by Iris Chacon
“Sure, sure, come in,” said Mitchell. “Would you like some iced tea, diet soda, distilled water?”
“If you’re having something, thank you.”
“Okay, well, um, come on in the kitchen.” Mitchell led the way, carrying the box of groceries. After pouring them both a tall glass of iced tea, Mitchell put away the groceries while chatting with Mandy, who sat at the small kitchen table.
“I’m so sorry about the horrible things that happened to you in the last week — kidnappers, rescuers, guns, violence — you’ve really been through the mill!” Mandy commiserated.
“Yeah, it was, was pretty awful,” Mitchell mumbled.
“I wanted to come see you sooner, but, of course, Duby had surgery yesterday, so I was at the hospital all day.”
“Umn, yeah,” Mitchell said weakly. “Yeah, I heard it went well. A friend of mine did it, and he’s really good, a good surgeon. He says John—Duby should be fine, in time.”
Mandy let that thought hang in the kitchen’s lemon-scented air while she sipped her tea. “And, what do you think?”
Mitchell nodded with little energy. “I think ... he should be fine ... in time.” She placed the last grocery item in the freezer, closed the refrigerator door, and carried the empty brown cardboard box to set it beside her kitchen trashcan.
When Mitchell had retrieved her own tea glass from the counter and joined Mandy at the table, Mandy looked across at her and said, “How much?”
“Pardon?”
“How much time, do you think, before Jean is ‘fine’ again?”
“Again?”
“I mean, ‘fine’ as in ‘the same as before.’”
“Before the kidnapping and rescuing and all that, you mean?”
Mandy smiled sweetly and put down her glass. She leaned toward Mitchell and said, “I mean, before you.”
Mitchell took another drink from her glass. When she had swallowed, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking. I thought we were talking about the injuries to Johnny’s knee. And, I think, if he takes his therapy seriously and stays away from bad guys, he should recover well enough to lead a ... quiet ... sort of ... life.”
“Francis is retiring, you know,” Mandy said, as if this should be comforting news.
“I don’t know...”
“No, no, don’t worry, dear. You don’t have to pretend to sympathize with me. I only said that because you said Duby needs to stay away from bad guys, and I think Francis has been one of the bad guys—at least where you and Duby are concerned—for a while now. I wanted to assure you, my husband won’t cause you any more trouble.”
“Mrs. Stone—”
“Mandy.”
“M-Mandy, ... I only want what’s best for Johnny. I have no personal grudge against your husband.”
“Well, I do!” Mandy said, then she chuckled. “But, it’s not the first time in several decades of marriage, and it probably won’t be the last. He’ll take his consequences like a big boy and get himself back on track. Don’t worry.”
Both women took a few moments to breathe and sip their soothing tea.
Then, Mandy told Mitchell Oberon the story of a Canadian teenager who left an abusive home and worked his way south on commercial fishing boats, until a policeman met him on the docks one day and brought him home to the policeman’s childless, French-Canadian wife. She spoke of how the policeman became a federal agent and then an anti-terror specialist; of how the boy finished his education and worked for the CIA, eventually transferring to Homeland Security; of how a childless wife became the proud (and often worried) surrogate mother of a strong, talented, young man in a dangerous line of work.
Mandy told Mitchell about Frank Stone’s sister, who married money and then learned that most of it had been earned illegally. How the sister’s husband had sequestered her from all friends and family, and had kept the sister’s only child—a daughter—from having contact with Uncle Frank, or anyone else in Frank’s sister’s family.
Mandy explained what a different man Frank Stone became as he tried, year after year, to free his sister and his niece from Kyle Averell. But, the law Stone revered seemed to betray him at every turn, preventing Averell from facing justice.
So, when Stone could not succeed through normal legal channels, and federal agencies declined to pursue Kyle Averell aggressively, for lack of evidence, Stone sent someone into Averell’s inner circle to get enough information to finally indict and convict Averell.
“He sent Dubreau,” Mitchell said.
“Yes.” Mandy gripped her tea glass with both hands as if to strangle it. “Frank had told me he had this idea, to send Duby in undercover—without the agency’s knowledge—during Duby’s sabbatical, when he was supposedly on an extended fishing vacation. But, I knew Averell. More than one agent died or disappeared while working undercover, trying to get Averell. I didn’t want my boy sent in there, officially or not officially. So, Francis didn’t tell me where Duby really was.”
“When did you find out?” Mitchell asked.
Mandy released the death grip on her tea glass and rattled the half-melted ice cubes before taking a sip. “Frank’s sister—Averell’s wife, Carinne’s mother—died suddenly, just over a year ago.”
Mitchell gasped. “How?”
“How, indeed?” said Mandy. “Officially, she committed suicide with an overdose of prescription medicine. But, in Frank Stone’s mind, of course, she was murdered. Either Averell gave her the drugs, or Averell drove her to the drugs; either way, Frank was crazy for revenge. It was at his sister’s funeral that I saw Duby. He was working as Kyle Averell’s bodyguard. I confronted Frank, and he admitted to sending Duby in there, with no backup, with no official standing, nothing.”
Mitchell exhaled hard. “How long was he working for Averell before ...”
“Before he ended up dead?” Mandy began to cry. “I can’t describe to you how I felt on the morning I saw my boy’s picture—next to his obituary—in The Herald. It was as if my internal organs were made of papier-mâché and then left out in the rain. I could feel myself dissolving and slowly crumbling away inside.”
She sniffed and wiped her nose with a handkerchief from her purse. “And, my loving husband let me believe my boy was dead! What kind of man does that?”
“The same man who invites murderers to an art festival, where innocent people function as bait,” Mitchell growled. “The same man who knew Johnny was in danger, but betrayed him, instead of protecting him.”
They fell silent then, except for Mandy’s sniffles as she got her tears under control.
Mitchell stood, collected both their tea glasses, and went to the fridge to add ice and tea to them. When she brought the fresh tea to the table and took her seat, Mandy was putting away her handkerchief and seemed to have conquered her emotions.
Mandy lifted her glass in a toast. “To the beautiful lady doctor!” she said.
Mitchell laughed and shook her head, but she did clink her glass against Mandy’s and take a sip of tea.
“Want to guess who told me you were beautiful?” Mandy asked.
Mitchell shook her head again, smiling. “Well, we do have this orderly at the hospital who sees himself as the reincarnation of Don Juan or Casanova. I think Hector calls every woman beautiful, as long as she’s of legal age.”
Both women chuckled, then Mandy said, “No, not him. Duby told me about Hector—I guess I should say Jean told me—but, I haven’t had conversation with Hector, yet.”
“You talked to Jean?” Mitchell said, trying to sound casual, looking down at her hands instead of into Maddy’s eyes.
“Yes, but more importantly, dear, have you talked to Jean?” Mandy asked pointedly.
Mitchell looked up and seemed to draw herself together as if admitting to something of which she was ashamed. “I haven’t seen him since I saw him and Carinne... I haven’t seen him since the night of the rescue raid.... I think I received something from him tod
ay, though. It was taped to my door.” She pushed her glass aside and left the table, saying as she left the kitchen, “I’ll show it to you.”
In a moment, Mitchell returned to the kitchen with a rolled sheet of paper. She unfurled it and, using some of the magnets scattered there, posted it on the front of her refrigerator.
“There was no name,” Mitchell said. “But, I know his style. This is from Jean.”
Mandy admired the drawing of Mitchell-over-midnight-cocoa. “Well, then,” she said, “I guess you know who told me you were beautiful.”
“This doesn’t even look like me,” Mitchell said. “The portraits of Carinne, now—all eight hundred of them—those were beautiful, and they all looked exactly like her.”
“Carinne! When did he make portraits of Carinne?” asked Mandy. “I hadn’t heard about that. Of course, we’ve established that Francis was not telling me anything, but Du—Jean seemed to be telling me as much as he could recall, and he never mentioned Carinne.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Mitchell said, sitting down hard in her chair. Her voice took on an edge when she continued: “Ever since I—we brought him home from the hospital, nearly a year ago, he painted almost nothing but Carinne. He couldn’t remember her name, but apparently he could remember he was in love with her.”
“In love with Carinne? Really? Are you sure?” Mandy asked, looking genuinely perplexed. “My niece, Carinne Averell, right? That’s of whom we are speaking?”
“That’s whom he was kissing on her bed at Kyle Averell’s mansion, the last time I saw him.” Mitchell kept her head erect and sipped her tea, but she couldn’t hide the tear that slid quietly down her cheek.
Mandy watched her sympathetically. In low tones, Mandy said, “So, that’s why you haven’t been to see him in the hospital.”
“Be kind of awkward, wouldn’t it?” Mitchell said, and chuckled bitterly. “Pie-eyed, plain, older lady and luscious, young girlfriend buzzing around the same man. I just couldn’t be there and watch her with him. And, he shouldn’t have to be worrying about hurting my feelings, when he’s the one who’s in pain.”
Mandy reached across the small table and patted Mitchell’s arm. “There’s more than one person in pain right now, dear. You’ve stayed away for nothing, you know. Carinne hasn’t been within ten miles of that hospital.”
“What! Where is she? Jean almost gets himself killed saving her, and she doesn’t even show up? She said she’d ride in the ambulance with him, she told me that the other night! Do you mean they just shipped him off to be delivered to the hospital like a carton of hypodermic needles? Hurt and alone?” Mitchell’s voice grew louder and louder until, when she shouted “alone”, the kitchen windows rattled.
Mandy smiled beatifically. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Doctor Oberon, but even a smart lady like yourself can make a mistake, draw the wrong conclusion, have a temporary lapse of judgment. Carinne Averell may have gotten stuck in Duby’s—Jean’s brain when he was injured a year ago, but the man I listened to in that hospital the day before yesterday never mentioned anyone but Michel. Michel, Michel, Michel, constantly. To him, the story of his life—all the life he remembers, anyway—is the story of what Michel has done for him, and with him.”
Mitchell got up and tore a paper towel off the rack. She dried her eyes, then ran cold water on the towel and wiped her face. By the time she turned back to face Mandy, she had herself soundly in Stoic Doctor Mode. “I appreciate you sharing your experiences with me, Mandy. And, I believe that you believe what you’re telling me. I’m a grownup, however, not a teenybopper with my first high school crush. I can accept what’s right before my eyes. He wasn’t kissing me. He was kissing Carinne. And, I’m afraid one drawing of me, even if it flatters me, doesn’t cancel out nearly a year’s worth of paintings of her.”
Mandy stood and gathered her purse, put her tea glass in the kitchen sink, and put one arm around Mitchell’s waist as they walked to the front door together. “I’m so glad for the chance to finally meet you,” said Mandy. “The tea was lovely, and the company even lovelier.”
“Thank you,” Mitchell said. “I’m really glad you came. I hope we can meet again someday.”
Mitchell opened the door, and Mandy stepped outside. “Goodbye, dear,” Mandy said. “At least think about what I’ve said.”
“I will, Mandy,” Mitchell told her. Then Mandy went on her way, and Mitchell closed her front door. Leaning back against it, she murmured, “I doubt I’ll think of anything else.”
CHAPTER 24 – EXPEDITION
Two days after Jean’s surgery, which was the fourth day after the rescue raid, Jean telephoned Dan Kavanaugh to schedule the “favor” Dan had promised him. Dan tried to postpone for a few more days, arguing that Jean needed more time to recover. Jean was adamant, however, and Kavanaugh caved.
The day dragged painfully by as Jean fidgeted in his bed, unable to concentrate well enough even to read The Pirate’s Flaming Heart. Many pages of Jean’s sketchpad had flown like miniature white basketballs across the room, to bounce off the rim of the corner trashcan and roll into a pile on the floor. He couldn’t hold an image steady in his mind long enough to create a drawing that pleased him.
Jean was a balloon full of air, into which more air was being pumped with every tick of the clock. He was ready to explode by the time Hector arrived with The Diversion.
As happened every day, Hector arrived with a tall rolling cart bearing meal trays for all the patient rooms on that floor of the hospital. Hector normally worked 7 a.m. to 3 p.m., but today he was working 3 p.m. to 11 p.m., by special arrangement with another orderly.
Hector’s tall rolling cart rattled off the elevator, in front of the nurses’ station, and stopped outside room 2114. The walls of the cart blocked the view of Jean’s doorway from the nurses’ station. No one saw Hector slide a pair of crutches from the bottom shelf of the cart and slip them through Jean’s door. Then, as Hector left the cart in place and began delivering trays one or two at a time to various rooms up and down the hall, Jean had time to hobble carefully out of his room and around the first corner of the corridor, with no one the wiser.
Jean, with his left leg in a cast from hip to ankle, and his left arm in a sling, maneuvered painfully with his crutches. The left crutch was almost no help at all, because of the painful bullet wound still healing in his left shoulder. So, he relied, mostly, on his right arm to keep himself upright and moving, albeit slowly, to the elevator farthest from the nurses’ station.
He trusted Hector to close his door and to cover for him with the nurses. Jean had left pillows under the covers of his bed so that, with the lights turned down, it would appear at a quick glance that Jean was asleep, not to be disturbed. He would have to be back before 11 p.m., because someone would be coming then to administer his next scheduled medications.
Jean made it into the elevator, where he slumped against the wall, panting and perspiring, until the doors opened on the ground floor. When the doors swooshed open in the hospital lobby, Dan Kavanaugh was waiting two feet away, with a hoodie folded over one arm.
Dan stepped nonchalantly into the elevator and quickly pressed the buttons to close the door and begin rising. By the time the doors opened on the third floor, Jean was wearing the hoodie and a pair of navy blue nylon jogging shorts. The shorts belonged to Dan, which is the only reason they were large enough to be stretched to fit over Jean’s leg cast.
On the third floor, onlookers saw nothing suspicious. Two men left the elevator and took the pedestrian bridge to the hospital parking garage. One of the men seemed to struggle a bit with his crutches, but the other man helped with navigating doorways and the like.
In the lot, Dan’s car was double-parked adjacent to the pedestrian bridge. He helped Jean half-sit, half-lie across the back seat in order to keep the left leg elevated, then Dan took the driver’s seat, and they were off.
Dan checked the time on his dashboard clock. “Right on schedule,” he c
alled over his shoulder to his passenger. “How you holdin’ out back there?”
Jean wiped sweat from his face with a jacket sleeve. “I am okay. Just please do not have an accident now. I do not think I could survive that, too.”
“You got it,” said Dan.
“But, drive fast,” Jean said.
“Right-o.”
“But still, be careful.”
“Will do.”
“But, do not stop if the light is yellow; only stop for the red ones.”
“Dude, do you wanna drive?” Dan said, his patience waning.
No answer came immediately.
“No,” said Dan, “don’t even think about it. You’re not driving! Geez! Only half your limbs are working, and you’re probably high on painkillers! I’m driving. I’ll get you there. Geez. Take a nap or something!”
It was quiet in the back seat for a moment. Then, “Merci, Dan.”
“You’re welcome, buddy.”
Less than an hour later, Mitchell Oberon answered a knock at her door, after a look through the peephole showed her Dan Kavanaugh’s huge form blocking out the light from the streetlamps.
“Mister Kavanaugh!” she said, opening the portal.
“Evenin’, Doctor,” said Dan. “I brought you somethin’, but I gotta take it back to the hospital before eleven....” He trailed off, uncertain what more to say.
“Well, uh, come in,” she said. “What is it? Oh!” she exclaimed in surprise when Dan stepped aside to reveal Jean, teetering on crutches, behind him. “Hello.”
“We have to talk,” Jean said softly, as if he didn’t want to frighten her. “Just five minutes. Please. And, I will go. I will not give you any trouble.” Although Dan had entered the house, Jean waited for Mitchell to give permission specifically to him.
For a moment, she held her breath and chewed her bottom lip. Then, she exhaled in resignation and said, “Come in.”
As he struggled to cross the threshold, Mitchell hurried past him to clear throw pillows off the sofa, saying, “Here. Get over here and put that leg up. You shouldn’t be trying to walk on that knee yet—Wait!” She looked from Dan to Jean and back again. “You sneaked out!”