Duby's Doctor (14 page)

“You’ve got the card,” Trish said. “Who sent
it?”

Carinne still held the advertisement in her
hand. “I, uh, I d-don’t know...”

Snake-quick, Rico crossed the room and
snatched the paper away. He looked at the anonymous flyer, at the
painting of Carinne and her rabbits, and at Carinne’s stricken
face. He grabbed the painting from Trish and left the room.

Only minutes later, the painting was propped
up in one of the luxuriously upholstered chairs in Kyle Averell’s
office. Rico and the newest henchman stood back as Averell paced
the room, carrying in his hand the Coconut Grove Arts Festival
advertisement.

“If it was just her face, I could
understand,” Averell muttered. “She’s been around, been
photographed to high heaven – despite my efforts at protecting
her.” He threw a censuring dark look at the bodyguards.

The two men had the good sense to look at
their shoes and act chastened.

“Anybody could paint her face,” Averell
continued, “but nobody, nobody knows about those filthy, idiotic
rabbits.”

He stepped close to the two men and shook the
advertisement in their faces with his closed fist. “This man has
been in my house! In my house, do you understand? I can’t have a
security breach like this with the Mirador deal pending and the
wedding less than ten days away!”

He punched Rico in the chest with the fist
holding the paper. Rico reflexively caught the page when Averell
turned it loose.

“Find. Him,” Averell growled into the
bodyguard’s expressionless face.

On the last day before the festival,
magnificent clear blue skies, salty sea breezes, and swaying palm
trees adorned Peacock Park. Dozens of colorful tent-like exhibition
booths, filled with art of every kind, lined the streets of Coconut
Grove, from which all vehicular traffic had been blocked for
Festival weekend.

With only hours before the gates would open
to admit the public, Hector, Mitchell, Jean, and Dan Kavanaugh
labored at putting up the last pieces of the wood-frame booth where
Jean’s paintings would hang. They had settled on a hybrid design,
using ideas from both Hector and Jean, and then Dan Kavanaugh had
tweaked the final construction into a more-than-satisfactory
structure. It would not withstand a hurricane, but it should
survive three days of crowds and afternoon thunderstorms. Mitchell
had demanded that canvas side-curtains be attached, to protect the
interior in case of blowing rain.

Amid the noise of hammers and flapping tent
canvas, and ignoring the excited chattering of artists arranging
their wares, two large, unfriendly men wound their way up and down
the rows of booths. Rico and his partner had no interest in any
arts except martial ones. They sought a single thing: any clue that
an artist had knowledge of Carinne Averell.

Fate was kind for a moment, because just as
the two minions stopped in front of Jean’s booth, Jean passed
between the men and the booth with a four- by eight-foot sheet of
plywood shielding his face and his paintings from their view. By
the time Jean had shifted the plywood into place, making himself
and the paintings visible again, the impatient searchers had moved
on down the street toward other booths.

Jean and Mitchell did not even know that Fate
had granted them a precious – and all too brief – reprieve. It was
not a full pardon; it was only a temporary stay of execution. The
two bodyguards had killed before; one of them had even “killed”
Yves Dubreau. They would carry out their master’s instructions
without qualm. They would not stop until they had murdered once (or
twice) more.

The same magnificent azure sky hung above the
Averell estate that day. No colorful, Bohemian canopies dotted the
wide lawns, however. Instead, a crew of workers were erecting a
silken white canopy large enough to shelter several rows of folding
chairs, a floral arbor, and a long, narrow white carpet.

The usual sentinel stood watch in the tower.
Lazaro and the usual attack dog patrolled the grounds.

Kyle Averell was planning a wedding.

At mid-day, Mitchell and Jean returned to her
apartment to have lunch and rehydrate themselves after a morning
out in the broiling sun. Mitchell detoured on her way from the
kitchen to the dining table, to answer a knock at the door. She
frowned when she discovered Frank Stone slouched on her
threshold.

“What do you want?” she said flatly.

“It’s time you knew some things,” he mumbled,
as if he were reluctant to share information even now, after making
the trip to her door. “I have some surveillance photos to show you
– both of you.”

He waited. She glared at him, but he remained
calm and determined. Finally, she stepped aside and he lumbered
inside.

Jean was having a cheese sandwich at the
dining table, across from Mitchell’s half-finished lunch. Mitchell
set down the fresh glass of iced tea she had been bringing from the
kitchen for Jean. She sat down and gestured for Stone to take the
chair opposite her, on Jean’s right. She did not offer him food or
drink.

Etiquette demanded an introduction, since
Mitchell did not think Jean had any conscious memory of his former
superior officer. “Jean, this is Mister Stone. Mister Stone, I
believe you know Jean.”

Jean swallowed a mouthful of sandwich.
“Hello,” he said to Stone. Then he smiled at Mitchell. “See, I
didn’t talk with my mouth full.”

“Very good,” she said, unable to resist
returning his smile, if only briefly.

“It’s a rule,” he said to Stone.

“It’s a good one,” Stone agreed, nodding. He
reached inside his jacket and drew out an envelope.

Mitchell explained to Jean, “Mister Stone is
a sort of policeman. He says we need to look at some pictures he
brought.”

“Okay,” said Jean, and took another bite of
his sandwich.

Stone emptied the envelope and spread across
the tabletop numerous surveillance photos of Kyle Averell, of
Iglesias with a regal-looking man, of Rico and Lazaro and the boys,
and of the Averell fortress masquerading as a home.

Stone tapped one picture. “This is Kyle
Averell,” he said. He watched Jean’s face, but no recognition
entered those features. Jean chewed placidly as a cow, waiting for
the rest of the story.

“He is a very bad man. He has become very
rich by selling guns and bombs and rockets, even tanks and
airplanes, to other bad men. Have you ever seen him?” Stone looked
to Jean for an answer. Jean chewed and shook his head.

Stone shoved the pictures of Averell’s
security team, including Rico, toward Jean’s plate. “These men work
for Averell. Do you know any of them?”

Again, Jean shook his head.

Mitchell interjected sharply, “If you know
who he is and what he’s doing, why don’t you just arrest him?”

“He has been arrested many times,” Stone
answered. “And, with his money and his connections, he has been
released, dismissed, acquitted, almost canonized by the people in
authority. I can only guess at their reasons. I have my suspicions,
but that’s not enough to arrest the people at the top of the
political and industrial food chain.”

“That’s too bad, but
c’est la vie
,”
she said. “What does this have to with J—with us?”

Jean winked at her. “Good French.”

She nodded her thanks for the compliment.

“Not
c’est la vie
, Doctor; it’s
c’est la guerre
. This man sells death, and he sells a lot
of it.”

“Everyone speaks French today,” said Jean
around a mouthful of cheese sandwich.

“Why are you here, in my house, at my table,
Mister Stone?” Mitchell demanded.

Stone looked at Jean. “I’m here because
you’re connected to Averell.”

“How?” said Jean, looking from Mitchell to
Stone and back again.

“Kyle Averell has a daughter. She is going to
be married soon,” he pointed to the photo of Iglesias and another
man. “This man’s name is Iglesias. He is the number two to this
man, who likes to be called His Excellency. He is the
self-appointed president of a small country called Mirador, near
Venezuela.

“Averell is using the bridegroom’s diplomatic
immunity to ship weapons disguised as ‘wedding presents’ and
‘personal baggage’ to His Excellency’s leftist love nest in
Mirador. It’s the biggest deal Averell has ever made. He’s even
using his own daughter to sweeten the deal.”

Mitchell’s brow furrowed. “How? How is he
‘using’ his daughter?”

“Miss Averell will be marrying His Excellency
not ten miles from where we sit, in just a few days,” Stone said.
“His Excellency’s obsession with virgins is well known. It’s a
tribute to Averell’s skill as a negotiator that His Excellency will
actually enter into marriage this time. Although, the divorce laws
in Mirador are literally made to order for situations like this.
Miss Averell may not stay married long after he gets her back to
the presidential palace.”

Mitchell shook her head. “Surely, no one can
force this woman to marry a criminal if she doesn’t want to. And,
you still haven’t explained how Jean is connected to these awful
people.”

Stone reached into his inner jacket pocket
and produced a photo that had not been in the envelope with the
others. He laid on the table a picture of Averell’s entourage,
including Yves Dubreau, standing very close to Averell, with all
the appearance of a trusted companion and able servant.

Jean was shocked. He dropped the last bit of
his sandwich onto his plate and stared at the picture. “I was one
of them?” he said. “I was one of these bad men?”

“Apparently, you weren’t quite bad enough,”
said Stone. “They tried to kill you. They think they
succeeded.”

“What! Why?” Jean cried.

Mitchell reached across the table and picked
up the entourage photo. She studied it closely. In the middle of
the pictured group was a young woman. A face Mitchell
recognized.

“I don’t know why, exactly,” Stone was
saying. “You were very deep in the organization, close to Averell
himself, in good favor it seemed. But, you must’ve made a
mistake.”

“You know he did,” Mitchell said. With a
heavy heart, she pocketed the photo and stood up. “He made a big
mistake. Come with me.”

Stone and Jean rose from their chairs and
followed her down the hall to Jean’s studio-bedroom. They stood in
the center of the room, and Mitchell gestured in a circle at all
the portraits of Carinne Averell lining the walls of the room.

“He made the worst possible mistake,”
Mitchell murmured. “He fell in love.” She took the photograph out
of her pocket and gave it to Jean. While Jean gaped at the young
woman in the photo, Mitchell fled the room.

Carinne climbed out of the pool, without
knowing that an artist called Jean Deaux had once painted a water
nymph rising out of a fairyland lagoon. A nymph with Carinne’s
face.

Trish brought Carinne a robe, not because it
was chilly – this was South Florida after all – but to allow her
some respite from the relentless eyes of Rico, standing guard, and
Lazaro, patrolling nearby with his dog.

Trish and Carinne left the pool and walked
together to the house. On the way, they were aware of a phalanx of
bodyguards and sentries, a second dog team patrolling the lawns, a
second sentry watching from the tower, and Rico trailing them like
a barracuda.

When they reached the house, a black-suited
henchman opened a door for them, and they entered. The heavy door
slammed shut behind them like a prison gate.

Neither Jean nor Mitchell wanted to finish
lunch. Stone and Jean sat at the dining table while Mitchell took
the dirty dishes to the kitchen. When she returned to the table and
took her seat on Jean’s left, she looked directly across at Stone.
Jean was staring at the photograph of Carinne in the palm of his
hand.

He looked up at Stone. “She is real. I didn’t
just dream her.”

“Yes. She is real. And, I’m trying to help
her.”

Jean pointed to Kyle Averell in the entourage
photo. “She is in danger from this man?”

Mitchell spoke fiercely at Stone. “Oh-h-h-h,
no. Don’t even start. I don’t know what you’re trying to do here,
but I know it’s a con, and it won’t work. We – well, I – I wasn’t
born yesterday, y’know!”

Jean turned an earnest face toward Mitchell,
who tried not to look at him. “We have to help her,” he said.

Mitchell faced him. “Have you been sniffing
the turpentine? Listen, Tom Terrific, this isn’t Saturday morning
cartoons! We are not going to disappear in a cloud of purple smoke
and become super crime fighters!”

“I didn’t come here to talk you into going
after Averell,” Stone interjected.

“Pick up your feet,” said Mitchell, rolling
her eyes. “Here it comes.”

“I came to tell you that Averell’s people
will probably come after you. In fact, I sort of sent them an
invitation.”

“I knew it,” Mitchell moaned.

“I’ll be ready,” said Jean.

“Are you nuts?” shouted Mitchell.

Jean ignored her and focused on Stone.

From within his coat, Stone produced a
handgun and pushed it across the table to Jean. Jean unloaded and
dismantled it in seconds, almost without looking at it.

“Mitchell will be ready, too,” said Jean.

A squeak of indignation burst from Mitchell’s
throat. “Oh, no, she won’t. Call Hector. No, call Kavanaugh. That’s
it. Ring up old kid-clobbering Kavanaugh. This ought to be right up
his— Where did you learn to do that!” She had suddenly realized how
thoroughly and quickly he had dissected the handgun.

Jean didn’t answer her. He probably didn’t
remember learning how to do it. But his hands remembered the
motions. Athletes call it muscle memory, and it comes from
countless hours of diligent practice.