Winner The Crystal Awards 2016, Best Multimedia Story (3d Place).
A spinster doctor rents her spare room to a brain-damaged patient who doesn't know he is a former undercover agent targeted for execution by a powerful criminal.
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Jean is being held at gunpoint on his boat while Stone and the SWAT officers watch from a nearby rooftop as Dr. Mitchell Oberon, with a plan known only to herself, has dived off the seawall and is swimming toward Jean's boat.
Enjoy the penultimate installment of DUBY'S DOCTOR.
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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.
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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 do—," but he broke off and, instead, was shocked into blurting, "What are you wearing?"
