-good.”

  He hugged her closer and kissed her again. After a slightly longer non-thinking session this time, he backed off and asked earnestly, “Was that better?”

  She held on to his biceps just to stay on her feet. A long exhale rushed from her throat followed by a breathless whisper of, “Oh, wow!”

  He chuckled, and her eyes snapped into focus upon his.

  “Why did you do that?” she said.

  “Because I wanted to,” he said with a grin. “Michel, I’ve wanted to do something like that for a long time.”

  She straightened and took a halting half-step back. Deciding she could trust her wobbly knees, she let go of his bicep muscles with a parting pat and retreated. His hands slid from around her back until they cupped her elbows, keeping her from backing away any farther.

  “Johnny, I’m, uh, I’m your doctor, and, uh, I, uh, I’m not sure this sort of thing is appropriate.”

  “I’m not sick, Michel. I don’t need a doctor.”

  “Okay. Um, okay. Good point. Um, but at my, uh, at my age, I, uh, I really don’t expect—”

  “I like your age. You’re a good age.”

  “Um, thanks. Thank you. But, um, y’see, you’re a younger man, and I’m—”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “No! No, of course you’re not a child. Y-you’re a, a man, of course. I mean, th-that’s obvious to anyb—”

  “Are you afraid of being called a puma? Because I would never let anyone insult you or hurt your feelings like that. Never.”

  Mitchell segued from consternation to confusion. “A puma?”

  “You know,” he said, “those older ladies who just want to use younger men for ... You know ... pumas. Mountain lions.”

  “Oh!” she said. “You mean cougars!”

  “Oui, merci. Cougars.”

  “Hector told you about them, didn’t he.”

  Jean nodded. His face was full of concern. She tried to think of the right thing to say that would put him at ease without encouraging him to entertain romantic feelings toward her.

  She gave him her most reassuring smile. “Johnny, I’m not worried. Believe me, no one would ever think I was a cougar — I'm way too boring and nerdy, trust me. I’m flattered and, and honored that you think, um, highly of, of me. But, maybe we need to find you a, uh, g-girlfriend y-your own age. Don’t you think th-that w-would make you happy?”

  “Michel, you love me,” he said with the stern tone and visage of a highway patrolman saying, “Mitchell, you were speeding.”

  Her reassuring smile lost a quarter of its luster. She slipped out of his big hands and stepped back beyond arm’s reach. She didn’t respond to his assertion because the truth was unacceptable, and she did not want to lie. “Let’s talk about this on Monday, okay? We have so much to do today, and then the Festival all weekend. Let’s talk again after the weekend.”

  He just looked at her with his highway patrolman face.

  She looked back with her apologetic speeder face. “Monday, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She nodded. Then she left to create for herself an errand, feeling as if she had been let off with a warning this time.

  In the gymnasium of the Averell estate, Rico was working out alone, beating the stuffing out of a man-sized punching bag with his fists, elbows, knees, and feet. He continued hitting and kicking even when he heard a door open and close behind him and footsteps approaching across the training floor.

  “I have a proposition for you,” someone said.

  Rico turned and met Carinne’s gaze with a suggestive leer. “I’m listening.”

  Mitchell had not been this nervous since the morning of her board certification oral exams, and the Festival booth was not even hers. While she bit her lip, tugged at her shirttail, and repeatedly tucked strands of hair into her chignon, the booth’s owner smiled placidly and casually took her through a tour of the booth’s accouterments.

  “Paper and string, for wrapping the things people buy, are right under there,” Jean pointed to a shelf hidden beneath a table top, behind the drape of a damask cloth, “and the money box is under here.” He pointed out the niche that cradled the metal cash drawer with a locking lid.

  He placed a small key into her palm. “There is your key. And that’s all there is to it.”

  His heart schlumped along at a slow and steady pace, his face relaxed into an easy grin, and he seemed as boneless as a sleeping kitten, not a trace of tension in any joint, muscle, or sinew.

  By contrast, Mitchell’s heart rattled along like a jalopy speeding downhill, and her body was as stiff as a wooden puppet. Her fingers shook as she pointed out what she remembered from Jean’s tour. “Paper, string, cash box, key, okay. Okay, I- I got it. I got it. Uhm, what else? There was something else. Oh! Rain! Okay? Rain. What do I do if it starts to rain?”

  Jean took her elbow and gently turned her toward a corner of the booth. “I’ll show you again. It’s right here.”

  He reached overhead and grasped a rope end. He gave it a tug. Immediately, a canvas wall rolled smoothly down from the eaves of the tent to form a protective curtain running from ceiling to floor. The curtain turned the trellised three-sided open-frame booth into a closed four-sided canvas cube.

  Outside, Rico and three henchmen approached along the row of booths and paused on the street in front of Jean’s canvas-enclosed box. With gestures, Rico directed two of the men to hiding places nearby, then he walked away with the remaining man.

  Jean and Mitchell furled the canvas panels of their booth up again until all four sides were once more open to the elements. They stood beneath the "Girl With Roses" painting of Carinne, the portrait that now displayed Jean’s Best New Artist blue ribbon. Their eyes swept slowly over the three walls of the booth that were made of white wooden grids, on which Jean’s paintings, of many shapes and sizes, were hung.

  Beneath the long rectangular tables that lined the three walls, other artwork lay in large, plastic, lidded bins. Every piece sold and removed from the grid-walls would be replaced with new art within minutes.

  “Well, then, I guess we’re ready,” Mitchell said, after a long exhale. “When do they open the gates?”

  “In ten minutes.” Jean drawled.

  She jumped as if stung. “Geez! I’m not ready for this!” She began wringing her hands and re-inspecting every inch of the booth’s interior.

  “I’ll get you something to drink,” Jean said, and he jogged off toward the nearest concession stand.

  Reflexively, Mitchell murmured, “Don’t run on the concrete.”

  In another sector of the Festival grounds, Trish and Carinne strolled past a different row of booths.

  “It makes such a difference getting in just five minutes ahead of the herd,” Trish enthused. “I mean you can actually see things. There’s not a wall of people between you and the displays. Your dad thinks of everything. Who says money can’t buy happiness?”

  Carinne nodded her agreement, smiling. She spread her arms wide and turned her body in a circle, tilting her head back, with her face to the sun and the breeze. She took a deep breath in and then out. “You can actually breathe!” she crooned.

  A delicious scent lured Carinne’s nose in a new direction. “Oh, smell the chorizos cooking!” she cried. “Let’s eat!”

  “We just had breakfast,” Trish protested.

  “I don’t care. I’m going to eat everything I want today. I’m going to be so fat they’ll never cram me into that wedding dress. Want something?”

  Trish laughed. “No, please!” she said. “You go ahead. I’ll be right over...” she scanned the horizon to find a booth of interest “...there!” She pointed to a booth in
the distance.

  “I’ll be right back,” Carinne promised and began walking toward the source of the food aromas.

  Trish sauntered toward the booth that had caught her eye from a distance. Jean’s booth.

  Mitchell was alone inside the booth, dusting paintings nervously with her handkerchief, when Trish stopped and stared at the big painting of the "Girl With Roses." There was no mistaking the girl’s identity. Trish had been talking with her only seconds before.

  “Grandma! What big cojones you have!” Trish announced.

  Startled, Mitchell swung to face her. “Ah! H-hello! May we – I mean, I – may I h-help you w-with something?”

  Trish gestured to the painting that would soon spell an artist’s doom. “Well, there she is! Big as life. Bigger maybe. Wearing just a smile and a big blue ribbon. You must be very proud.”

  Mitchell, like a doting mother, missing the sarcasm in Trish’s voice, said, “Oh, yes. Very.”

  Trish leaned into the booth and spoke in an exaggerated stage whisper. “Aren’t you the least little bit worried? I mean, putting her right out here in front of God and everybody?”

  Still thinking about the possibility of rain, Mitchell looked at the sky before she said, “Well, I was, but ... I think we’re ready.”

  Trish stepped back from the booth, gave Mitchell a smile, and craned her neck to search for something or someone down the street. Festival crowds were beginning to fill the pavement between the rows of booths. Trish had to stand on tiptoe and jockey for position in the throng until she spotted someone in the distance. She motioned for them to come her way, then she moved to meet them.

  Carinne had stopped at a food truck with windows on opposite sides, luring customers with its vapors of spicy Caribbean cooking. She approached one side of the truck just as Jean, on the opposite side of the truck, turned to leave with two iced soft drinks in his hands.

  Mitchell was fussing with the cash box key, practicing for her first sale, when Trish re-entered the booth. This time, Rico entered with her. He frowned at the "Girl With Roses." He motioned Trish to get out of the booth.

  “May I help you?” Mitchell asked, straightening up and pocketing the key.

  Rico’s eyes darted around the canopy, found what he sought, and he reached up to pull a rope. The canvas walls fell into place, closing Rico and Mitchell inside.

  Rico advanced on Mitchell, producing a knife as he prowled toward her.

  Carinne munched her first bite of chorizo and reached for the cup of iced soda perched on the food truck’s side counter. “Do you have any straws?” she asked the attendant.

  “Around the other side,” was the answer.

  On the other side of the truck, Jean looked down at his hands and realized he had forgotten straws. He turned and retraced his steps to the food counter.

  Rico and his prisoner exited from the rear of the booth that was now essentially a closed tent. He held a knife against Mitchell’s ribs, out of sight of all but the most determined observer. He forced Mitchell to walk with him toward an alley, in which the Averell limousine was parked.

  Trish had run ahead while he was still inside the tent with Mitchell. When Rico arrived at the limo, Trish and two henchmen waited there, looking at him expectantly.

  “Find her and clear out,” Rico growled. There could be only one “her.” The henchmen knew they were to search the Festival grounds for Carinne.

  Thunder rumbled. Raindrops began spattering around them, making metallic thunks on the top of the car. They could hear the crowd shrieking, giggling, and shuffling toward shelter from the deluge.

  “Hurry!” Rico boomed. The henchmen set off at a run in opposite directions, blending with the crowds. While people sometimes passed the end of the alley, no one turned down it or looked past their own umbrellas to see what went on there. No one saw or heard Mitchell’s struggles as Trish and Rico shoved her into the limo’s back seat.

  Carinne came around the side of the food truck and reached for the straw dispenser just as Jean ducked the first few raindrops and reached for the same container. Carinne didn’t look at him. “Oh, rats! I think we’re gonna get wet,” she said.

  Jean studied the lowering sky while grabbing two straws. “You can come to my place,” he offered, gesturing in the direction of his booth with an elbow.

  Those words, spoken in his peculiarly French accent, stunned Carinne. She recognized that voice. She dropped her drink and turned toward him, staring.

  Jean automatically stooped to retrieve the lady’s drink. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to–”

  Just then his eyes lifted to her face, and he was paralyzed. He didn’t know her name, but no face was more familiar to him than hers.

  Rain pelted both of them while they stood as if they were statues.

  Carinne was the first to move. She put her half-eaten chorizo on the truck’s side counter. Then she said, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  Jean deposited his burden on the counter as well. “Not here!” he urged. “I know a place. Come.”

  He took her hand and, pulling her with him, ran to the library building less than half a block away.

  A crowd had gathered on the library’s covered porch to wait out the rain. Jean and Carinne, dripping wet, dashed up the steps, elbowed their way through the crowd, and entered the library.

  One of Rico’s henchmen stepped out of the crowd and looked in the library windows to see where they had gone. He palmed his cellphone and tapped out a number.

  Inside the building, Jean dragged Carinne behind him through the children’s book section to a tile corridor with restrooms. Carinne pressed one hand across her mouth.

  He pounded on the door marked “Women” and, when no one answered, swept Carinne inside.

  In the restroom, he pushed open a stall and hauled Carinne through the open door. He pointed her toward the toilet, just in time, and Carinne retched violently. Jean supported her with an arm about her waist.

  Finally, the retching ceased. Carinne coughed and gasped for breath.

  “Better?” Jean asked.

  She nodded.

  Jean guided her out of the stall and lifted her off the floor, seating her on the vanity countertop. He pulled paper towels from a dispenser, wet them at the sink, and gently wiped her face.

  After handing her a clean, wet towel to press against her forehead, he stepped to the purified-water cooler and brought back a paper cup of water. He gave her the cup, urged her to drink, and stepped back to watch her.

  “You are her,” he said. “You are....” Stone had told him the name, but he couldn’t recall it now.

  “Carinne! As if you didn’t know! When I heard your voice, I thought it had to be you, but I couldn’t believe it,” she said. “I hate you, Dubreau.”

  “How can you hate me? You don’t even know me yet. I’m a nice guy. Everybody says so. Please, don’t hate me.”

  He leaned toward her, all innocence, seeking to make his point by simply showing his sincerity.

  She dropped her water cup and slapped him with every ounce of her strength.

  He drew back in shock. “Don’t hit! Didn’t anybody ever tell you, don’t hit? It’s a very important rule.”

  “Why did you leave me?” she shouted.

  He looked confused. “Leave you? Chéri, I only just now met you.”

  Wham! The bathroom door crashed open, and Rico’s two henchmen stomped in.

  Carinne screamed, “No!”

  “Hello, Dubreau,” one man growled, making the greeting sound very unpleasant indeed.

  Jean placed himself between the men and Carinne. He held his hands out toward them, palms facing them, and tried to talk them out of the fight they seemed to want.

  “Monsieurs, I am not the man you think. I have only his body – and Mitchell’s knee – but I am called Jean. Not Dubreau. Dubreau is dead.”

  “You got that right,” said the first man, who delivered a kick to Jean’s jaw that sent him ree
ling against the far wall of the tiled room.

  Carinne screamed and jumped down from the countertop, headed for Jean’s crumpled form on the floor.

  The second man stopped her with a bruising grip on her arm and dragged her from the room while she wept hysterically.

  When they were gone, the first man moved toward Jean to finish him off.

  Jean shook the cobwebs from his brain as he became aware of the man advancing on him. He could hear Carinne’s voice shouting, receding into the distance, “Duby! No! Duby!”

  He came up from the floor like a steamroller, flattening Rico’s henchman.

  On the library porch, the stunned crowd parted as Rico’s man dragged the hysterical Carinne out of the library and down the steps into the driving rain. They reached the curb just as Averell’s limo pulled up, with Trish at the wheel. Rico shoved open the limo’s rear door and yanked Carinne, waterlogged and sobbing, into the back seat. He tossed her literally on top of Mitchell, who seemed only semi-conscious.

  Jean emerged from the library and pushed his way through the gawking crowd. “Carinne!” he shouted.

  Rico pulled a pistol and fired a shot.

  Jean spun and fell.

  The crowed panicked, running, shrieking, and falling in all directions, taking cover.

  Rico’s second henchman jumped into the front passenger seat, and the limo took off. The first henchman, still flat on the ladies’ room floor, apparently was on his own now.

  Jean rolled in a puddle of rainwater and his own blood. He pushed himself to his feet and pressed one hand to a bleeding shoulder wound. Then he got his bearings and ran in pursuit of the limousine.

  CHAPTER 17 – HOSTAGE

  At the wheel of Averell’s limousine, Trish glanced in the rearview mirror at Rico, Mitchell, and Carinne – who was dripping rainwater from every hair and pore. Carinne was wild-eyed and trembling. Rico gripped his pistol in one hand and the arm of a groggy Mitchell in the other.