Duby's Doctor (13 page)

“Couldn’t have put it better, myself,” came a
voice from the doorway. The captain of Stone’s team, a man slightly
older than Stone, but much better groomed, stepped up behind
Agee.

“Well,” said Agee, sidestepping toward the
exit, “I gotta get back to work. Mornin’, Captain. See ya,
Stoney.”

“Yeah,” said Stone.

The captain leaned across the desk to see
what appeared on Stone’s computer display. Then he pressed a key on
Stone’s keyboard, and the screen went blank.

“We can’t win ‘em all. You hear me?” The
captain was leaning just as Agee had done, but this was not
friendly in the least. “But we can win some. I will not waste my
precious resources on the ones I can’t win. That’s it, Stone. No
more men, no more money for your vendetta against Kyle
Averell.”

“What if I could get a man inside?” Stone
asked.

“What if I could juggle chainsaws?”

“But, what if I
could
get a man
inside?”

The captain shook his head emphatically. “No
way, no how, no time,” he said. “You put a man in there, sooner or
later he’s a dead man. You don’t need that on your conscience, and
I don’t need that kind of publicity.”

The room fell silent. Stone looked down at
his desk. The captain stopped leaning across the desk and stood,
watching Stone.

“What do you hear from Quebec?” the captain
asked in a more cordial voice. “Good fishing up there this time of
year?”

Stone shrugged and gave a non-committal
gesture.

The captain nodded. “Well, as soon as Duby
gets back from vacation, why don’t you think about taking a few
days yourself, okay? Get your head together. Start fresh.”

Stone nodded. “I just might do that.”

The captain left him there, staring at the
blank computer screen.

Duby, of course, was not vacationing in
Canada. He was at that moment in the gymnasium of Averell’s estate,
sparring with a henchman trainee on the wrestling mat. Although
clearly holding back, Dubreau was mopping the floor with the
trainee.

Rico entered and watched the training session
with little interest. He positioned himself by a window and waited.
Soon, he observed the Averell limousine carry Carinne out the front
gate for at least four hours of shopping.

As soon as the limo was out of sight, Rico
approached Dubreau from behind and, out of nowhere, smashed a knee
to the kidney, that knocked Duby flat. The trainee backed off.
Dubreau hauled himself upright and faced Rico, ready for
anything.

Rico smiled. “Mister Averell wants to see
you.”

“As soon as I shower.”

“Now.”

Dubreau moved toward the door, Rico
following. Rico motioned to the trainee to come along. “You really
want to learn something?” Rico joked.

The three men exited the gym. Dubreau was
rubbing the small of his back with one hand, but he stood tall and
walked smoothly. He would not give Rico the satisfaction of seeing
Duby limp.

Rico saw the hand rubbing his victim’s back,
and his smile widened.

Kyle Averell was alone in his office when
they arrived. He reclined at his desk, feet up, and watched the
door like a cobra as Dubreau, Rico, and the trainee entered.

Averell motioned Rico and the trainee to one
side and gestured Dubreau to the center of the floor, facing the
desk.

“Let me be certain of something, Dubreau,”
said Averell mildly. “Your job is to drive my car and protect my
life and property, not to assault my guests, am I correct?”

Thus did Duby learn that Iglesias had at last
imparted to Averell the events of the previous night. The sphinx
showed no reaction.

“
Oui
,
monsieur
.” His voice was
pleasantly polite.

“Last night, you exceeded your authority and
shamed me in the eyes of
Señor
Iglesias. You understand
that, don’t you?” Averell also sounded polite. It made him seem
even more sinister.

“
Oui
,
monsieur
.”

“Fortunately, I was able to make amends. And,
because I know your intentions were good – and because I like you –
I had thought I might give you another chance.”

“
Merci,
monsieur
.”

“But, on second thought, I believe I was
wrong. Roll up that rug, please.”

“
Pardon
,
monsieur
?”

“You’re standing on my 300-year-old Oriental
rug. Roll it up, please.”

“
Oui
,
monsieur
.”

Dubreau edged some furniture off the rug and
began to roll it toward one side of the room. The trainee bent to
help, but Rico snatched him roughly back with a warning
gesture.

Averell reached into his desk drawer and
withdrew a pistol, which he placed on the desk before him.

Dubreau finished his task and stood again in
the center of the room. He must have known what was coming, but the
sphinx showed no anxiety or fear.

Kyle Averell’s voice was soft as a lullaby.
“Where did you take Carinne last night, Dubreau?”

“Many places,
monsieur
.” Still polite,
with not a quaver.

“In the middle of the night?”

“I took
mademoiselle
where she
wished to go,
monsieur
.”

Throughout their conversation Averell had
remained behind his desk. Now, he picked up the pistol and walked
slowly around the desk, toward Dubreau.

Dubreau stood unflinching.

Rico and the trainee watched with great
interest.

“Did you, in fact, take her to a bar?” came
Averell’s lullaby voice.

“
Non,
monsieur
.”

“Did you take her to a motel?”

“I would never do such a thing,
monsieur
.”

Averell moved close to Dubreau and circled
him, pistol pointed at the floor. Dubreau faced straight ahead,
unmoving.

“I have taken great care to ensure Carinne’s
chastity,” her father said. “I have vowed that she will be pure and
unsullied for her husband, not a slut like her mother. Did you take
advantage of my daughter, Dubreau?”

“
Non,
monsieur
.”

“But, you aided her in deceiving me, did you
not?”

Dubreau did not answer.

Averell circled, only a hand’s breadth from
Dubreau’s body. “I always took pride in your loyalty,” he said,
circling, like a shark. “I trusted you as much as I trusted Rico,
even though he had been with me much longer. How can I believe you
now? Why have you betrayed me in this way?”

“I only took pity on her,
monsieur
.”

Averell stopped circling at Dubreau’s left
shoulder. He pressed the pistol against Dubreau’s left leg.

Averell growled, “There is nothing pitiful
about my daughter, Dubreau. She is lovely and pure and, until now,
obedient. You have clearly shown yourself to be my enemy and hers.
Who are you working for?”

“For you,
monsieur
.”

The pistol blasted against Dubreau’s left
thigh, slashing through the muscle, ripping diagonally downward
through the knee joint, and tearing its way out through the calf
muscle.

Dubreau fell hard, an involuntary scream
searing his throat, and he rolled to one side, moaning, on the
floor.

Averell stepped closer and kicked him in the
ribs. “Who are you working for?”

Dubreau could only moan and roll, clutching
at his bleeding leg.

Averell kicked him in the back, in the
stomach, in the shattered leg.

Dubreau screamed again, no longer able to
think coherently enough to even try being stoic.

Rico and the trainee watched Averell walk
deliberately around Dubreau, who lay semi-conscious on the floor,
emitting low, ragged moans.

Averell bent over and slammed a merciless
blow to Dubreau’s head with the pistol. The moaning stopped.
Dubreau was a bloody heap on the floor.

Averell looked at his pistol, produced a
handkerchief from his pocket, and gently wiped off Dubreau’s blood
from the gleaming metal. “Rico,” he said calmly, “dump this trash
in the ocean – way out – and be sure it sinks.”

“Yes, sir,” Rico said, moving toward the body
on the floor.

Averell returned to his desk and put the
pistol in its drawer. He looked up at the silent – by now, well
educated – trainee. “You ready for his job?” Averell asked the
trainee, nodding at the bloody figure Rico was preparing to drag
away.

“Yes, sir!” the trainee cried with the
alacrity of a gung-ho Marine recruit.

“Good,” said Averell. “Get this floor
cleaned.”

Rico stepped into a closet and came out with
a box of large trash bags.

“And, get Rico some duct tape,” Averell told
the trainee.

The trainee left the room in search of duct
tape while Rico began tearing Duby’s bloody clothes off his body
and stuffing them into plastic bags.

Within an hour, Averell’s corporate
helicopter lifted off from the helipad behind his mansion. Inside
the craft, Rico kicked at Dubreau’s unconscious form until he
convinced himself that his former colleague was dead – or at least
close enough to death that he would not survive what happened
next.

When the pilot indicated that they were at
cruising altitude, miles from shore, above the Atlantic Ocean, Rico
pushed Dubreau’s naked body out of the aircraft.

A few days before Jean’s planned debut at the
Coconut Grove Arts Festival.

Jean and Hector crawled on all fours across a
four- by eight-foot sheet of newsprint paper on the floor of Jean’s
bedroom. They held pencils and markers in their hands or mouths,
sometimes wedged behind their ears, and they slid plastic rulers
and wooden yardsticks from place to place on the paper. Sometimes
they drew lines, sometimes they erased lines; often, they argued
over conflicting lines.

Hector continued a conversation they had
begun earlier. “Nah, man, I been to dozens of these things, I tell
ya. They look like this.” He drew a line.

Jean scribbled out Hector’s new line. “It
will take ten men a year to build a booth like that,” Jean said.
“We will have only one day to put it up and one to take it down –
if we get into the festival at all.”

Mitchell poked her head in at the door.
“We’re in!”

All three cheered and exchanged high
fives.

“And, that’s not all,” she said. “Based on
our photos, the judges think you stand a very good chance at the
Best New Artist ribbon!”

More cheering and hand-slapping ensued. Jean
and Hector exchanged a look and, of one mind, returned their
attention to the design of their booth.

“Wow, man,” Hector breathed. “The Coconut
Grove Arts Festival, man! This is a really big deal, dude.”

“Not if we don’t have a booth to hang the art
in,” said Jean.

“We will,” said Hector, working steadily. “We
will.”

Mitchell crossed the room and turned back the
covering sheet on an easel standing in one corner. Beneath the
cover was Jean’s painting entitled, “Girl with Roses.” The girl was
the same one Jean always painted, the girl he saw in dreams. In
this painting, the girl was clearly nude, but was modestly shielded
by a lush garden of roses.

Of the three persons in that room, all
working hard to show this painting and others to the public very
soon, not one of them knew who she was. Not one knew she was the
carefully guarded daughter of an extremely dangerous man. Not one
knew that people had been killed for much less than displaying
naked pictures of Carinne Averell.

While Mitchell admired the uncovered
painting, Hector looked up from his work and made a noise of
appreciation. “Okay, man,” he told Jean, “you can build the booth
the way you want. You can forget the five bucks you owe me. And
I’ll even pay for a veggie pan pizza special, if you’ll just tell
me one thing: Is she married?”

Naturally, none of them knew the answer.

Ironically, Carinne was trying on a wedding
gown at that very hour. The fitting must, of course, take place in
her suite at home, rather than in a public bridal salon.

The face in her mirror was not a blissful
fianceé’s face. The reflected girl merely endured, while
seamstresses fussed about, making alterations.

Trish sat close by, drinking champagne and
making encouraging, flattering comments.

Carinne stood as stiff and silent as the
mirror.

Rico’s hard black-clad physique barred the
door. At a knock, he opened the portal and accepted an elaborately
wrapped gift from someone outside. Closing the door, he delivered
the box to Carinne. “Just delivered,” he said unnecessarily.

Carinne was not interested in wedding
presents. She passed it off to Trish with a gesture, and Rico
backed off to resume his post at the door.

“Put it with the others,” Carinne said
numbly.

“Oh, how can you stand it?” Trish wheedled.
“Let’s open it. Here. Here’s the card.”

She handed the white envelope to Carinne and
began ripping off the wrappings.

Carinne opened the envelope without
enthusiasm. The seamstress pricked her with a pin, Carinne yipped
and dropped the card from the envelope onto the floor. It was not a
card, it was something colorful printed on a sheet of paper that
had been folded many times to fit into the little envelope. The
seamstress retrieved it, and Carinne unfolded the page: a flyer
advertising the Coconut Grove Arts Festival.

Meanwhile, Trish had uncovered the package
and was lifting the lid off a large box. “My stars and garters!”
she exclaimed. “Will you look at this!”

She held up a painting. It was Girl With
Rabbits, the one Stone had purchased from the Barnacle Gallery.

“It’s ... it’s me! H-how could—I never... Who
could have done this?” Carinne murmured, shocked. She only knew one
artist, and he had disappeared, and she certainly had never posed
like this. The girl in this painting, although cleverly covered by
bunnies and flowers, was clearly naked.