by Iris Chacon
“She don’t look so good,” Trish said, just before Carinne leaned forward and retched all over Rico and the upholstery.
Rico shoved the girl away from him, snarling and wiping at his soiled clothes. Mitchell fought her way out of a stupor and leaned to try and help Carinne.
Rico glanced out the rear window and shouted, “Step on it! He’s coming!”
“Who’s coming?” Trish called back.
Mitchell looked behind them. “Johnny! Stop!” she shouted, as if he could hear.
“It’s Dubreau!” Carinne sobbed.
“The dead guy?” Trish cried.
Rico roared, “Shut up and drive!”
The main street of Coconut Grove is closed to automobiles during the Arts Festival, and crowds pack the pavement from curb to curb for more than a mile. The limousine was not supposed to be on the street, and its progress was reduced to a crawl by the artists, booths, customers, bicyclists, in-line skaters, skateboarders, and even dogs that thronged the festival grounds.
Jean was gaining on the car. He ran full tilt, pounding the pavement, splashing through rainwater, wiping water from his eyes. He was obsessed with catching that limousine, but Mitchell’s knee was not holding up. With every slam of his left foot on the pavement, the pain in his leg jumped three levels in intensity. Blood from his wounded shoulder washed down his shirt and pants.
The limo was nearly within his reach when it cleared the Arts Festival congestion, turned onto an empty street, and sped off through the storm, hopelessly fast.
“Carinne!” he yelled. “Carinne!”
He ran with everything in him, but the knee collapsed, sending him rolling like a runaway barrel through gravel, mud, and puddles. He still didn't know that someone more important to him than Carinne was in the departing limo.
It was nearly half an hour before Jean returned to his booth, bloody and sore, on a friendly bicyclist’s handlebars. The rain had stopped. Jean eased himself off the bike.
“Merci, mon ami,” he told the cyclist, then he limped toward the booth.
“Any time,” was the cyclist’s reply. “You sure you’re okay?”
Jean waved off the concern, so the cyclist merely shook his head and departed.
When Jean made his way to the front of the crowd surrounding his booth, he was horrified to see it cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. The canvas curtains still hid the interior.
“Michel? Michel!” he called, forcing past the yellow tape and uniformed police officers and into his carefully constructed festival booth. The booth seemed smaller with Frank Stone and two burly police officers crowded into it.
Frank Stone turned from examining the rear of the booth. He met Jean in the center of the floor and stopped his forward progress with a hand in the center of Jean’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” Stone said. “I tried to warn you—”
Jean’s look of hatred stopped further explanation and caused Stone to back away a step.
“You!” Jean snapped. “You caused this.” He pushed past Stone as if Mitchell must be hiding in the rear of the booth. “Michel!” he called.
He thrust Stone and another police officer aside as he looked under the tables. “Where is she?” he demanded, rounding on Frank Stone.
Stone was bold enough to approach Jean slowly and quietly. He laid a hand gently on Jean’s one not-bloodstained shoulder. “Listen, Du—Johnny. The bad news is: Averell has Mitchell. Good news: no blood. Looks like they haven’t hurt her.” He didn’t say, “yet.”
Jean fists clenched involuntarily, and a muscle rippled along his jawline. Stone kept a hand in place on Jean’s shoulder as if to steady him.
“The other good news is: Averell has made a big mistake this time. This is kidnapping. In front of hundreds of witnesses. Now, I can go after him. This time, nobody’s getting him off the hook. Nobody.”
“Take your hand off me,” Jean said far too softly.
Stone, who was not a complete fool, dropped his hand to his side and backed away. “There’s a team of paramedics outside, Johnny. I think you better go with ‘em. Gotta take care of Mitchell’s knee, right? She’d want that.”
Jean wiped his face with trembling hands and brushed rain-saturated hair from his eyes. He straightened his shoulders and began to limp out of the tent.
“Johnny—” Stone began.
Jean silenced him with a look and limped across the booth and out onto the sidewalk.
Frank Stone entered the hospital emergency room a while later, in his rumpled raincoat, looking like a low-rent, high-calorie Peter Falk, and wove a path through rushing interns, nurses, orderlies, and aides, past a waiting room filled with patients and their families.
At the admitting desk, a nurse pointed Stone toward treatment rooms at the rear, where curtains were drawn around a cubicle. When a young resident physician emerged between the curtains, Stone nabbed him. It was almost a replay of the day Yves Dubreau had been pronounced dead, and Jean Deaux had been “born.” Except, this time the physician was not Mitchell Oberon, but a young man Stone had never met.
“Is he talking?” Stone asked the physician.
“Not to you!” Jean shouted from behind the curtain.
The physician started to direct Stone back toward the waiting room, but at the flash of a badge, a flint-hard look, and an imperative gesture from Stone, the young resident relented and moved away.
Stone pushed between the curtains and into the cubicle.
Jean was sitting on the treatment table, shoulder bandaged, with his knee packed in a beehive of ice and ace bandages. His ruined clothes were a wet, shredded, bloody heap on the floor. He wore only his briefs and a drafty hospital gown three sizes too small, though it was probably the largest size they had.
“Whattaya mean ‘not to me’?” Stone said. “Mister, I’m the only guy on this planet that you do want to talk to right now.”
“You are wrong.”
“Yeah? Name one person you need more than me right this minute.”
“Michel Oberon. Now, go away.”
Stone only stepped closer. He stepped very, very close. “You don’t mean that.”
Jean backhanded Frank Stone with all the strength remaining in his good arm. Stone nearly went down, but he caught the sturdy metal drapery frame and, after a stunned second, hauled himself upright. Then he smiled. Jean’s mind may not remember everything it learned as a special agent, but Jean’s body seemed to have retained enough muscle memory to be dangerous even when he had been physically wounded and emotionally traumatized.
“Averell,” Stone said. “You remember that name? You remember how I told you he keeps getting arrested, but he never goes to trial, he never goes to jail? Remember?”
“I don’t care.”
“Averell,” Stone said, “has taken Doctor Oberon. And he’s gone too far this time, with way too many witnesses. I can get a warrant, and I can get the support I need from my department, now. But, if we want to get into Averell’s compound without shots being fired and hostages getting killed, I’m gonna need your help.”
Jean did not respond.
“They killed Yves Dubreau, Johnny. And he wasn’t the first, or the last. They won’t hesitate to do the same to Mitchell Oberon. Or worse.”
Jean flinched, and Stone knew he had found the chink in Jean’s armor.
“Why did they take her?” Jean asked. “She never did anything to them. What do they want?”
“You. They want you.”
“Then, they will have me. I will go to them.”
“Exactly!” Stone said with a grin. “And once you’re inside, we can spring our trap.”
“You said you sent them an invitation. You knew they would come, because they wanted me. I was the bait for your trap, but your trap did not work, Frank Stone. They did not take me, the bait. They took Michel. And now, Michel is the bait.” Jean’s lip curled in disgust. “Michel was wrong; even if you are a sort of policeman, you are not a good man. You are no bette
r than this man, Averell. You will use Michel, you will use me, you will use the daughter of Averell, you will use anyone to get what you want.”
“Fine. Then, when you’ve finished with Averell, you can come after me.”
“Merci. I will. I promise you.”
“We’ll get started soon as you’re back on your feet again,” Stone said, then he went in search of the doctors.
In Carinne’s suite of rooms at the Averell mansion, Mitchell rifled purses, closets, dresser drawers, even trash cans, but couldn’t find what she needed. She moved into the dressing room and searched every drawer in the vanity table.
Carinne entered behind her, dressed in a bathrobe. Still Mitchell continued searching, rummaging through every nook or cranny.
“You won’t find anything useful,” said Carinne. “My mother taught him to be very careful.”
Mitchell stood erect and looked at Carinne, then turned and went into the bathroom, where she rattled through the contents of the medicine cabinet.
“No pills, no razor blades, no belts, no pantyhose, no nothing,” said Carinne from the other room. “Even the hot water has a regulator on it, in case you should try to scald yourself to death in the shower.”
Mitchell burst out of the bathroom, enraged. “I have no intention of taking my own life,” she snapped. “I just want to get out of here. What am I doing here? I’m nothing to them. Why are they keeping me?”
“Duby,” Carinne said. “They thought he was dead. We all thought he was dead. And, trust me, he will be, when he comes to get you.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever,” Mitchell said. “I was kidnapped in broad daylight! Half the world saw it happen! Shots were fired, for Pete’s sake! So, where are the police? We should be hearing sirens by now. Surely, they’ve identified the owner of that car. With all the computers they have?”
Carinne nodded. “Oh, trust me, they definitely know it was my father’s car. That’s why I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for the police to break down the door.”
“No police?” Mitchell said in a very small voice.
“No police. But, Duby is another story. Rico wouldn’t have grabbed you if he didn’t think you were important to Duby. He’ll come for you.”
Mitchell slowly lowered herself into a sitting position on the huge canopied bed. She nodded to herself. “You’re mistaken. But, you don’t know, do you; you haven’t seen the pictures.”
“What pictures?”
“Jea– Duby’s pictures. Dozens of them. Your face is in every one. He forgot everything else he ever knew; he even forgot how to talk, but he didn’t forget you.”
As a medical professional, Dr. Mitchell Oberon could keep her emotions in a lead-lined container in a far corner of her mind. In that way, she was able to calmly discuss tragic, horrible situations with patients, their families and loved ones. It was a valuable, essential skill, and one of many that she, an experienced surgeon, had honed.
She used that skill now. She locked away every hope, dream, fantasy or memory about Jean, so that she could say without emotion: “No, he won’t be coming after me. But, he will definitely come after you. Either way, he’ll be walking into a kill zone, and we can’t just stand by and let that happen.”
The room was silent for a minute before Carinne stepped forward and joined Mitchell, sitting on the bed. “We won’t,” she said, and there was steel in her voice.
“You have a plan?” asked Mitchell. A tiny hope raised its head off the floor of her soul.
“I do,” said Carinne. “But you’ve got to do exactly what I tell you, even if it sounds weird. And, don’t make trouble. Otherwise, Daddy will call Doctor Heinzman to give you a shot, and you’ll be in La La Land for a week.”
“Heinzman! That quack?” Mitchell said. “What does he have to do with all this?”
“He used to ‘take care’ of my mother whenever she was, let’s say, ‘uncooperative’ with Daddy. She’s dead now. She, ah, ‘took her own life’ – according to Doctor Heinzman. Daddy pays Doctor Heinzman very well.”
Mitchell scooted closer to Carinne and reached out to place a comforting hand over Carinne’s hand where it rested on the bedspread.
Carinne clasped Mitchell’s hand tightly.
Together they sat, grim faced and determined.
Carinne broke the silence with, “We only have a few days before the wedding. You just concentrate on being a model prisoner, and leave everything else to me.”
CHAPTER 18 – RESCUE
Frank Stone haunted the hospital for several days, annoying the nurses, stalking the doctors, and being a colossal nuisance. He kept uniformed officers on guard outside Jean’s hospital room, at the doors to the stairwells, and at the elevator lobby – as much to keep Jean in as to keep potential assassins out.
For the first 24 hours, Jean’s doctors had kept him sedated, for fear he would injure himself or someone else in his determined efforts to escape the hospital and find Mitchell. At the beginning of the second day, Jean reluctantly agreed to stay in bed at least another 48 hours in exchange for the doctors’ promise to discontinue using mind-numbing, nausea-inducing drugs and uncomfortable physical restraints.
Stone knew enough to stay out of Jean’s sight until day three, when he entered quietly just before dawn and tiptoed to a chair near the bed.
“I am not sleeping,” Jean’s voice came out of the semi-darkness.
“I thought you probably wouldn’t be. Feel like talkin’?”
“Get me out of here.”
“Maybe I can finagle that for ya, but if I do, you hafta work with me to take down Averell. It’s the only way to get Doctor Oberon home safe. You can’t go all Lone Ranger on me.”
“Just get me out of here.”
“Do we have a deal?” Frank Stone was well named. His heart might have been made of quartz for all the sympathy he showed for Jean’s injuries or Mitchell’s jeopardy. Frank’s narrow agenda was all that mattered to him. He would do whatever it took to get Kyle Averell, without a second thought for Yves Dubreau, Jean Deaux, or Mitchell Oberon.
Yves Dubreau would have known this about Frank Stone, because he was an agent accustomed to doing things Stone’s way. They had worked together in the nether world of covert national security operations for years. To Dubreau, someone like Mitchell Oberon would be merely collateral damage – regrettable, but acceptable.
Dubreau would not hesitate to fall in line with Agent Francis Stone, but Dubreau was dead.
Jean Deaux hesitated. A long minute of tense silence vibrated across Stone’s nerve endings like electrical current.
Finally, Jean said, “These men are violent.” It was not a question.
“So am I,” Frank said. “And, so are you.”
“But, I don’t remember ... how to be like that.”
“I’m counting on skills that were second nature to you in the past. I’m betting that your body will do what it has always done, instinctively, without thinking. When it comes time to just react, I’m confident you’ll react the same way you always did. All you have to do is let it happen.”
Jean’s voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. “Do you think they have ... have hurt Michel?”
“Honestly,” said Frank, “I have no way of knowing. But, if they’re using her to get to you, they need to keep her alive at least until they get what they want.”
Jean was silent again.
“The only way to be sure she stays alive is to get her out of there,” Frank urged. “You’re a civilian, ‘Jean Deaux.’ If you want to be part of this operation, I can make that happen, but only if you’ll do exactly what I say, when I say it.”
Jean took a deep breath and let out a long exhale. He looked Frank Stone directly in the eyes and said, “Oui.”
Just after the noon meal, Jean sat on the edge of his hospital bed while a young physician held up a vicious-looking hypodermic needle and frowned.
“I strongly advise against this,” the doctor said. “The pain s
erves a purpose: to keep you from punishing that leg any further and doing even more damage.”
Frank Stone handed Jean a shirt and helped him ease it over his bandaged shoulder. “We signed the release,” Stone said. “You won’t get sued. Just do it.”
The doctor ignored the older man and spoke earnestly to Jean. “If you tear up this knee again, you could lose the leg. Do you understand?” He shook the huge hypodermic in Jean’s face. “This doesn’t fix anything.”
“Will it stop the pain – just for tonight?” asked Jean.
“It’s tomorrow we have to worry ab—” the doctor began.
“Will it stop for tonight?” Jean interrupted.
Frank Stone answered for the doctor, “You bet it will. This stuff is great. Professional athletes use it all the time.”
“Not wisely,” the doctor argued. “And, sometimes not legally.”
Stone flashed his badge. “I’m the law here, and it’s all right with me.”
“Do it,” Jean said.
Reluctantly, the physician began making multiple injections in and around Jean’s swollen left knee. “Suit yourself,” the doctor muttered. “It’s your knee.”
“Not really,” said Jean.
Stone was satisfied that his wishes were being carried out, so he ignored the doctor and returned to what he had been doing before the doctor had entered the room: coaching his fighter.
“What you gotta remember,” Stone said, “is to lead with your right if you can – keep ‘em from opening the stitches in that left shoulder. ’Course, if it happens, it happens. You’ll deal with it. That Rico’s a heavyweight, but you can take him easy—”
“I’ll take your bent pistol now,” Jean said abruptly, as if Stone hadn’t even been speaking.
“Sure,” said Frank. “Sure, kid. But, you’re probably not gonna need it. You’ll get plenty of backup on this one. Plenty of backup.”
The doctor completed his final injection and stood back with a sigh. He gave Stone an accusing look, mumbled a “Good luck” to Jean, and left the room.