Duby's Doctor (16 page)

He reached overhead and grasped a rope end.
He gave it a tug. Immediately, a canvas wall rolled smoothly down
from the eaves of the tent to form a protective curtain running
from ceiling to floor. The curtain turned the trellised three-sided
open-frame booth into a closed four-sided canvas cube.

Outside, Rico and three henchmen approached
along the row of booths and paused on the street in front of Jean’s
canvas-enclosed box. With gestures, Rico directed two of the men to
hiding places nearby, then he walked away with the remaining
man.

Jean and Mitchell furled the canvas panels of
their booth up again until all four sides were once more open to
the elements. They stood beneath the "Girl With Roses" painting of
Carinne, the portrait that now displayed Jean’s Best New Artist
blue ribbon. Their eyes swept slowly over the three walls of the
booth that were made of white wooden grids, on which Jean’s
paintings, of many shapes and sizes, were hung.

Beneath the long rectangular tables that
lined the three walls, other artwork lay in large, plastic, lidded
bins. Every piece sold and removed from the grid-walls would be
replaced with new art within minutes.

“Well, then, I guess we’re ready,” Mitchell
said, after a long exhale. “When do they open the gates?”

“In ten minutes.” Jean drawled.

She jumped as if stung. “Geez! I’m not ready
for this!” She began wringing her hands and re-inspecting every
inch of the booth’s interior.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” Jean said,
and he jogged off toward the nearest concession stand.

Reflexively, Mitchell murmured, “Don’t run on
the concrete.”

In another sector of the Festival grounds,
Trish and Carinne strolled past a different row of booths.

“It makes such a difference getting in just
five minutes ahead of the herd,” Trish enthused. “I mean you can
actually see things. There’s not a wall of people between you and
the displays. Your dad thinks of everything. Who says money can’t
buy happiness?”

Carinne nodded her agreement, smiling. She
spread her arms wide and turned her body in a circle, tilting her
head back, with her face to the sun and the breeze. She took a deep
breath in and then out. “You can actually breathe!” she
crooned.

A delicious scent lured Carinne’s nose in a
new direction. “Oh, smell the chorizos cooking!” she cried. “Let’s
eat!”

“We just had breakfast,” Trish protested.

“I don’t care. I’m going to eat everything I
want today. I’m going to be so fat they’ll never cram me into that
wedding dress. Want something?”

Trish laughed. “No, please!” she said. “You
go ahead. I’ll be right over...” she scanned the horizon to find a
booth of interest “...there!” She pointed to a booth in the
distance.

“I’ll be right back,” Carinne promised and
began walking toward the source of the food aromas.

Trish sauntered toward the booth that had
caught her eye from a distance. Jean’s booth.

Mitchell was alone inside the booth, dusting
paintings nervously with her handkerchief, when Trish stopped and
stared at the big painting of the "Girl With Roses." There was no
mistaking the girl’s identity. Trish had been talking with her only
seconds before.

“Grandma! What big
cojones
you
have!” Trish announced.

Startled, Mitchell swung to face her. “Ah!
H-hello! May we – I mean, I – may I h-help you w-with
something?”

Trish gestured to the painting that would
soon spell an artist’s doom. “Well, there she is! Big as life.
Bigger maybe. Wearing just a smile and a big blue ribbon. You must
be very proud.”

Mitchell, like a doting mother, missing the
sarcasm in Trish’s voice, said, “Oh, yes. Very.”

Trish leaned into the booth and spoke in an
exaggerated stage whisper. “Aren’t you the least little bit
worried? I mean, putting her right out here in front of God and
everybody?”

Still thinking about the possibility of rain,
Mitchell looked at the sky before she said, “Well, I was, but ... I
think we’re ready.”

Trish stepped back from the booth, gave
Mitchell a smile, and craned her neck to search for something or
someone down the street. Festival crowds were beginning to fill the
pavement between the rows of booths. Trish had to stand on tiptoe
and jockey for position in the throng until she spotted someone in
the distance. She motioned for them to come her way, then she moved
to meet them.

Carinne had stopped at a food truck with
windows on opposite sides, luring customers with its vapors of
spicy Caribbean cooking. She approached one side of the truck just
as Jean, on the opposite side of the truck, turned to leave with
two iced soft drinks in his hands.

Mitchell was fussing with the cash box key,
practicing for her first sale, when Trish re-entered the booth.
This time, Rico entered with her. He frowned at the "Girl With
Roses." He motioned Trish to get out of the booth.

“May I help you?” Mitchell asked,
straightening up and pocketing the key.

Rico’s eyes darted around the canopy, found
what he sought, and he reached up to pull a rope. The canvas walls
fell into place, closing Rico and Mitchell inside.

Rico advanced on Mitchell, producing a knife
as he prowled toward her.

Carinne munched her first bite of chorizo and
reached for the cup of iced soda perched on the food truck’s side
counter. “Do you have any straws?” she asked the attendant.

“Around the other side,” was the answer.

On the other side of the truck, Jean looked
down at his hands and realized he had forgotten straws. He turned
and retraced his steps to the food counter.

Rico and his prisoner exited from the rear of
the booth that was now essentially a closed tent. He held a knife
against Mitchell’s ribs, out of sight of all but the most
determined observer. He forced Mitchell to walk with him toward an
alley, in which the Averell limousine was parked.

Trish had run ahead while he was still inside
the tent with Mitchell. When Rico arrived at the limo, Trish and
two henchmen waited there, looking at him expectantly.

“Find her and clear out,” Rico growled. There
could be only one “her.” The henchmen knew they were to search the
Festival grounds for Carinne.

Thunder rumbled. Raindrops began spattering
around them, making metallic thunks on the top of the car. They
could hear the crowd shrieking, giggling, and shuffling toward
shelter from the deluge.

“Hurry!” Rico boomed. The henchmen set off at
a run in opposite directions, blending with the crowds. While
people sometimes passed the end of the alley, no one turned down it
or looked past their own umbrellas to see what went on there. No
one saw or heard Mitchell’s struggles as Trish and Rico shoved her
into the limo’s back seat.

Carinne came around the side of the food
truck and reached for the straw dispenser just as Jean ducked the
first few raindrops and reached for the same container. Carinne
didn’t look at him. “Oh, rats! I think we’re gonna get wet,” she
said.

Jean studied the lowering sky while grabbing
two straws. “You can come to my place,” he offered, gesturing in
the direction of his booth with an elbow.

Those words, spoken in his peculiarly French
accent, stunned Carinne. She recognized that voice. She dropped her
drink and turned toward him, staring.

Jean automatically stooped to retrieve the
lady’s drink. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to–”

Just then his eyes lifted to her face, and he
was paralyzed. He didn’t know her name, but no face was more
familiar to him than hers.

Rain pelted both of them while they stood as
if they were statues.

Carinne was the first to move. She put her
half-eaten chorizo on the truck’s side counter. Then she said, “I
think I’m going to throw up.”

Jean deposited his burden on the counter as
well. “Not here!” he urged. “I know a place. Come.”

He took her hand and, pulling her with him,
ran to the library building less than half a block away.

A crowd had gathered on the library’s covered
porch to wait out the rain. Jean and Carinne, dripping wet, dashed
up the steps, elbowed their way through the crowd, and entered the
library.

One of Rico’s henchmen stepped out of the
crowd and looked in the library windows to see where they had gone.
He palmed his cellphone and tapped out a number.

Inside the building, Jean dragged Carinne
behind him through the children’s book section to a tile corridor
with restrooms. Carinne pressed one hand across her mouth.

He pounded on the door marked “Women” and,
when no one answered, swept Carinne inside.

In the restroom, he pushed open a stall and
hauled Carinne through the open door. He pointed her toward the
toilet, just in time, and Carinne retched violently. Jean supported
her with an arm about her waist.

Finally, the retching ceased. Carinne coughed
and gasped for breath.

“Better?” Jean asked.

She nodded.

Jean guided her out of the stall and lifted
her off the floor, seating her on the vanity countertop. He pulled
paper towels from a dispenser, wet them at the sink, and gently
wiped her face.

After handing her a clean, wet towel to press
against her forehead, he stepped to the purified-water cooler and
brought back a paper cup of water. He gave her the cup, urged her
to drink, and stepped back to watch her.

“You are her,” he said. “You are....” Stone
had told him the name, but he couldn’t recall it now.

“Carinne! As if you didn’t know! When I heard
your voice, I thought it had to be you, but I couldn’t believe it,”
she said. “I hate you, Dubreau.”

“How can you hate me? You don’t even know me
yet. I’m a nice guy. Everybody says so. Please, don’t hate me.”

He leaned toward her, all innocence, seeking
to make his point by simply showing his sincerity.

She dropped her water cup and slapped him
with every ounce of her strength.

He drew back in shock. “Don’t hit! Didn’t
anybody ever tell you, don’t hit? It’s a very important rule.”

“Why did you leave me?” she shouted.

He looked confused. “Leave you?
Chéri,
I only just now met you.”

Wham! The bathroom door crashed open, and
Rico’s two henchmen stomped in.

Carinne screamed, “No!”

“Hello, Dubreau,” one man growled, making the
greeting sound very unpleasant indeed.

Jean placed himself between the men and
Carinne. He held his hands out toward them, palms facing them, and
tried to talk them out of the fight they seemed to want.

“
Monsieur
s, I am not the man you
think. I have only his body – and Mitchell’s knee – but I am called
Jean. Not Dubreau. Dubreau is dead.”

“You got that right,” said the first man, who
delivered a kick to Jean’s jaw that sent him reeling against the
far wall of the tiled room.

Carinne screamed and jumped down from the
countertop, headed for Jean’s crumpled form on the floor.

The second man stopped her with a bruising
grip on her arm and dragged her from the room while she wept
hysterically.

When they were gone, the first man moved
toward Jean to finish him off.

Jean shook the cobwebs from his brain as he
became aware of the man advancing on him. He could hear Carinne’s
voice shouting, receding into the distance, “Duby! No! Duby!”

He came up from the floor like a steamroller,
flattening Rico’s henchman.

On the library porch, the stunned crowd
parted as Rico’s man dragged the hysterical Carinne out of the
library and down the steps into the driving rain. They reached the
curb just as Averell’s limo pulled up, with Trish at the wheel.
Rico shoved open the limo’s rear door and yanked Carinne,
waterlogged and sobbing, into the back seat. He tossed her
literally on top of Mitchell, who seemed only semi-conscious.

Jean emerged from the library and pushed his
way through the gawking crowd. “Carinne!” he shouted.

Rico pulled a pistol and fired a shot.

Jean spun and fell.

The crowed panicked, running, shrieking, and
falling in all directions, taking cover.

Rico’s second henchman jumped into the front
passenger seat, and the limo took off. The first henchman, still
flat on the ladies’ room floor, apparently was on his own now.

Jean rolled in a puddle of rainwater and his
own blood. He pushed himself to his feet and pressed one hand to a
bleeding shoulder wound. Then he got his bearings and ran in
pursuit of the limousine.

At the wheel of Averell’s limousine, Trish
glanced in the rearview mirror at Rico, Mitchell, and Carinne – who
was dripping rainwater from every hair and pore. Carinne was
wild-eyed and trembling. Rico gripped his pistol in one hand and
the arm of a groggy Mitchell in the other.

“She don’t look so good,” Trish said, just
before Carinne leaned forward and retched all over Rico and the
upholstery.

Rico shoved the girl away from him, snarling
and wiping at his soiled clothes. Mitchell fought her way out of a
stupor and leaned to try and help Carinne.

Rico glanced out the rear window and shouted,
“Step on it! He’s coming!”

“Who’s coming?” Trish called back.

Mitchell looked behind them. “Johnny! Stop!”
she shouted, as if he could hear.

“It’s Dubreau!” Carinne sobbed.

“The
dead
guy?” Trish cried.

Rico roared, “Shut up and drive!”

The main street of Coconut Grove is closed to
automobiles during the Arts Festival, and crowds pack the pavement
from curb to curb for more than a mile. The limousine was not
supposed to be on the street, and its progress was reduced to a
crawl by the artists, booths, customers, bicyclists, in-line
skaters, skateboarders, and even dogs that thronged the festival
grounds.