Duby's Doctor (30 page)

The team leader wrinkled his forehead,
confused. “But, you said he stalled the kidnapper, and he got a
message to you, tipping us off. That sounds like the Duby I used to
know.”

“Yeah, but he’s not the guy we used to know.
He’s just a guy smart enough to put two and two together and do
whatever he could think of to get some help in a tough
situation.”

Jean left the parking lot with shopping bags
dangling from both arms and shoulders. Iglesias carried nothing but
a gallon jug of water, keeping his other hand free to grip the
pistol in his pocket – the pistol pointed always at Jean.

The men on the restaurant roof watched
through their sniper scopes and binoculars as Jean led his captor
to the terminus of a pier, where two small boats bobbed gently at
the end of their mooring lines. Jean’s boat had a small, electric
motor that Dan Kavanaugh had installed when Jean first came home
from the hospital, when his left shoulder was not yet strong enough
to row the boat from the pier out to the Do Bee 2.

Jean turned away from the motorized boat, and
dumped his packages carefully into the other small boat, the one
with two hefty wooden oars lying inside. Hoping that no one would
hail him and accuse him of stealing their dinghy, he held the boat
steady for Iglesias to climb in, then unwound the mooring line from
the pier cleat and lowered himself into the boat. He took up the
oars and, facing the pistol-pointing Iglesias, began to row toward
his distant sailboat. He rowed as ponderously and slowly as he
could without alerting the gunman to his tactic, and he hoped that
Frank Stone and the police were nearby, making good use of the time
he was buying them.

Eventually, the two men reached the sailboat.
Jean shipped the oars and tied the dinghy’s mooring line to a cleat
on the Do Bee 2’s starboard side. Then he heaved the shopping bags
from the belly of the dinghy, over the gunwale, into the cockpit of
the sailboat.

He turned to offer a hand to help Iglesias
into the cockpit, but Iglesias waved him off with a waggle of the
pistol. “You first.”

Jean climbed into the sailboat, then obeyed
Iglesias’ gestured command to back off and stand still while
Iglesias climbed in. Jean moved as if to step around Iglesias and
pick up the shopping bags, but Iglesias stopped him with a look.
“You stay on that side. Between me and the shore. Nobody needs to
see me, and you’re as good a shield as any.”

Atop the restaurant, a spotter with his
binoculars focused on the Do Bee 2 exclaimed, “There’s the perp!
Just got on the sailboat. Boy, LT, you weren’t kiddin’ when you
said this guy’s armed and dangerous. Even if he wasn’t armed, he’d
be dangerous! The guy’s huge!”

“Let me see that,” the team leader took the
man’s binoculars and looked at the boat for himself. “The big guy’s
not the perp. That’s Dubreau, the victim.”

“Are you sure? Because that’s one guy I sure
wouldn’t approach without backup.”

The lieutenant handed the binoculars back to
the spotter. “Well, you’d be smart to stick to that decision if you
ever have to detain Dubreau, but in this case the fugitive is the
little guy. The one holding the gun.”

“Oh, yeah. Good clue.”

“Ya think?”

A second spotter, scanning a different
quadrant of the marina, reported in. “Female civilian approaching
the sea wall, LT. Could be heading in the direction of our
target.”

“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!”