Duby's Doctor (15 page)

He examined every cranny of the pistol and
then reassembled it even faster than he had taken it apart. To
Stone he said, “It’s very clean, to be so old.”

“Thank you,” said Stone. “I try.”

Jean sighted down the barrel. “I can adjust
this sight for you,” he offered.

“I’ve told you a thousand times, leave the
danged sight alone. I’m used to it.”

Two sets of eyes snapped toward Stone. Jean
and Mitchell stared at him, mentally replaying his words.

“You black-hearted, scheming, son of a—”
snarled Mitchell.

But, Jean was already talking over her. “You
knew me? Who was I ... when you told me this thing a thousand
times?”

“No!” cried Mitchell. “That was not Johnny,
and well you know it, Agent Stone. That was a very different
man.”

To her surprise, Stone nodded. “You’re
right,” he said to Mitchell. Then he turned and spoke to Jean. “His
name was Yves Dubreau. Special Agent Yves Dubreau. He was my
friend.”

“He darn sure didn’t need any enemies,”
Mitchell quipped.

She watched Jean’s face and body language as
he struggled to wring some meaning, some remembrance, from what
Stone had told him. She saw the instant when he stopped trying. No
light dawned, no bells rang. He handed the pistol back to
Stone.

“Is that why he went to work for those bad
men?” Jean asked. “Because you are a sort of policeman, and he was
your friend?”

Stone nodded. “I asked him to pretend to work
for them. You see, I thought he would be perfect for the job
because he was a hard man. But, I was wrong. He was tough, but he
wasn’t hard.”

Jean thought about this a moment, then he
shrugged. “No matter. He is dead.”

Jean took the photograph with Carinne’s face
in it and left the room.

“Get out of my house,” Mitchell told the
sort-of policeman.

It was late, but Mitchell found herself
unable to sleep. She donned her bathrobe and padded toward the
kitchen. She was surprised to find Jean in the dining room. He sat
staring at the photographs, all of which Stone had simply left
scattered on the table. He fingered the picture showing Yves
Dubreau and Kyle Averell together.

“Thought you’d gone to bed,” she said. “Big
day tomorrow. Want a soda?”

She went to the kitchen and took a can of
diet soda from the fridge for herself. She waited, head cocked, to
hear an answer from Jean, but nothing came. She shut the
refrigerator, popped the soda top, and joined Jean at the
table.

Jean continued to study the photos Frank
Stone had left on the table. With an index finger, he slid the
pictures around, forming different patterns with the paper
rectangles. Mitchell sipped her drink and watched him, waiting.

“Is that man, Stone–”

“Agent Stone,” Mitchell inserted.

“—Agent Stone,” Jean echoed. “Is Agent Stone
a good man?”

“Well, uhm, I, uhm, he’s a policeman, right?
Police officers are good, right?”

Jean shook his head, “No, I mean, is he a
good man, even if he wasn’t a sort of police man?”

“I don’t really know him,” Mitchell said. “He
seems to love his niece. That’s a good thing. Is he perfect? Of
course not. Nobody is.”

Jean fingered the photo of Averell’s
entourage, including Duby and Carinne. “This man,” he tapped
Averell’s face with a fingertip, “is not a good man.”

“Probably not, if Agent Stone is telling the
truth.”

“What about this man?” Jean tapped Duby’s
granite-hard face in the photo.

Mitchell leaned in to be sure which man was
indicated. She looked at the face of the undercover
agent/bodyguard, then she looked at the face of the gentle,
sweet-natured artist sitting at her table. She relaxed back in her
chair and sipped her drink. “I never knew that man,” she said.

“Yes,
Michel
, you know him. He is
me.”

“No. He is not you. And you are not him. You
are you. And you’re a good man.” Unconsciously, she reached across
the table and placed her hand on his forearm.

He covered her hand with his own, with enough
pressure to ensure that she could not withdraw easily. He seemed to
be hanging on for dear life, searching for an anchor in a sea of
confusion. He looked up and met her eyes, and his voice contained a
hint of the desperation he tried to hide.

“What if I am not good? I knew about Stone’s
gun. I knew how to hit Dan Kavanaugh,
Michel
. I knew how to
hurt him, and I knew how to kill him. I just knew. And, it would
have been easy. I think I killed people,
Michel
. Before.
And, I don’t think it bothered me. I wasn’t sorry.”

He looked down at the table, but he focused
on nothing. He was looking inward. “I don’t remember,” he
whispered, “but I’m afraid — I think I was a monster.”

Mitchell put down her drink and laid her hand
against his jaw. Gently she turned his face toward her own. “You’re
wrong. Whatever Special Agent Yves Dubreau did in his life, that
was his life, and his life ended when they brought you into my ER.
You are Jean Deaux, a brilliant artist, with a wonderful knee,
which I built myself, so I know. You have been given a new life.
All that matters is what you do from now on, not what happened
before you were even, well, ...born, ...sort of.”

He looked into her eyes and saw the strength
of her convictions. His lips curled into a modest smile. “Sister
Elizabeth said I’m a new creation; old things are passed away.
That’s in the Bible.”

“Yes, it is. And yes, you are. All new.”

“Thank you for believing in me,
Michel
.”

“You’re easy to believe in, Johnny.” She rose
and placed a kiss on top of his head, then she picked up her soft
drink and went back to bed.

A few minutes later, she heard him ascend the
stairs and retire to his room.

The painting of "Girl With Rabbits" was still
propped up in one of Kyle Averell’s exquisite office chairs. He
stared at it while he responded to the person sitting on the
opposite side of his desk. “Out of the question. This close to the
wedding ... what if she made a run for it? She’s as stubborn as her
mother was.”

Trish, his visitor, also studied the portrait
of Carinne and her bunnies. “Still don’t know who painted it?”

Averell shook his head, glaring at the
painting as if he could intimidate an answer out of it.

“Could it be the chauffeur?” Trish wondered.
“You know, the one who ‘saved her,’” Trish made finger quotes in
the air, “from Iglesias? She said he drew cartoons for her.”

Averell waved off the suggestion. “Dubreau
was fish food a long time ago,” he said. He pointed to the
portrait, “This is somebody new.”

“I believe she knows who the artist is,”
Trish said. “You should have seen her face when I unwrapped it. I
think he sent the portrait to her, along with that advertising
flyer, because he wants her to meet him at the art festival. So,
let her meet him – on your terms.”

Averell’s eyes lifted from the painting and
came to rest on Trish’s eager face. “On my terms.”

She nodded, smiling.

After a moment’s thought, he returned her
smile. “What will you tell Carinne? If she suspects a trap, she
won’t cooperate, you know.”

“It’s a treat for just us girls. A last fling
before the wedding,” Trish said. “And, it’s, sort of, a peace
offering from Daddy.”

Mitchell took pictures with her smartphone
while a professional photographer shot the official version of
artist Jean Deaux and the chief judge of the Coconut Grove Arts
Festival posing on either side of the painting entitled "Girl With
Roses." On the top right-hand corner of the painting’s frame was
mounted a large, gilt-edged blue ribbon proclaiming Best New
Artist.

When the photos had been snapped and the
official photographer had moved on to his next assignment, Jean
shook hands with the chief judge. Mitchell came forward and shook
the judge’s hand as well.

The judge congratulated Jean one last time
and departed while they were yet again expressing their thanks for
the honor.

The judge was not even out of sight when Jean
folded Mitchell into his arms, pulled her tight against his chest,
and planted a kiss on her lips. As he passed from tentative to
confident to passionate, she went from surprised to pleased to
amazed. Then, they both stopped thinking for several seconds and
simply enjoyed being overwhelmed with sensations.

When he pulled back at last and looked down
into her face, she gasped, “When did you learn to do that?”

“Just now,” he smiled. “Did I do it
right?”

“Did you d—? Uh, I, uh, I d-don’t really have
much to c-compare it with, but, uh, I think it was, uh, it was
g-good.”

He hugged her closer and kissed her again.
After a slightly longer non-thinking session this time, he backed
off and asked earnestly, “Was that better?”

She held on to his biceps just to stay on her
feet. A long exhale rushed from her throat followed by a breathless
whisper of, “Oh, wow!”

He chuckled, and her eyes snapped into focus
upon his.

“Why did you do that?” she said.

“Because I wanted to,” he said with a grin.
“
Michel
, I’ve wanted to do something like that for a long
time.”

She straightened and took a halting half-step
back. Deciding she could trust her wobbly knees, she let go of his
bicep muscles with a parting pat and retreated. His hands slid from
around her back until they cupped her elbows, keeping her from
backing away any farther.

“Johnny, I’m, uh, I’m your doctor, and, uh,
I, uh, I’m not sure this sort of thing is appropriate.”

“I’m not sick,
Michel
. I don’t need a
doctor.”

“Okay. Um, okay. Good point. Um, but at my,
uh, at my age, I, uh, I really don’t expect—”

“I like your age. You’re a good age.”

“Um, thanks. Thank you. But, um, y’see,
you’re a younger man, and I’m—”

“I’m not a child.”

“No! No, of course you’re not a child.
Y-you’re a, a man, of course. I mean, th-that’s obvious to
anyb—”

“Are you afraid of being called a puma?
Because I would never let anyone insult you or hurt your feelings
like that. Never.”

Mitchell segued from consternation to
confusion. “A puma?”

“You know,” he said, “those older ladies who
just want to use younger men for ... You know ... pumas. Mountain
lions.”

“Oh!” she said. “You mean cougars!”

“
Oui
,
merci
. Cougars.”

“Hector told you about them, didn’t he.”

Jean nodded. His face was full of concern.
She tried to think of the right thing to say that would put him at
ease without encouraging him to entertain romantic feelings toward
her.

She gave him her most reassuring smile.
“Johnny, I’m not worried. Believe me, no one would ever think I was
a cougar — I'm way too boring and nerdy, trust me. I’m flattered
and, and honored that you think, um, highly of, of me. But, maybe
we need to find you a, uh, g-girlfriend y-your own age. Don’t you
think th-that w-would make you happy?”

“
Michel
, you love me,” he said with
the stern tone and visage of a highway patrolman saying, “Mitchell,
you were speeding.”

Her reassuring smile lost a quarter of its
luster. She slipped out of his big hands and stepped back beyond
arm’s reach. She didn’t respond to his assertion because the truth
was unacceptable, and she did not want to lie. “Let’s talk about
this on Monday, okay? We have so much to do today, and then the
Festival all weekend. Let’s talk again after the weekend.”

He just looked at her with his highway
patrolman face.

She looked back with her apologetic speeder
face. “Monday, okay?”

“Okay.”

She nodded. Then she left to create for
herself an errand, feeling as if she had been let off with a
warning this time.

In the gymnasium of the Averell estate, Rico
was working out alone, beating the stuffing out of a man-sized
punching bag with his fists, elbows, knees, and feet. He continued
hitting and kicking even when he heard a door open and close behind
him and footsteps approaching across the training floor.

“I have a proposition for you,” someone
said.

Rico turned and met Carinne’s gaze with a
suggestive leer. “I’m listening.”

Mitchell had not been this nervous since the
morning of her board certification oral exams, and the Festival
booth was not even hers. While she bit her lip, tugged at her
shirttail, and repeatedly tucked strands of hair into her chignon,
the booth’s owner smiled placidly and casually took her through a
tour of the booth’s accouterments.

“Paper and string, for wrapping the things
people buy, are right under there,” Jean pointed to a shelf hidden
beneath a table top, behind the drape of a damask cloth, “and the
money box is under here.” He pointed out the niche that cradled the
metal cash drawer with a locking lid.

He placed a small key into her palm. “There
is your key. And that’s all there is to it.”

His heart schlumped along at a slow and
steady pace, his face relaxed into an easy grin, and he seemed as
boneless as a sleeping kitten, not a trace of tension in any joint,
muscle, or sinew.

By contrast, Mitchell’s heart rattled along
like a jalopy speeding downhill, and her body was as stiff as a
wooden puppet. Her fingers shook as she pointed out what she
remembered from Jean’s tour. “Paper, string, cash box, key, okay.
Okay, I- I got it. I got it. Uhm, what else? There was something
else. Oh! Rain! Okay? Rain. What do I do if it starts to rain?”

Jean took her elbow and gently turned her
toward a corner of the booth. “I’ll show you again. It’s right
here.”