Duby's Doctor (25 page)

“Umn, yeah,” Mitchell said weakly. “Yeah, I
heard it went well. A friend of mine did it, and he’s really good,
a good surgeon. He says John—Duby should be fine, in time.”

Mandy let that thought hang in the kitchen’s
lemon-scented air while she sipped her tea. “And, what do you
think?”

Mitchell nodded with little energy. “I think
... he should be fine ... in time.” She placed the last grocery
item in the freezer, closed the refrigerator door, and carried the
empty brown cardboard box to set it beside her kitchen
trashcan.

When Mitchell had retrieved her own tea glass
from the counter and joined Mandy at the table, Mandy looked across
at her and said, “How much?”

“Pardon?”

“How much time, do you think, before Jean is
‘fine’ again?”

“Again?”

“I mean, ‘fine’ as in ‘the same as
before.’”

“Before the kidnapping and rescuing and all
that, you mean?”

Mandy smiled sweetly and put down her glass.
She leaned toward Mitchell and said, “I mean, before you.”

Mitchell took another drink from her glass.
When she had swallowed, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m not
sure I understand what you’re asking. I thought we were talking
about the injuries to Johnny’s knee. And, I think, if he takes his
therapy seriously and stays away from bad guys, he should recover
well enough to lead a ... quiet ... sort of ... life.”

“Francis is retiring, you know,” Mandy said,
as if this should be comforting news.

“I don’t know...”

“No, no, don’t worry, dear. You don’t have to
pretend to sympathize with me. I only said that because you said
Duby needs to stay away from bad guys, and I think Francis has been
one of the bad guys—at least where you and Duby are concerned—for a
while now. I wanted to assure you, my husband won’t cause you any
more trouble.”

“Mrs. Stone—”

“Mandy.”

“M-Mandy, ... I only want what’s best for
Johnny. I have no personal grudge against your husband.”

“Well, I do!” Mandy said, then she chuckled.
“But, it’s not the first time in several decades of marriage, and
it probably won’t be the last. He’ll take his consequences like a
big boy and get himself back on track. Don’t worry.”

Both women took a few moments to breathe and
sip their soothing tea.

Then, Mandy told Mitchell Oberon the story of
a Canadian teenager who left an abusive home and worked his way
south on commercial fishing boats, until a policeman met him on the
docks one day and brought him home to the policeman’s childless,
French-Canadian wife. She spoke of how the policeman became a
federal agent and then an anti-terror specialist; of how the boy
finished his education and worked for the CIA, eventually
transferring to Homeland Security; of how a childless wife became
the proud (and often worried) surrogate mother of a strong,
talented, young man in a dangerous line of work.

Mandy told Mitchell about Frank Stone’s
sister, who married money and then learned that most of it had been
earned illegally. How the sister’s husband had sequestered her from
all friends and family, and had kept the sister’s only child—a
daughter—from having contact with Uncle Frank, or anyone else in
Frank’s sister’s family.

Mandy explained what a different man Frank
Stone became as he tried, year after year, to free his sister and
his niece from Kyle Averell. But, the law Stone revered seemed to
betray him at every turn, preventing Averell from facing
justice.

So, when Stone could not succeed through
normal legal channels, and federal agencies declined to pursue Kyle
Averell aggressively, for lack of evidence, Stone sent someone into
Averell’s inner circle to get enough information to finally indict
and convict Averell.

“He sent Dubreau,” Mitchell said.

“Yes.” Mandy gripped her tea glass with both
hands as if to strangle it. “Frank had told me he had this idea, to
send Duby in undercover—without the agency’s knowledge—during
Duby’s sabbatical, when he was supposedly on an extended fishing
vacation. But, I knew Averell. More than one agent died or
disappeared while working undercover, trying to get Averell. I
didn’t want my boy sent in there, officially or not officially. So,
Francis didn’t tell me where Duby really was.”

“When did you find out?” Mitchell asked.

Mandy released the death grip on her tea
glass and rattled the half-melted ice cubes before taking a sip.
“Frank’s sister—Averell’s wife, Carinne’s mother—died suddenly,
just over a year ago.”

Mitchell gasped. “How?”

“How, indeed?” said Mandy. “Officially, she
committed suicide with an overdose of prescription medicine. But,
in Frank Stone’s mind, of course, she was murdered. Either Averell
gave her the drugs, or Averell drove her to the drugs; either way,
Frank was crazy for revenge. It was at his sister’s funeral that I
saw Duby. He was working as Kyle Averell’s bodyguard. I confronted
Frank, and he admitted to sending Duby in there, with no backup,
with no official standing, nothing.”

Mitchell exhaled hard. “How long was he
working for Averell before ...”

“Before he ended up dead?” Mandy began to
cry. “I can’t describe to you how I felt on the morning I saw my
boy’s picture—next to his obituary—in The Herald. It was as if my
internal organs were made of
papier-mâché
and then left
out in the rain. I could feel myself dissolving and slowly
crumbling away inside.”

She sniffed and wiped her nose with a
handkerchief from her purse. “And, my loving husband let me believe
my boy was dead! What kind of man does that?”

“The same man who invites murderers to an art
festival, where innocent people function as bait,” Mitchell
growled. “The same man who knew Johnny was in danger, but betrayed
him, instead of protecting him.”

They fell silent then, except for Mandy’s
sniffles as she got her tears under control.

Mitchell stood, collected both their tea
glasses, and went to the fridge to add ice and tea to them. When
she brought the fresh tea to the table and took her seat, Mandy was
putting away her handkerchief and seemed to have conquered her
emotions.

Mandy lifted her glass in a toast. “To the
beautiful lady doctor!” she said.

Mitchell laughed and shook her head, but she
did clink her glass against Mandy’s and take a sip of tea.

“Want to guess who told me you were
beautiful?” Mandy asked.

Mitchell shook her head again, smiling.
“Well, we do have this orderly at the hospital who sees himself as
the reincarnation of Don Juan or Casanova. I think Hector calls
every woman beautiful, as long as she’s of legal age.”

Both women chuckled, then Mandy said, “No,
not him. Duby told me about Hector—I guess I should say Jean told
me—but, I haven’t had conversation with Hector, yet.”

“You talked to Jean?” Mitchell said, trying
to sound casual, looking down at her hands instead of into Maddy’s
eyes.

“Yes, but more importantly, dear, have
you
talked to Jean?” Mandy asked pointedly.

Mitchell looked up and seemed to draw herself
together as if admitting to something of which she was ashamed. “I
haven’t seen him since I saw him and Carinne... I haven’t seen him
since the night of the rescue raid.... I think I received something
from him today, though. It was taped to my door.” She pushed her
glass aside and left the table, saying as she left the kitchen,
“I’ll show it to you.”

In a moment, Mitchell returned to the kitchen
with a rolled sheet of paper. She unfurled it and, using some of
the magnets scattered there, posted it on the front of her
refrigerator.

“There was no name,” Mitchell said. “But, I
know his style. This is from Jean.”

Mandy admired the drawing of
Mitchell-over-midnight-cocoa. “Well, then,” she said, “I guess you
know who told me you were beautiful.”

“This doesn’t even look like me,” Mitchell
said. “The portraits of Carinne, now—all eight hundred of
them—those were beautiful, and they all looked exactly like
her.”

“Carinne! When did he make portraits of
Carinne?” asked Mandy. “I hadn’t heard about that. Of course, we’ve
established that Francis was not telling me anything, but Du—Jean
seemed to be telling me as much as he could recall, and he never
mentioned Carinne.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Mitchell said,
sitting down hard in her chair. Her voice took on an edge when she
continued: “Ever since I—we brought him home from the hospital,
nearly a year ago, he painted almost nothing but Carinne. He
couldn’t remember her name, but apparently he could remember he was
in love with her.”

“In love with Carinne? Really? Are you sure?”
Mandy asked, looking genuinely perplexed. “My niece, Carinne
Averell, right? That’s of whom we are speaking?”

“That’s whom he was kissing on her bed at
Kyle Averell’s mansion, the last time I saw him.” Mitchell kept her
head erect and sipped her tea, but she couldn’t hide the tear that
slid quietly down her cheek.

Mandy watched her sympathetically. In low
tones, Mandy said, “So, that’s why you haven’t been to see him in
the hospital.”

“Be kind of awkward, wouldn’t it?” Mitchell
said, and chuckled bitterly. “Pie-eyed, plain, older lady and
luscious, young girlfriend buzzing around the same man. I just
couldn’t be there and watch her with him. And, he shouldn’t have to
be worrying about hurting my feelings, when he’s the one who’s in
pain.”

Mandy reached across the small table and
patted Mitchell’s arm. “There’s more than one person in pain right
now, dear. You’ve stayed away for nothing, you know. Carinne hasn’t
been within ten miles of that hospital.”

“What! Where is she? Jean almost gets himself
killed saving her, and she doesn’t even show up? She said she’d
ride in the ambulance with him, she told me that the other night!
Do you mean they just shipped him off to be delivered to the
hospital like a carton of hypodermic needles? Hurt and
alone
?” Mitchell’s voice grew louder and louder until,
when she shouted “
alone
”, the kitchen windows rattled.

Mandy smiled beatifically. “I’m sorry to have
to tell you this, Doctor Oberon, but even a smart lady like
yourself can make a mistake, draw the wrong conclusion, have a
temporary lapse of judgment. Carinne Averell may have gotten stuck
in Duby’s—Jean’s brain when he was injured a year ago, but the man
I listened to in that hospital the day before yesterday never
mentioned anyone but
Michel
.
Michel
,
Michel
,
Michel
, constantly. To him, the story of his life—all the
life he remembers, anyway—is the story of what
Michel
has
done for him, and with him.”

Mitchell got up and tore a paper towel off
the rack. She dried her eyes, then ran cold water on the towel and
wiped her face. By the time she turned back to face Mandy, she had
herself soundly in Stoic Doctor Mode. “I appreciate you sharing
your experiences with me, Mandy. And, I believe that you believe
what you’re telling me. I’m a grownup, however, not a teenybopper
with my first high school crush. I can accept what’s right before
my eyes. He wasn’t kissing me. He was kissing Carinne. And, I’m
afraid one drawing of me, even if it flatters me, doesn’t cancel
out nearly a year’s worth of paintings of her.”

Mandy stood and gathered her purse, put her
tea glass in the kitchen sink, and put one arm around Mitchell’s
waist as they walked to the front door together. “I’m so glad for
the chance to finally meet you,” said Mandy. “The tea was lovely,
and the company even lovelier.”

“Thank you,” Mitchell said. “I’m really glad
you came. I hope we can meet again someday.”

Mitchell opened the door, and Mandy stepped
outside. “Goodbye, dear,” Mandy said. “At least think about what
I’ve said.”

“I will, Mandy,” Mitchell told her. Then
Mandy went on her way, and Mitchell closed her front door. Leaning
back against it, she murmured, “I doubt I’ll think of anything
else.”

Two days after Jean’s surgery, which was the
fourth day after the rescue raid, Jean telephoned Dan Kavanaugh to
schedule the “favor” Dan had promised him. Dan tried to postpone
for a few more days, arguing that Jean needed more time to recover.
Jean was adamant, however, and Kavanaugh caved.

The day dragged painfully by as Jean fidgeted
in his bed, unable to concentrate well enough even to read
The
Pirate’s Flaming Heart
. Many pages of Jean’s sketchpad had
flown like miniature white basketballs across the room, to bounce
off the rim of the corner trashcan and roll into a pile on the
floor. He couldn’t hold an image steady in his mind long enough to
create a drawing that pleased him.

Jean was a balloon full of air, into which
more air was being pumped with every tick of the clock. He was
ready to explode by the time Hector arrived with The Diversion.

As happened every day, Hector arrived with a
tall rolling cart bearing meal trays for all the patient rooms on
that floor of the hospital. Hector normally worked 7 a.m. to 3
p.m., but today he was working 3 p.m. to 11 p.m., by special
arrangement with another orderly.

Hector’s tall rolling cart rattled off the
elevator, in front of the nurses’ station, and stopped outside room
2114. The walls of the cart blocked the view of Jean’s doorway from
the nurses’ station. No one saw Hector slide a pair of crutches
from the bottom shelf of the cart and slip them through Jean’s
door. Then, as Hector left the cart in place and began delivering
trays one or two at a time to various rooms up and down the hall,
Jean had time to hobble carefully out of his room and around the
first corner of the corridor, with no one the wiser.

Jean, with his left leg in a cast from hip to
ankle, and his left arm in a sling, maneuvered painfully with his
crutches. The left crutch was almost no help at all, because of the
painful bullet wound still healing in his left shoulder. So, he
relied, mostly, on his right arm to keep himself upright and
moving, albeit slowly, to the elevator farthest from the nurses’
station.