by Iris Chacon
Her chin quivered and her eyes rounded in surprise. But, in the next second, she relaxed when he continued speaking.
“Could you allow me to take Duby’s place—and be part of your family?” he rasped. Unshed tears pooled in his eyes, and he blinked them away.
Mandy allowed her tears to roll freely down her chubby cheeks until her wide smile diverted the droplets away from her chin. “As far as I’m concerned, that happened when I walked into this room, dear one.”
He gripped her one hand more strongly, and she patted their joined hands with the second of hers.
“Merci, Madame Stone,” he said. “Merci beaucoup.”
“I prefer to be called Mandy,” she said, “but I would like it even more if, someday, you called me Maman.”
He smiled. Then, his brow crinkled as he confronted a new thought. “I do not have to call Agent Frank Stone ‘Papa,’ do I?”
“Definitely not, my sweet. You don’t have to speak to Francis at all, if you don’t want to. I’ll send him away when you and I visit, if you like.”
“Merci, ... Maman,” he said, and his smile returned.
“D’accord,” she said, rising from the chair. “I’m going to get you another drink of water, and then I’m going to give you one piece of good, motherly advice before I go away and let you rest. Then, I will be here tomorrow, before and after your surgery.”
CHAPTER 20 – NEGOTIATION
While Mandy Stone was on a mission to give aid and comfort to Jean in his hospital room that morning, Mitchell Oberon was on a mission of her own: to give grief and trouble to Frank Stone at his office.
Stone was still at home, finishing his leisurely breakfast, unaware of his impending doom, when Doctor Oberon marched into the office of Agent Stone’s superior officer at the Department of Homeland Security’s Miami office.
Doctor Oberon knew how to appear formidable, and she had dressed for battle in her most expensive, best-fitting business suit – a pencil skirt and matching jacket over a dignified, yet stunningly feminine, silk blouse. Her helmet was her perfect chignon, her combat boots were her leg-enhancing pumps with three-inch heels. She carried a tasteful leather briefcase, tinted lavender. She wore more makeup than was typical of her, but then, it was not easy to cover the bruises of kidnapping and violent rescue plus the dark eye-circles from an all-night emergency project.
After she had intimidated her way into the captain’s office – mostly with intense fearless stares and an obstinate refusal to accept “no” for an answer – Mitchell was ushered into the superior officer’s inner sanctum and introduced to Captain Boone. He motioned for her to take a chair across the desk from him.
Before her full weight rested on the chair, she was pulling a packet of papers from her briefcase. She placed them in front of her on the desk and laid a hand on top of the stack.
“Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Captain,” she snapped briskly, sounding like a five-star general.
“I have to say, Doctor, that you have impressed me. Not many people even know where we are, let alone find their way inside and all the way to my office.”
“Yes, well, an intelligent, well-educated person with a computer and sufficient motivation can accomplish almost anything,” she said. “I have a report for you on your agent, Frank Stone, which I believe will alarm you and prompt you to take immediate action.”
“Really,” the captain said. He leaned back in his chair as if settling in to hear a story. “Am I correct in assuming that you have documentation to back up this ‘report’?”
Mitchell patted the stack of papers resting beneath her palm on the desk. “I have names, dates, places, and as many verbatim conversations as I could remember. I have had to paraphrase here and there, of course, inasmuch as the events span several months. Whatever proof is not within these documents is easily obtainable based on the information provided herein.”
“Very well,” said Boone. “May I record our conversation?”
“Oh, I insist on it!”
“Outstanding,” he said, and he reached across the corner of his desk to punch a button on his electronic phone console. A red light began flashing atop the console. The captain leaned slightly toward the console and spoke clearly, giving the names of parties present, the date, place, and time of the interview. Then he nodded to Mitchell. “Proceed, Doctor.”
Mitchell began with the night in the emergency room when Frank Stone bullied his way in and, within minutes, demanded she falsify medical records. The captain’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped when Mitchell explained that Special Agent Yves Dubreau had not been killed while on annual leave in Canada, was, in fact, still living – with a different identity, and that she had been blackmailed by Frank Stone into hiding the not-dead agent in her own home.
She told of Stone’s visit to her home with his gun and photographs of Kyle Averell and Averell’s cohorts. She even produced the photographs from her briefcase, and the captain stood quickly and bent over the desk to study them carefully.
Mitchell waited for him to resume his seat, and then she recounted how Frank Stone had intentionally lured Averell’s “representatives” to Jean’s booth at the Coconut Grove Arts Festival — a tactic that had resulted in her own kidnapping and in further injuries to former-agent Dubreau.
She gave an hour-by-hour account of her imprisonment at Averell’s mansion and a minute-by-minute report of the rescue operation planned by Frank Stone – in which former-agent Dubreau had nearly lost his life.
She finished with her being given a ride home in a squad car and then sitting up all night preparing the packet of documents she had brought with her this morning.
When she stopped and sat back in her chair, hands folded in her lap, the captain stared at her in silence for long moments.
In a subdued voice, he said, “What, ahm, what is the condition of Agent Dubreau at this time?”
“I have not examined him professionally,” the doctor replied, “but I did call the hospital this morning, and he has been admitted in fair condition, is being scheduled for surgery, and is expected to survive. However, due to the previous head injury and severe damage to his left leg – now compounded by the bullet wound last weekend and additional knee damage last night – it is safe to say that Agent Dubreau is permanently disabled and should be discharged from active duty – or whatever it is called, in your line of work.”
“We’re not the military, Doctor, but that’s close enough. I get your drift.” He pulled the packet of papers across the desk and rotated the pages so that he could peruse them easily. For a few minutes, he paged through the documents, sometimes stopping to re-read a passage or make notes in the margin.
Mitchell waited patiently, spine straight and chin high, her eyes spearing the captain without mercy.
Finally, Captain Boone closed the packet and looked at her. “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Doctor?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “I haven’t slept in quite some time, as you can imagine, and the caffeine would certainly help.”
He reached out and punched a button on the phone console; the red Recording light went out. The captain rose to leave the office, saying, “You must be exhausted. We won’t keep you here much longer. I’ll be right back. Just try to relax.”
“Thank you,” Mitchell murmured.
The captain stepped out of his office and shut the door. The closed portal did not prevent Mitchell from hearing him shouting across the cubicles outside: “Where is Stone! Get me Stone, and get him in here yesterday! Agee! Agee, where are you?”
“Here, sir,” a distant voice answered.
“Coffee for Doctor Oberon! Make it fresh, make it good, and make it now!”
“Yes, sir,” the voice snapped efficiently.
Mitchell allowed herself a tiny smile of triumph. Stone would soon get what was coming to him. And, Agent Dubreau was about to be resurrected and rewarded for his years of service. She had no idea what would become of a certain lady doctor, but two out of
three wasn’t bad.
She didn’t know exactly how long the captain remained outside his office, or what he did while he was out there. Mitchell Oberon closed her eyes, let her chin drop onto her chest, and fell asleep in her chair.
The captain was advised the instant Frank Stone’s car rolled onto DHS property. So, when Stone opened the door to enter the department where his desk was located, he was surprised to find tomb-like silence and every face turned toward him. The men and women comprising the office staff sat stiffly watching, no one typing, no one faxing, no one phoning, no one smiling. Only one person was standing. Captain Boone. Also, not smiling.
Frank marveled at the strange reception, but he strode toward his desk with scarcely a hitch in his rhythm.
“Stone!” the captain barked. “My office!” The captain turned and walked briskly into his office without giving Stone a second look. He knew Stone would be right behind him. All recent evidence to the contrary, Stone was no idiot.
The two men entered the private office in silence. Stone was aware of another person’s presence, but he could not see the visitor clearly until after he had taken a seat in a second visitor’s chair, and the captain stepped to the other side of the third person’s chair.
Frank Stone was a trained agent. He nearly managed to hide his shock at seeing Mitchell Oberon, dressed to the nines, asleep in his captain’s private office.
The captain whispered, “Doctor Oberon,” and gently touched Mitchell’s shoulder. When she woke and looked up at him, he gestured toward the other man. “Agent Stone has joined us.”
“Good morning, Doctor,” said Stone politely, but not cordially. He deliberately kept all inflection out of his voice, betraying nothing of his feelings or thoughts in this tense situation.
“Not for you, I think,” Mitchell answered evenly. No emotion there, either. She was all business.
The captain circled his desk and eased into his high-backed executive chair, like a king preparing to sit in judgment of his court. He patted the papers on his desk. “Doctor Oberon has been telling me a fascinating tale,” he said to Stone. “One I think you already know. Shame I didn’t hear it from you, though.”
“Captain, I—“
“You don’t get to talk now, Agent,” the captain cut him off. “You are here to listen.”
Stone nodded once and wisely kept quiet.
Outside the private office, eerie silence prevailed throughout the department. Not a chair creaked, not a throat was cleared, as every ear strained to hear some indication, however slight, that Frank Stone was not being gruesomely murdered by their captain. On the plus side, there was a doctor in that office, if things went south.
As he had done earlier, the captain punched the Recording button on his telephone console and recited the names of all parties present, the date, time, and place of this meeting.
“First of all,” the captain began, “I wish to formally apologize to Doctor Oberon for the egregious treatment she has received at the hands of an agent of this department. Those actions were not authorized. However, the department takes full responsibility and will make whatever restitution the doctor deems fair. If you wish to consult legal counsel to draft the terms of a settlement between yourself and the department, Doctor, please feel free to do so. We will make ourselves available to meet with counsel at your convenience.”
“Sir, if I could—“
“No.” Boone turned from looking at Mitchell with sincerity to glaring at Frank with eyes afire. “Just. Listen.”
Frank inhaled as if to speak, but—
“No!” the captain snapped. “Do I need to get out the duct tape, Agent? Just shake your head.”
Frank pressed his lips tightly together and wagged his head, no.
“Outstanding,” said the captain, and turned his sincere face toward Mitchell again. “You will, of course, receive a letter of apology from the Director of Homeland Security in Washington, D.C., as well as a beautiful...” (he glared pointedly at Stone for half a second) “...written apology from Agent Stone, personally.”
He stopped and fixed his sweetest, most contrite smile on Mitchell.
“Thank you, Captain. You’re very gracious,” Mitchell said. Her smile was merely polite, but to her credit, she projected no anger or bitterness. “However, I feel compelled to say that you should be apologizing to Yves Dubreau, not to me. Or at least, not only to me.”
“Absolutely, ma’am,” the captain agreed. “Rest assured that before the close of business today, I will personally visit Agent Dubreau in the hospital and deliver our apology along with the thanks of the department, and of a grateful nation, for his brave service.”
Mitchell smiled with genuine amusement for the first time in many days. “Captain, I’m afraid if you go see Johnny, talking like that, you’ll only confuse him. He doesn’t know anything about Agent Dubreau’s ‘brave service,’ as you put it.”
The captain nodded, smiling along with her. “Right, right. Well, I’ll put it a little differently, but I’ll get the message across.”
Frank opened his lips and began to take in a breath—
“No,” said Boone, pointing a finger at Frank’s nose without looking away from Mitchell’s face.
“And about that lawyer you mentioned,” Mitchell said, delving once again into her briefcase. She pulled out two typewritten pages, stapled together, and handed them to the captain. “I took the liberty of listing my, can I say, ‘demands’? The terms of the settlement, I mean. This is what I think is fair. If you agree, I won’t need a lawyer.”
“And if I disagree?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
The captain nodded and perused the two pages in silence. “I’ll have to fax this to Washington, of course, for the final approval, but I don’t see anything here that should be a problem.”
“Excellent,” she said, and snapped her briefcase closed. She rose from her chair, and both men immediately stood. “Then, I believe my work here is done. Thank you for your time and your generosity, Captain.” She shook the captain’s hand, ignored Stone’s extended hand, turned and left the office.
Every man (and some women) in the department sat motionless with eyes glued to those high-heels, shapely calves, and curvy pencil skirt until Mitchell Oberon disappeared from sight, through the exit doors.
The captain cleared his throat loudly, and suddenly papers rustled, phones rang, keyboards clacked, and printers clattered. The captain directed Frank Stone back to his chair, but the captain did not sit. Instead, he closed the door and stood over Agent Stone like an avenging angel, and he summarized Stone’s future with stentorian tones and R-rated vocabulary. He did not record the interview.
CHAPTER 21 – DELEGATION
Just before noon, on the morning after the rescue raid at the Averell compound, at the time Mitchell Oberon was leaving the Department of Homeland Security office, Mandy Stone was leaving Jean Deaux’s hospital room.
Mrs. Stone went directly to the nurses’ station and asked them to page Dr. Goldberg. About fifteen minutes later, she met with the doctor in a waiting room down the hall from Jean’s room.
“Anyway,” she was saying, “I told him he should give her some time to recover. She’s been through quite an ordeal. He can’t expect her to show up for work and be cutting and stitching on people all day as if nothing happened.”
Goldberg chuckled at the little round lady. “No, of course not,” he said.
“I think, if you approach him just right, he’ll go ahead with the surgery. He’s smart enough to know that’s best. It’s only his emotions are all out of whack. He’s been through an ordeal, too, and it isn’t over yet.”
“I agree, I agree,” said Goldberg. “He’s lucky to have a cheerleader like you on his side, though. I think you’ll provide plenty of motivation for him to work hard at getting better.”
She smiled. “I hope so.” She gathered herself together and stood to go, shaking his hand. “It was very nice
meeting you, Doctor Goldberg. I hope Doctor Oberon is getting lots of rest and will be back soon. I know you must be concerned about her, too.”
As he walked Mandy to the elevators, Goldberg told her about the phone messages he had left at all of Mitchell’s numbers, and the fruitless calls Nurse Erskine had made to area hospitals.
“Apparently, she’s at home, since we can’t find her anywhere else,” he said. “Guess she doesn’t feel like talking to anyone right now. She could be sleeping all day today, for all we know. We’ll just keep her in our prayers until we hear from her.”
Although he had truly enjoyed his visit with Mandy, Jean was exhausted when she left his hospital room. He slept for about an hour before the noise of lunch service roused him. He checked his cellphone for messages, hoping for some word from Mitchell.
The only message was from the Barnacle Gallery, telling him the excellent sales results from the Arts Festival. Not only had they sold all of Jean’s paintings on exhibit at the festival, they had a waiting list of sales referrals wanting to look at Jean’s future works.
It was good news, the best news ever for an unknown artist like Jean. Mitchell would have been over-the-moon elated to hear what a roaring success they were. But, she wouldn’t hear it if he couldn’t tell her. He didn’t feel like they had succeeded at all. He didn’t even feel like they were a they. He felt like only a he; a lonesome he, who knew that something was wrong, wrong, wrong.
He called Mitchell’s home phone again and left yet another message on her answering machine.
“It’s me. ... A-are you m-mad at me? ... Whatever I did, I’m sorry. ... I promise I won’t do it again. ... Just, tell me what I did.” His voice broke, and he took a quick sip of water, took a calming breath, and continued. “You have to forgive, Michel. Sister Elizabeth said it’s a rule. Please don’t be mad, Michel. Please ... just ... just talk to me. Please. ... Au revoir.”
He hung up the phone and laid it on the bed beside him, in easy reach, just in case.