Duby's Doctor (23 page)

“Not for you, I think,” Mitchell answered
evenly. No emotion there, either. She was all business.

The captain circled his desk and eased into
his high-backed executive chair, like a king preparing to sit in
judgment of his court. He patted the papers on his desk. “Doctor
Oberon has been telling me a fascinating tale,” he said to Stone.
“One I think you already know. Shame I didn’t hear it from you,
though.”

“Captain, I—“

“You don’t get to talk now, Agent,” the
captain cut him off. “You are here to listen.”

Stone nodded once and wisely kept quiet.

Outside the private office, eerie silence
prevailed throughout the department. Not a chair creaked, not a
throat was cleared, as every ear strained to hear some indication,
however slight, that Frank Stone was not being gruesomely murdered
by their captain. On the plus side, there was a doctor in that
office, if things went south.

As he had done earlier, the captain punched
the Recording button on his telephone console and recited the names
of all parties present, the date, time, and place of this
meeting.

“First of all,” the captain began, “I wish to
formally apologize to Doctor Oberon for the egregious treatment she
has received at the hands of an agent of this department. Those
actions were not authorized. However, the department takes full
responsibility and will make whatever restitution the doctor deems
fair. If you wish to consult legal counsel to draft the terms of a
settlement between yourself and the department, Doctor, please feel
free to do so. We will make ourselves available to meet with
counsel at your convenience.”

“Sir, if I could—“

“No.” Boone turned from looking at Mitchell
with sincerity to glaring at Frank with eyes afire. “Just.
Listen.”

Frank inhaled as if to speak, but—

“No!” the captain snapped. “Do I need to get
out the duct tape, Agent? Just shake your head.”

Frank pressed his lips tightly together and
wagged his head, no.

“Outstanding,” said the captain, and turned
his sincere face toward Mitchell again. “You will, of course,
receive a letter of apology from the Director of Homeland Security
in Washington, D.C., as well as a beautiful...” (he glared
pointedly at Stone for half a second) “...written apology from
Agent Stone, personally.”

He stopped and fixed his sweetest, most
contrite smile on Mitchell.

“Thank you, Captain. You’re very gracious,”
Mitchell said. Her smile was merely polite, but to her credit, she
projected no anger or bitterness. “However, I feel compelled to say
that you should be apologizing to Yves Dubreau, not to me. Or at
least, not only to me.”

“Absolutely, ma’am,” the captain agreed.
“Rest assured that before the close of business today, I will
personally visit Agent Dubreau in the hospital and deliver our
apology along with the thanks of the department, and of a grateful
nation, for his brave service.”

Mitchell smiled with genuine amusement for
the first time in many days. “Captain, I’m afraid if you go see
Johnny, talking like that, you’ll only confuse him. He doesn’t know
anything about Agent Dubreau’s ‘brave service,’ as you put it.”

The captain nodded, smiling along with her.
“Right, right. Well, I’ll put it a little differently, but I’ll get
the message across.”

Frank opened his lips and began to take in a
breath—

“No,” said Boone, pointing a finger at
Frank’s nose without looking away from Mitchell’s face.

“And about that lawyer you mentioned,”
Mitchell said, delving once again into her briefcase. She pulled
out two typewritten pages, stapled together, and handed them to the
captain. “I took the liberty of listing my, can I say, ‘demands’?
The terms of the settlement, I mean. This is what I think is fair.
If you agree, I won’t need a lawyer.”

“And if I disagree?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to
it.”

The captain nodded and perused the two pages
in silence. “I’ll have to fax this to Washington, of course, for
the final approval, but I don’t see anything here that should be a
problem.”

“Excellent,” she said, and snapped her
briefcase closed. She rose from her chair, and both men immediately
stood. “Then, I believe my work here is done. Thank you for your
time and your generosity, Captain.” She shook the captain’s hand,
ignored Stone’s extended hand, turned and left the office.

Every man (and some women) in the department
sat motionless with eyes glued to those high-heels, shapely calves,
and curvy pencil skirt until Mitchell Oberon disappeared from
sight, through the exit doors.

The captain cleared his throat loudly, and
suddenly papers rustled, phones rang, keyboards clacked, and
printers clattered. The captain directed Frank Stone back to his
chair, but the captain did not sit. Instead, he closed the door and
stood over Agent Stone like an avenging angel, and he summarized
Stone’s future with stentorian tones and R-rated vocabulary. He did
not record the interview.

Just before noon, on the morning after the
rescue raid at the Averell compound, at the time Mitchell Oberon
was leaving the Department of Homeland Security office, Mandy Stone
was leaving Jean Deaux’s hospital room.

Mrs. Stone went directly to the nurses’
station and asked them to page Dr. Goldberg. About fifteen minutes
later, she met with the doctor in a waiting room down the hall from
Jean’s room.

“Anyway,” she was saying, “I told him he
should give her some time to recover. She’s been through quite an
ordeal. He can’t expect her to show up for work and be cutting and
stitching on people all day as if nothing happened.”

Goldberg chuckled at the little round lady.
“No, of course not,” he said.

“I think, if you approach him just right,
he’ll go ahead with the surgery. He’s smart enough to know that’s
best. It’s only his emotions are all out of whack. He’s been
through an ordeal, too, and it isn’t over yet.”

“I agree, I agree,” said Goldberg. “He’s
lucky to have a cheerleader like you on his side, though. I think
you’ll provide plenty of motivation for him to work hard at getting
better.”

She smiled. “I hope so.” She gathered herself
together and stood to go, shaking his hand. “It was very nice
meeting you, Doctor Goldberg. I hope Doctor Oberon is getting lots
of rest and will be back soon. I know you must be concerned about
her, too.”

As he walked Mandy to the elevators, Goldberg
told her about the phone messages he had left at all of Mitchell’s
numbers, and the fruitless calls Nurse Erskine had made to area
hospitals.

“Apparently, she’s at home, since we can’t
find her anywhere else,” he said. “Guess she doesn’t feel like
talking to anyone right now. She could be sleeping all day today,
for all we know. We’ll just keep her in our prayers until we hear
from her.”

Although he had truly enjoyed his visit with
Mandy, Jean was exhausted when she left his hospital room. He slept
for about an hour before the noise of lunch service roused him. He
checked his cellphone for messages, hoping for some word from
Mitchell.

The only message was from the Barnacle
Gallery, telling him the excellent sales results from the Arts
Festival. Not only had they sold all of Jean’s paintings on exhibit
at the festival, they had a waiting list of sales referrals wanting
to look at Jean’s future works.

It was good news, the best news ever for an
unknown artist like Jean. Mitchell would have been over-the-moon
elated to hear what a roaring success they were. But, she wouldn’t
hear it if he couldn’t tell her. He didn’t feel like they had
succeeded at all. He didn’t even feel like they were a
they
. He felt like only a he; a lonesome he, who knew that
something was wrong, wrong, wrong.

He called Mitchell’s home phone again and
left yet another message on her answering machine.

“It’s me. ... A-are you m-mad at me? ...
Whatever I did, I’m sorry. ... I promise I won’t do it again. ...
Just, tell me what I did.” His voice broke, and he took a quick sip
of water, took a calming breath, and continued. “You have to
forgive,
Michel
. Sister Elizabeth said it’s a rule. Please
don’t be mad,
Michel
. Please ... just ... just talk to me.
Please. ...
Au revoir
.”

He hung up the phone and laid it on the bed
beside him, in easy reach, just in case.

He picked up his new sketchpad and pencils
and began drawing. For a change, the woman in the drawing was not
some version of Carinne Averell. That old obsession did not survive
the events of the past week—events that had threatened his life and
solidified his priorities. He drew the most important thing on his
mind. He drew Mitchell.

Few people would have recognized the woman in
Jean’s sketch as the strait-laced, no-nonsense, scholarly Doctor
Oberon. Jean drew the young woman whose thick hair curled loosely
around her shoulders while she sipped midnight cocoa in her flannel
granny-style nightgown. This girl was glowing with inner light,
sparkling with good humor and, yes, affection for someone or
something at which she was looking, from behind her steaming
Winnie-the-Pooh mug. He had drawn her in such a way that anyone
standing in front of the picture would feel they were sitting
across that kitchen table from her, receiving the joy and love that
flowed freely from her happy heart.

To be sure, the lady in the picture was very
fond of someone, or something. Clearly, the artist realized it and
had captured it spectacularly well. It was a picture of Doctor
Oberon, and it wasn’t. It was Mitchell, and it wasn’t. Above all,
it was totally
Michel
. His
Michel
, who was in love
and didn’t even know it.

Jean had spent nearly three hours on the
sketch before he grew too tired to continue and stood it up in the
chair beside his bed, to keep him company.

When a tall man in a dark suit knocked and
entered, late in the afternoon, Jean reached out to remove the
drawing from the chair. The man stopped him with a smile and a
gesture.

“Oh, no, thank you,” the man said. “I can’t
stay long, and I feel I should do you the honor of standing for
what I have to say.”

Jean looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. Do
I know you,
monsieur
? I’m sorry if I have forgotten ...”

“It’s all right,” the man said. “I know you
don’t remember, and it’s okay. We were, sort of, friends once. You
worked for me.”

“Ah,” Jean nodded, the puzzle coming together
now. “Yves Dubreau worked for you.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said the man. “I’m
Captain Boone, I’m from the local office of the Department of
Homeland Security.”

“Like a kind of policeman,” Jean said. “Like
Agent Frank Stone.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like Agent Frank Stone.”

“Neither do I, right now. That’s, um, sort of
what I came to tell you about.”

“You came to tell me you don’t like Agent
Frank Stone?”

“Not exactly,” Captain Boone said with a
chuckle. “I came to tell you, we’re sorry. Officially sorry, the
whole department, for what Agent Stone did to you. Actually, it’s
not even ‘Agent’ Stone, anymore. I’ve asked for his resignation.
He’ll be taking an early retirement in lieu of disciplinary
action—like prison.”

“Who is Lou?” asked Jean.

“Pardon?”

“You said he’s taking early retirement and
Lou.”

Boone laughed. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t make
myself clear, did I. ‘In lieu’ means ‘instead of’ something. He’s
taking retirement instead of going to prison. But he must
absolutely have no further contact with you. If he bothers you at
all, you call me, and he’ll be behind bars within twenty-four
hours. Sound okay to you?”

“And, he can’t bother
Michel
,
too.”

“Absolutely. If he does anything, anything at
all, that you don’t like, he goes to jail. Just like in Monopoly.
‘Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.’”

“Ah,” Jean nodded. “
Oui
, I know that
game.”

Captain Boone held up a 9 x 12 manila
envelope he carried in one hand. “And these are for you. It’s a lot
of paper, but basically it says that you get your life back. Name,
Social Security number, bank accounts, even back pay for all the
time you’ve been—pardon the expression—dead. And, you’ll be
retiring with a good pension because of the disabilities incurred
while serving your country. We’ll even have your boat all spruced
up like new by the time you go home from the hospital. How do you
feel about getting back in your own place, again, huh?”

Jean was looking at Boone with lines of
uncertainty across his brow. He had never thought for a second that
he would not be going home with Mitchell, to Mitchell.

“Man needs his own place, right?” Boone
joked. “Like a man cave and all.”

Jean nodded, saying nothing. Of course, he
was a man. A man lived in his own house—or on his own boat, as it
were—not in the house of some lady who wasn’t his mother, or his
wife, or his...anything. Apparently, she wasn’t even his doctor any
more.

Captain Boone moved to place the manila
envelope on Jean’s bedside table. As he passed the chair, he
looked—then looked again—at the sketch propped there. “I know her
from somewhere,” he said.

He shook his head, studying the picture
further. Suddenly, he smiled and snapped his fingers in triumph.
“It’s Doctor Oberon, right?” he asked, turning to Jean.

“You know
Michel
? Doctor Oberon?” Jean
said, surprised. “How do you know her? I have been trying to find
her all day. Do you know where she is?”

“Not at this exact minute,” Boone said
genially. “But this morning, she was in my office. That’s how all
this came about.” He patted the envelope, indicating the papers and
the arrangements for Jean’s—actually, Duby’s—future.