AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Jean is about to reconnect with some people he hasn't seen in a while: Iturralde Iglesias, Frank Stone, and Mitchell Oberon. One of them wants Jean dead. What do the others want?

Enjoy chapter 26, part 1, "Reconnection," in this installment of DUBY'S DOCTOR.

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Iturralde Iglesias had been biding his time and fighting boredom for nearly three months. He had determined that Carinne Averell now ran a legitimate corporation and that she was far too well guarded to be an easy target for his revenge.

Very well. He was an adult; he could learn to overlook a mere childish display of disrespect from Carinne. What else was to be expected from the coddled daughter of a rich man. She was a product of her upbringing. Iglesias could be magnanimous and forgive her for laughing at him.

He never considered that the mental image he had formed of Carinne ridiculing him had been constructed wholly in his own mind. At any rate, revenge against the girl was off the table, especially since she was completely out of his reach.

The ex-bodyguard was a different story. The man who lived aboard the Do Bee 2 had once actually laid hands on Iturralde Iglesias! The lout had blindsided Iglesias in an unguarded moment and taken advantage of him in a shameful way, leaving him soaking in Biscayne Bay in an expensive hand-tailored suit, miles from home, in the middle of the night! In Mirador, bigger men had died for smaller offenses, simply because Iturralde Iglesias gave the order.

Yes, the bodyguard would die for his disrespect. As soon as Iglesias could catch the man on dry land and unawares, the man's death was guaranteed. Iglesias would execute the offender with his own hands – since he no longer had an army taking his orders. Iglesias was no marksman, but he would be close enough to his victim that his aim would not matter at all.

Before murdering the rude oaf, however, Iglesias had a use for him. Many afternoons playing dominoes in the parks of Little Havana, with Cuban ex-patriots, had provided Iglesias with some information and many ideas.

Mirador had been on friendly terms with Cuba. Iturralde Iglesias would not have to use a false name there, as he did in the United States. And, Cuban authorities would not stop him at the airport when he boarded a plane to sunny Spain and a happy retirement.

Iturralde Iglesias needed to get to Cuba, and he knew someone with a boat that could get him there.

At mid-morning on a weekday, only a small number of people strolled Coconut Grove's sidewalks. Sidewalk cafes served eggs benedict, croissants, pastelitos con guava y queso, and Cuban coffee to a modest clientele. Shops had not been open long, and there were still parking spaces available in the main shopping district around Commodore Plaza.

Iturralde Iglesias pulled his rental car into a space directly in front of the Barnacle Gallery. This was his second day of visiting area art galleries in search of Carinne Averell's ex-bodyguard. He didn't have a name yet, but he knew the man was some sort of artist. He cursed himself for wasting yesterday on a wild goose chase, but until he searched the Internet on his phone this morning, he had not realized there was a gallery so close to the marina where the bodyguard lived.

As soon as he stepped out of the heat and humidity into the gallery's chilly climate-controlled showroom, he knew he had hit paydirt. On the wall opposite the door hung a portrait of the very man he sought. He smiled.

"Good morning! Welcome to the Barnacle Gallery," chirped a woman, coming out from behind an elegant desk that served as an understated checkout counter. "Would you care for coffee or tea?" She waved vaguely in the direction of a coffee service placed discreetly in a corner.

"Good morning," he answered, smiling toward her. "Nothing for me, thanks. I've just come from breakfast." He turned his attention toward the portrait. "What can you tell me about this painting?"

"That's new, from one of our most popular young artists. He signs his work 'Jean Deaux.' This is the first time he has painted a self-portrait. I'm afraid it's not for sale, but we have several other works by the same artist."

Iglesias' smile narrowed a little. "Why is it not for sale?"

"I believe the artist intends it as a gift for a special patron. He was good enough to allow us to display it until after his one-man show next month."

The clerk kept up a steady patter about the paintings on the walls as she escorted her aristocratic-looking customer around the gallery. Iglesias asked careful questions designed to distract her from his real goal: to find the artist known as Jean Deaux.

When the moment seemed right, he asked casually if the artist's studio was nearby.

The clerk seemed amused. "Oh, yes, you could say it's very near." She smiled as she barely lifted one finger to point at the ceiling. Iglesias responded with a smile and a wink, as though they were close friends sharing a delicious secret. The woman said, "I would love to introduce you but, of course, he cannot be disturbed when he is working. The gallery owner is very strict about that."

"I understand completely," said Iglesias, then he glanced at the front of the shop to be sure no pedestrians or motorists were in sight. He withdrew a pistol from beneath his suit jacket and pointed it at the clerk, still smiling cordially. "Now, if you will please lock the door, draw the drapes, and place the 'closed' sign in the window."

Minutes later, after quietly securing the gallery and whacking the clerk unconscious with the butt of his pistol, Iglesias almost whistled to himself as he climbed the stairs to the artist's studio. At the top of the steps, he knocked once on the closed wooden door and then let himself in.

Jean looked up from his easel in mild surprise. "Bonjour?"

"Hello," Iglesias said, keeping his pistol out of sight. "Remember me?"

"Non, monsieur. Please forgive me if I should know you. I suffered an injury some time ago, and most of my memories were lost."

"No matter. I remember enough for both of us." Iglesias smiled a shark's smile.

"Perhaps the lady downstairs did not tell you, monsieur, but the public is not allowed on this floor of the building...."

"Oh, yes. She did tell me that. But that does not matter, either, because you have finished your work here. You're going to take me to your boat."

"My boat?" Jean looked mystified. His eyes glanced left and then right, as if he was searching the corners of his mind for some clue to this strange turn of events. "My boat?"

"That's right."

"But ... why?"

Iglesias pointed his pistol at Jean. "Because I do not want to have to drag your unconscious body to the trunk of my car for the trip to the marina. It's hot outside, and I don't care to ruin this suit with unnecessary perspiration."

Jean became extremely still. "The lady downstairs...?"

"She will awaken with a headache, but she will awaken. Unless you do not cooperate. Give me your cellphone now, please." The hand not holding the pistol extended itself toward Jean, palm up.

Jean was silent for so long that Iglesias gripped the pistol more tightly, preparing to be attacked by the bigger man. But the attack never came.

Instead, Jean produced his cellphone from his pocket and placed it in the outstretched hand, saying, "It is a beautiful day for sailing, monsieur. Shall we walk to the marina from here?"

Iglesias exhaled a long breath and tried not to look too relieved. "No need to walk. You can drive my car." He stepped out of the doorway and gestured for Jean to precede him down the stairs.

"I hope so," Jean muttered, hoping that his few driving lessons with Hector had been sufficient to prepare him for this. They had not yet covered Driving At Gunpoint or Driving While Abducted.

Dr. Oberon was making morning rounds at the hospital. She had just emerged from a patient's room and begun making notes on the computer at the nurses' station when Hector called her name.

She turned in her chair, smiling, prepared to offer a cheery greeting, but the smile vanished when she saw Hector's face. "What's wrong?"

"You know that lady, the fancy one, who works at the gallery where they sell Jean's paintings?"

Mitchell nodded. She had looked in the gallery windows often, so the clerk was a familiar sight. "What about her?"

"She's in the ER, and the cops are with her. Something went down at the gallery this morning, and...." He trailed off, either unwilling or unable to complete the sentence.

"And?"

"I think you better come down and talk to her."

"If she needs a surgeon, they'll call me."

Hector shook his head. "Doctor O, you better come talk to this lady and the cops. Jean's missing."

Mitchell's lips mouthed "what?" but no sound came out. She left the chair spinning when she bolted for the nearest elevator.

A short time later, having gotten what little information was available from the gallery clerk and the two police officers interviewing her, Mitchell was inside a linen-storage room, placing a call on her cellphone.

"Mandy, it's Mitchell," she said when the other party answered. "I think Johnny's in serious trouble. I need to talk to Agen—I need to talk to Frank, please."

Mandy must have recognized that only a dire need would put that particular tone in Mitchell's voice, and nothing less than life-or-death would make Mitchell talk to Frank Stone. Mandy had Frank on the phone in two seconds.

Mitchell explained what she had learned about the attack on the gallery clerk. "Johnny was upstairs when the man arrived, but when she came to, everyone was gone. Johnny's missing."

"Any blood?" Stone said coldly.

"N-no," Mitchell stumbled over the word and what his question could mean. "Wh-who do you think it is? Who would do this? Where would they take him? And why?"

"You're sure it's not just some art critic?" Stone quipped, while his mind raced through a dozen possible scenarios.

"Not funny, Stone!"

"No, it's not. Sorry. Listen, if they just wanted to kill him, they could've done it right there. There's a reason they've gone to the trouble of taking him away – and they will have trouble, believe me. Duby won't make anything easy for them, if he can help it."

"But we have to do something! We have to find him!"

"We will, Doctor, we will. Let me make some calls, and I'll get a look at the footage from security cameras inside and outside the gallery. If I can I.D. the abductor, we'll have a better idea where they might be."

"You'll call me on my cell!"

"I'll call." Stone disconnected.

Mitchell wiped her damp cheeks, squared her shoulders, and left the linen room. In minutes, she had arranged for shift coverage and was headed for her car.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Mitchell must be very upset indeed to team up with Stone. Will Stone help the situation or make things worse?  Will Mitchell just go home and wait? Oh, sure.

Thanks for reading, voting, and commenting.  Stand by for next Monday's update: part 2 of Chapter 26 ("Reconnection") of DUBY'S DOCTOR.

Until next time,

Iris