Duby's Doctor (19 page)

A gunshot split the air, and Kyle Averell
slumped forward onto his desk, a neat hole blossoming red in his
temple.

Rico wiped the pistol clean with his pocket
handkerchief. He pressed the pistol into Averell’s limp right hand
then looked to Carinne.

She was strangely, utterly composed.

The office door splintered with a crash and
banged open, gouging the wall with the strength of its swing.
Carinne and Rico startled and turned toward the sound. Frank Stone
stood in the doorway with a gun in his hand. Behind him, in the
corridor, Carinne could see two black-clad officers, one of whom
was lowering the battering ram they had used to smash through the
door.

“We heard a gunshot!” Stone said, quartering
the room with his eyes in search of the danger. He stilled when his
gaze reached the late Kyle Averell, head down on a desk blotter
that was soaking up a lot of blood.

Carinne began sobbing and sputtering. She
rose from her chair and ran toward Stone, who lowered his pistol
but did not put it away. He enfolded the weeping young woman with
his free hand and let her head rest on his chest.

“Uncle Francis,” Carinne wailed. “I’m so glad
you’re here. It’s a miracle. We haven’t even called 9-1-1 yet, and
here you are!”

“Yeah, well, we were sorta in the
neighborhood,” Frank murmured. “Guess this kinda messes up the
wedding, huh?”

Carinne sobbed harder and louder, soaking his
rumpled suit with her tears. He patted her back awkwardly.

When she had brought herself down to a
hiccoughing, sniffling stage, she managed to say, “Uncle Francis,
would you send all those wedding people away, please? Tell them
Daddy has committed suicide.” She backed off so she could look
Frank in the eye when she said, pointedly, “Just like my
mother.”

Frank’s eyes held hers for a long moment. He
noticed her tears had dried very quickly. He looked at the dead
body, at Rico, and again at Carinne. Frank Stone understood
completely.

“Just like your mother,” he agreed. “Well,
the media will like it, anyway. Where is Doctor Oberon?”

“She’s upstairs in my suite,” Carinne
answered pleasantly, even producing an appropriately subdued smile.
“We’ve had a lovely visit. Rico was just going up to ask her to
come down, weren’t you Rico?”

“Yes, Miss Averell,” Rico said with a slight
bow, and he sidled past Stone and between the assault officers to
complete the task.

Stone holstered his pistol and gestured for
the officers outside to come into the room. Then he tightened his
grip around Carinne’s shoulders and gently ushered her out to the
corridor.

Jean had not been idle since disposing of the
tower sentries. He did not remember the layout of the house from
his days as an employee there, but he had studied the drawings and
photographs Frank Stone had provided during the pre-mission
briefing. Entering from the tower stairs into the uppermost floor
of the mansion, he trod softly down lushly carpeted hallways,
peeking inside each doorway and trying every closed door.

Sometimes he would whisper,
“Michel?”
as he glanced into a room, but all the upper
rooms were empty. Any servants and houseguests must be already
outside at the wedding pavilion.

He finished the top floor and moved down to
the next, the floor where Carinne’s suite would be. He turned a
corner and spotted one of Averell’s bodyguards entering the
daughter’s door. It could only be a bodyguard. Neither the groom
nor the father of the bride had shoulders like those (he had seen
Stone’s photos of them), and no wedding guest would be wearing
athletic shoes with their tuxedo.

He stepped quickly toward the doorway and
flattened himself against the wall outside to listen. He closed his
eyes and sent up a silent prayer of thanks when he heard Mitchell
responding to something the bodyguard had said.

“But, Carinne told me to stay here. She was
very specific. I’m not supposed to go anywhere.”

“Well, the boss says different, ma’am. You
need to come with me. Now.”

Jean stepped into the room as the bodyguard
was holding Mitchell’s elbow tightly and forcing her toward the
door.
“Michel!”
he said.

Her head jerked in his direction at the same
time the bodyguard swung her in front him as a shield and clamped a
hand over her mouth.

“Duby,” the bodyguard growled, recognizing a
former colleague. “Heard you was back.”

“Mmm, yes and no,” Jean said.
“
Monsieur
, I mean you no harm. Only let the lady go, and we
will leave you in peace.”

“No, you won’t ‘leave in peace,’ Dube,” said
a deep voice from behind him. “You’re gonna leave here in pieces.”
A second bodyguard had emerged from within the suite of rooms, and
he launched himself at Jean almost before he finished speaking.

Jean spun to meet the attack from behind. At
the same time, Mitchell took a hearty bite of the hand across her
mouth.

“Johnny, run!” she screamed, and she threw
her weight backward against her captor’s chest, jabbing her elbow
into his diaphragm with all her might.

The man was not expecting such violent
resistance from the woman, and he staggered back, off balance, and
fell.

Jean ducked beneath his opponent’s bulk as
the man leapt at him, and when Jean came up like a geyser erupting,
he rammed his right forearm into the man’s Adam’s apple. The impact
reversed the foe’s forward motion, flipped him into the air and
landed him on his backside.

Jean stepped obliquely until he could see
both enemies, and Mitchell ran to shelter behind him. While the two
downed men rose and took menacing positions before him, Jean tugged
Frank Stone’s bent-sighted pistol from its holster at the small of
his back.

Mitchell expected him to point the gun at his
attackers, but instead he pressed it into her hands without looking
around at her. “Stone is somewhere downstairs,” he told her.
“Go.”

“No!” she protested.

“Michel!”
he roared. “Go now! Do not
stop for anyone! Go!”

She had never heard that voice of doom
before. She ran.

The two bodyguards smiled like hyenas closing
in on a juicy carcass. They began advancing, and Jean backed
himself, literally, into a corner so that they could not outflank
him.

“I don’t want to do this,” he told them. They
were too obtuse to recognize the threat.

“Course ya don’t,” one gloated. “I wouldn’t
want to be pulverized by me either, if I was you.”

The second man guffawed in agreement, but his
laugh was cut short by the heel of Jean’s left foot plowing through
his trachea. The man collapsed to the ground, gasping for air that
could not reach his lungs. Before he had even reached the floor,
Jean had forgotten him and concentrated on his partner.

Jean missed a block, and the attacker landed
a blow to Jean’s temple, narrowly missing his eye. The man followed
up with a second blow from the opposite direction, but Jean did not
make the same mistake twice. Jean’s left forearm swept the incoming
blow aside and he followed up with a crotch-busting kick that
nearly drove Jean’s right instep from the junction of his foe’s
legs all the way up to his belt buckle.

Jean’s left leg supported his entire body
weight as he spun out of the kick, completing a full circle, then
pushing off the floor to bring a fist down with all possible
leverage onto the nape of his opponent, who was bent double. The
impact sent the foe to his hands and knees, but he didn’t fall
helpless to the floor. Instead, he pulled together enough
determination and energy to get his feet under him and jump toward
Jean’s gut like a huge toad.

Jean suddenly felt extreme dislike for toads
and, using the big
bufo
’s forward momentum, Jean stepped
into the arcing leap, grabbed the toad’s armpits, and deftly
directed him out through the nearest window. Too bad, the window
was closed at the time. And, it was two stories above the ground.
Jean didn’t even look outside; he simply headed for the door,
limping only a little.

Mitchell had been almost at the bottom of the
stairs when a loud bang sounded from behind one of the closed doors
on the ground floor. She practically fell down the last few steps
in her hurry to find a hiding place. She crouched between an ornate
hallway credenza and a six-foot vase overflowing with wedding
flowers.

Frank Stone and two black-uniformed officers
dashed past her and broke down a door. Frank rushed inside the room
with his weapon drawn and two officers armed and ready to back him
up. Only moments passed before Rico came out of that room, squeezed
his way between the police officers, and bounded up the stairs.

Mitchell stayed hidden. She wasn’t sure her
Jello legs would support her if she tried to stand up at that
moment. She waited several seconds, drawing her courage about her
like a cloak, then she followed Rico upstairs, toward Carinne’s
suite.

Jean was about to exit Carinne’s suite of
rooms when Rico stepped into the doorway. Rico’s face lit up.
“Dubreau,” he said. “I hoped you would come.”

Rico quickly scanned the room, noting the
broken window, the insensate body on the floor, and the absence of
one female physician. “So, you have rescued the damsel already,” he
said with a congratulatory smile. “Well, that’s very good for her,
because you will not be rescuing anyone ever again when I’m
finished with you.”

“Doctor Oberon is freed, and Agent Stone is
downstairs to protect Miss Averell,” Jean pointed out calmly.
“There is no need for more violence. It is over. You should just
go, before the police arrest you and your boss.”

“Zere iss no nidd for morr violens,” Rico
mocked Jean’s accent. “You bet your sweet paintbrush there’s a
need, Dubykins. We connected twice before: once you made me look
like a jackass, and once I made you look like a corpse. So, I
figure it’s time to break the tie.”

With that, Rico sidestepped into the room,
forcing Jean to sidestep also, to face his enemy. For a moment,
they circled like wolves, in their martial arts poses, seeking the
opening to attack. Jean led with his right; Rico led with his left,
arm outstretched and slowly circling ‘round and ‘round and ‘round
in front of Jean’s face. Jean knew enough to ignore the mesmerizing
hand movements, however. He watched Rico’s calculating eyes.

“I never thought I’d face you like this
again,” Rico commented.

Jean said nothing.

Rico tried a right foot sweep toward Jean’s
left knee, having spotted Jean’s slight limp.

Jean spun in a full circle counterclockwise,
his right leg swinging to block Rico’s kick and force the man off
balance. Both men quickly regained their footing and again circled,
seeking an opening.

Again, Rico’s left hand formed slow circles
around Jean’s face, and Jean ignored it, as they stalked one
another.

“Y’know, I really thought you were dead when
I tossed you out of that chopper,” Rico said.

Jean paid no attention to the voice, only to
the sinister eyes.

Suddenly, Rico spun left, aiming a powerful
roundhouse kick at Duby’s left temple.

Duby’s left arm blocked the kick, jarring the
wounded shoulder, and he continued his body’s momentum, putting all
his weight behind a roundhouse kick that planted his right foot
deep and hard into Rico’s left armpit.

Shaken, both men backed off, feet at right
angles, weight on the balls of their feet, shrugging off the pain
from their first blows. Gradually, they began closing on each other
again, circling.

“You’ll be dead for sure this time. I
guarantee it,” Rico said.

Jean saw the man’s right shoulder drop,
telegraphing the uppercut. With blurring speed Jean blocked Rico’s
attack with a crushing right punch to Rico’s elbow, then Jean
reversed direction to slam a backhand
hanma
fist into
Rico’s right eye. It didn’t quite take Rico’s head off – Jean,
after all, was out of practice – but Rico’s brow split like a ripe
melon, and a torrent of blood coated his eye and half his face.

“First blood to you,” Rico acknowledged.
“Lucky.” Then his left jab knocked Jean’s leading fist to the side,
clearing a path for Rico’s right cross into Jean’s left eye.

Jean bobbed, avoiding the brunt of the blow,
but Rico’s fist opened a cut at the hairline over Jean’s eye. Both
men’s faces were half-painted red now, and both men’s vision
half-impaired.

Jean drove his right knee toward Rico’s
Adam’s apple.

Rico spun 90 degrees clockwise, his left arm
deflecting most of the incoming knee’s force, so that his Adam’s
apple was bruised instead of smashed.

Jean stepped forward on his right foot and
jammed his left knee into Rico’s diaphragm. Rico’s lungs emptied in
a whoosh.

Breathless and seeing stars, Rico
nevertheless managed to bash Jean’s left knee between two massive
fists, crushing the knee from both sides, then lifting Jean’s thigh
upward to flip him over backward. It almost worked.

Jean inhaled involuntarily when his bad knee
was pounded, then he used his backward momentum to roll quickly 360
degrees and pop back onto his feet, with his right leg supporting
his weight.

Rico backed off, sucking in big gulps of air
to replace what had been knocked out of him when Jean’s knee had
slammed into his diaphragm. He resumed his ready position, his open
left hand leading. Rico grinned. It was not a pleasant
expression.

Jean, also, resumed the ready position, now
leading with his left. His right foot, flat, held his body weight
while the left foot rested on its toes, the left knee bent. His
eyes gave nothing away.

Without warning, Rico’s right fist
bash-bash-bashed into Jean’s wounded left shoulder, then Rico
bounced backward on the balls of his feet, out of reach.