Duby's Doctor

by Iris Chacon

  “Is she armed?”

  “No-o-o-o-o-o, sir! She ain’t concealing nothin’ in that getup!”

  A dozen packs rustled as a dozen pairs of binoculars were retrieved and raised to officers’ eyes. Two dozen avid eyes tracked the graceful saunter of a shapely bikini-clad female crossing the grass from the parking lot toward the marina.

  The lieutenant took the first spotter’s binocs again, focusing on the woman. “Could they have called a hooker?”

  One man said, “Nah, too classy for a hooker. I’m guessing aerobics instructor.”

  “Model,” said another.

  “Beach bunny.”

  “Massage therapist.”

  “Unh-uh. Cocktail waitress. I think I saw her at Hooters.”

  Stone swung his binoculars away from the sailboat to look at the woman. “Oh, no.”

  “What?” said the lieutenant.

  “You’re all wrong. She’s Duby’s doctor.”

  “Doctor!”

  Fourteen men suddenly coughed, sneezed, gasped, wheezed, or pounded their chests as if trying to start their own hearts.

  “Stow it, you clowns!” snapped Stone. “She’s not that kinda doctor, anyway.”

  Stone and all the other men gradually turned their binocs from right to left, following the doctor’s progress toward the water’s edge. All were silent until the woman neared the sea wall without slowing her pace.

  Then Stone said, “Stop, stop, stop, stop.”

  She stepped out of her sandals as she approached the water’s edge.

  Stone said, “Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t—“

  A splash cut off his words as she made a shallow racer’s dive into the water.

  The first spotter reported, “Doctor overboard, sir.”

  The men held their breath until, several yards from the shore, the woman surfaced and began swimming smoothly toward the Do Bee 2.

  “Beautiful form,” said one man.

  “Yeah, and she swims good, too,” said another.

  Stone muttered, “What the heck kinda insane stunt are you trying to pull, Doctor?”

  Aboard the Do Bee 2, Jean and Iglesias stood facing one another from opposites sides of the aft cockpit. Jean’s large form loomed directly between Iglesias and the building housing the seafood restaurant and a rooftop full of hidden police officers.

  “Don’t move,” Iglesias ordered, and he held up Jean’s cellphone so he could look at the phone and Jean at the same time.

  Iglesias scrolled the contacts list on Jean’s phone. “What was that name you said earlier? Snow ... Stowe ... Strong ... Stone! That was it, wasn’t it? Frank Stone, you said. I remember that name. That was the name of the Homeland Security agent who had me deported to Mirador the night Carinne Averell was supposed to marry my superior – who is dead, by the way.”

  Jean remained still, saying nothing.

  “Why would Carinne Averell’s bodyguard have the phone number of a Homeland Security agent in his personal phone, eh? Do you work for Homeland Security, Señor Duby?”

  “Non, monsieur. I paint. That is all. I only paint.”

  “Yes, yes ... now, you paint. But, what about before? Oh, that’s right. You ‘don’t remember’ before ... Before Averell had you killed for humiliating me that night on the beach. I should have known you wouldn’t stay dead. My life turned to ashes from the moment you laid your insolent hands on me in the back seat of that limo. That is why you are going to help me start my new and better life, if it’s the last thing you ever do.” With that, Iglesias smiled at Duby and tapped Frank Stone’s phone number.

  Stone’s cellphone rang. He delved into his pocket for it while the SWAT team’s binoculars swung in unison from the swimming woman to the sailboat cockpit. From beyond the large man’s standing form, a smaller man waved a cellphone in the air and then lowered it to his ear.

  Stone turned on his speaker and answered the call with a simple, “Yeah?”

  Iglesias said, “Hello, Frank Stone. I know you’re there, with Homeland Security or FBI or CIA or whoever they are. I know you’re on the roof of the restaurant because, truly, where else would you be at a time like this, eh? But as you can see, your snipers will not get a clear shot at me so long as I have the late Señor Averell’s large bodyguard to protect me.”

  “We know you’re there, too,” Stone growled. “What do you want, Iglesias?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I want to go sailing, and Señor Dubreau has volunteered to be my captain. You simply wave goodbye, and we’ll be on our way and out into international waters in just a short while. Then, we need never speak of this awkward meeting again. Adios, señores.”

  “Wait—! What—? Don’t—!”

  Iglesias threw Duby’s cellphone as far as he was able. Stone and the team watched it sploosh into the salty bay waters and sink out of sight.

  The team leader ordered, “Snipers and spotters in position. Watch for an opportunity. Shoot to wound, not to kill, until I say different. And, don’t hit the hostage.”

  “Hostages, you mean,” grumbled Stone. “There’s about to be another one.”

  The men with binoculars watched in silence as Mitchell Oberon swam to the rear of the Do Bee 2 and grabbed onto the small teak diving deck off the aft gunwale.

  The lieutenant motioned to two team members who, in turn, moved to the foremost part of the parapet and aimed a sensitive directional microphone toward the Do Bee 2. One man aimed the microphone while the other adjusted the controls and recorded digital sound. With the speaker activated, all the men on the restaurant roof could hear what was said in and around the sailboat.

  The female voice they heard did not sound like a doctor. This voice sounded like a cross between an air-headed cheerleader and a dance club bimbo. “Oh, Doooooo-beee,” she sang out. “Scoo-bee dooo-bee! It’s me ... Heather!”

  Iglesias and Jean froze, looking into one another’s eyes. “Don’t move,” Iglesias mouthed.

  Not turning his head or leaning toward the female voice, Jean called to her, “I think you have the wrong boat, ... um, Heather.”

  “No, I don’t, silly.” The cheery bimbo giggled. “This is the Do Bee, and I swam all the way out here to see my Scooby Dooby.”

  “I’m sorry, but my name is Jean. Go away, please. Please! Go away!”

  “I know who you are, you big tease.” She giggled again. Then she affected a theatrical pout. “You promised to teach me French, and I swam all the way over here for my lesson. If you’re not gonna French me–” she tittered, “–I mean, teach me, you could at least offer me something to drink before I swim all the way back. You could even maybe offer me ... y’know ... a ride.”

  Iglesias squatted low in the cockpit, against the cabin bulkhead, out of sight of the SWAT team on the restaurant roof. “Bring her up here,” he told Jean.

  Jean shook his head and parted his lips to argue, but Iglesias pointed the gun and snarled, “Now.”

  Jean put his foot on the aft gunwale and reached down with one brawny arm. Mitchell/Heather grasped his wrist, he in turn grasped her forearm, and he lifted her out of the water and into the sailboat’s cockpit as if she were five pounds of floating seaweed.

  When her body cleared the water, in the sopping wet bikini, a dozen men on the restaurant roof sighed deeply, then had to stop to clean their fogged-up binoculars.

  Her bare feet had scarcely touched the deck when Jean started to say, “What are you doing h—?” But, he broke off and, instead, was shocked into blurting, “What are you wearing?”

  “A designer bathing suit.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  He didn’t seem to notice. “What kind of designers make clothing out of little, tiny fishing nets? Tiny red fishing nets! Where are your clothes?”

  She tried to say her clothes were in her car, but he didn’t hear her because he was wrenching his own tee shirt over his head and pulling it down over her head and shoulders. In two seconds flat, she was
covered in sleeves extending beyond her elbows and a shirttail that ended two inches above her knees.

  The men on the distant rooftop breathed, “Awww,” in disappointment.

  Perversely, the wet bikini underneath soon forced the soft tee shirt to cling to her shapely form, in strategic places, and to become transparent in every place the soft shirt fabric got wet. Which was almost everyplace.

  The men with the binoculars sighed, happy again.

  Heather walked her fingers up the center of Jean’s bare chest, from his belt buckle to his lips. “You don’t like my new bathing suit, Scooby Dooby?”

  “Don’t you think it’s too ... small? ... Heather?”

  Iglesias stood up from his crouch, able to hide once again behind Jean’s standing body. “I think it looks like it was made for you, señorita.”

  She flashed him her widest cheery-bimbo smile. “Thanks! Y’know, they will actually do that at the boutique where I got it, but I didn’t have time. I just grabbed one off the rack, y’know, the first one I saw in my size.”

  “Did they have a size Crazy?” said Jean. “Because that would be your size.”

  She stuck out her tongue at him.

  “Do not listen to this thug, señorita. It is lovely. You are lovely.” Iglesias had been holding his pistol behind his right leg while the girl came aboard. He deftly passed the gun, behind his back, to his left hand and extended his right in introduction. “My name is Iturralde Iglesias, but my friends call me ‘Churro.’”

  “Oh, because you’re sweet like churros, I bet! I love churros. I’m Heather. Pleased to meet you.” She shook the hand of the man who planned to murder her within hours.

  As he released Heather’s hand, Iglesias calmly lifted his left hand into view and pointed his pistol at Jean, who was obviously the more dangerous of the two hostages. “Now that we are all such good friends, let us adjourn to the cabin below, where we will be less ... visible. Señorita Heather will go first, and I will follow her – with my gun – so that Señor Scooby Dooby will not make any poor decisions behind me.”

  Heather began moving across the cockpit toward the cabin, all the while saying over her shoulder, “Churro, you have a gun? Dooby, why does Churro have a gun? What did you do? Whatever you did to make Churro angry, apologize! Apologize right now!”

  Then she descended the three steps into the cabin and disappeared within.

  With a look at Duby, and his pistol pointed at Heather, Iglesias descended into the cabin.

  Duby moved carefully toward the cabin hatch. He stole a quick look toward the restaurant rooftop, where he thought he saw a glint of sunlight reflect off a lens – as if someone up there was watching through a camera or binoculars. He didn’t automatically think of someone having a sniper scope trained on his boat; that was something the old Dubreau would have thought. Duby hunched over, squeezed his bulk through the narrow hatch, and stepped down into the cabin.

  The curtains were drawn across the windows that lined the outer bulkheads just below overhead level. Even the best binoculars would not be able to see them here. Duby didn’t think of directional microphones or infrared cameras; that was something the old Dubreau would have thought.

  Frank Stone and the lieutenant on the rooftop had thought of them, however, and, as a result, were keeping as close a watch on the boat’s passengers as they had when all three had stood in the open cockpit. Stone, who was familiar with the interior of Duby’s boat, could tell that Iglesias had taken a seat on the port side sofa and had placed Heather and Scooby Dooby on opposite seats in the starboard side dining banquette. The galley lay between their sitting area and the hatchway to the aft cockpit. Another hatchway led forward to the head (or toilet) and the sleeping cabin.

  Stone mentally congratulated Iglesias on the strategy of his seating arrangement. Iglesias, on the sofa, had freedom of movement and a clear line of sight from the aft cockpit to the forward cabin. His two hostages, pinned in their dining booth with the table between them, would need valuable seconds to squirm their way out of their seats, if they wanted to take any action against their captor. Any SWAT officers trying to enter through the cockpit hatch or the forward cabin’s ceiling hatch would have to enter one at a time, right into Iglesias’ bullets. With the galley and the forward cabin between himself and the entry hatches, Iglesias had assured himself an extra moment of warning, should anyone from outside attempt to reach him.

  By this time, the lieutenant had two Zodiacs, with powerful motors, manned with four men each and waiting at the pier to rush across the yacht basin and board the Doo Bee 2. On the roof, snipers and spotters watched their infrared images of the three silhouettes inside the boat’s cabin. Stone and the lieutenant stood near the sound techs and listened to the sounds they were picking up from their directional mic.

  “I want to get out of here yesterday! What else do you have to do to get this barge moving?”

  “I need to study the charts—”

  “You can do that after we’re out on the open water. Surely, you know how to maneuver out of this small harbor. You live here. What else?”

  “We need to pull over to the end of the main pier to fill the fuel tanks.”

  “Forget it. It’s a sailing boat. We will sail. Any fuel you have in the tanks now will have to be enough.”

  “But, monsieur, if we have to dock in Havana’s crowded harbor—”

  “No te preocupes, Señor Scooby Dooby, I have a feeling the Cuban authorities will intercept us before we reach the harbor. They will welcome me aboard their craft, and you ... you will have no further worries.”

  “Because we will be dead,” Duby concluded.

  “Okay, but I’m sorry, I really have to pee,” chirped Heather. “Can I use your bathroom, Scooby Dooby?”

  “It is ... in there,” Duby said, sounding stunned. The gunman sitting not three feet away had just casually promised to murder them, and Heather was as cheerful as a clown with balloons.

  Iglesias must have been bemused as well, for he did nothing to stop Heather from leaving her seat and entering the forward hatchway.

  She paused just the other side of the opening and, cocking her hip, winked – good grief, she actually winked – at their captor. “No peeking, Churro,” she teased, and she closed the hatch.

  Iglesias leaned back on the sofa and looked a question at Duby. Duby smiled and shrugged as if to respond, “What can I say? She’s like that sometimes.”

  On the rooftop, the lieutenant stepped away from the sound tech and over to the infrared spotter. “What’s happening?”

  “The woman’s gone into the forward cabin, sir, but she didn’t go into the head. She seems to be searching the cabin.”

  The lieutenant turned to Frank Stone. “Any idea what she could be looking for?”

  Stone shrugged. “My guess would be anything that could be used as a weapon.”

  “She found something!” the spotter reported.

  All three men bent over the laptop computer screen and watched the infrared video feed. The woman pulled a box out of a stowage compartment behind the starboard bunk. She opened the box, and it was clear even on the fuzzy video that she pulled out a pistol. Then she turned the box upside down and shook it over the bunk, but nothing fell out of it. She fussed with the gun for a few seconds, then threw it down on the bunk.

  “No ammo,” said Stone. So, the good news was that Duby had kept the pistol Stone had given him on his 31st birthday. The bad news was that the gun would be no help in saving the lives of Duby and his lady doctor.

  “What’s she doing?” the lieutenant whispered, as if helping the woman remain unnoticed.

  “Looks like she’s gonna climb out the forward hatch, sir, if she can reach it.”

  “Good girl, Doctor,” murmured Stone. “Get out, and get off that boat.”

  “She’s out!” cried the spotter.

  “Jump off, jump off!” Stone said, clenching his fists and jerking them forward as if he would push her off the sailboa
t. “Jump off!”

  But, Heather didn’t jump off the boat. The SWAT team watched the wet-tee-shirted red bikini cross the length of the boat, as Heather tiptoed across the cabin roof to the cockpit and opened one of the cockpit bench compartments.

  “Now what?” Stone said between gritted teeth. “Just get off the boat already!”

  Heather didn’t find what she wanted in the first compartment, so she closed it softly and opened a second. She found what she sought, grabbed it, and disappeared over the aft cockpit gunwale to crouch low on the teak dive platform.

  At almost that very instant, Iglesias growled, “She is gone too long.” Keeping his gun pointing in Duby’s direction, Iglesias opened the forward cabin hatch and stuck his head inside. Immediately, he saw the gun on the bunk, the disturbed cushions where Heather had stood to reach the overhead, and the open overhead hatch.

  Iglesias heard nothing, but he pulled his head back into the sitting area just in time to see Duby’s feet leaving the three-step ladder into the cockpit.

  When Iglesias bolted up the ladder and through the hatch, pistol foremost, Duby was about to dive from the port side cockpit bench into the water below.

  “Stop!” Iglesias shouted and fired the gun.

  “Go! Go! Go!” yelled the lieutenant on the rooftop.

  At the marina pier, two engines roared like jet planes, and two Zodiacs skimmed the water, racing toward the Do Bee 2.

  Duby froze, expecting a bullet’s impact, but the shot went wide of its mark as the gun fell from Iglesias’ right hand — which was pinned to the bulkhead by a bolt from a spear gun. Iglesias screamed in pain and shock, struggled to pull his hand loose from the three-foot-long spear, then screamed again when he only made his pain worse.

  Duby turned to see Iglesias nailed to the wall, screaming and bleeding, and Mitchell Oberon, in an incongruous tiny red bikini and wet tee shirt, kneeling on the dive platform with an empty spear gun braced upon the aft cockpit gunwale. He scooped up Iglesias’ fallen gun, tossed it overboard, and rushed to Mitchell’s side, lifting her off her knees with one hand while relieving her of her weapon with the other.