by Christy Poff
"Peter Holmes, you are under arrest for..."
"The hell I am!” Holmes cried out, pulling his gun. Several shots rang out before Peter Holmes dropped to the floor screaming in pain.
Inspector Carlson raced to his side, grabbing him by his shirt.
"Where is she?” he demanded. “Where's Ainsley..."
"Where you will never find her. She's all but dead anyway."
"Holmes, tell us where she is."
"No, she ruined me, now she's ruined."
"Holmes!"
"Go to ... hell..."
"Holmes!"
"Damn it!” Eric Kane cursed. “Unit one to all units, expedite. Subject is near death. I repeat—expedite rescue search."
Kane closed his eyes while his teams confirmed his orders. He said a silent prayer for both Quincannons.
He pulled out his cell phone.
"I have good news—and bad."
* * * *
FBI tracking dogs and their handlers fanned out over the three closest fields searching for Ainsley Quincannon. With each handler and dog, three or four agents followed, looking for any clue to the missing woman's location. They'd followed a trail of blood but lost it in the middle of the center vineyard.
So far, thermal imagery had found no heated areas signifying a possible location.
"Wallace to base, nothing yet."
"Unit one, affirmative."
A few minutes later the teams got the orders to expedite their efforts. Because of the time of day and the wooded area they had to investigate next, the helicopter operations had been suspended though the pilot made sure of possible landing zones in case they needed to land a medical chopper to transport their subject out.
Wallace made notes constantly rethinking strategy. All of them shared the same concern—as time went on, the likelihood of a favorable outcome diminished rapidly.
"Wallace to all units, report in."
Every team radioed their positions, all having the same response—nothing yet.
* * * *
"Inspector Kane, this man would like to speak with you."
Kane nodded, wondering what the stranger wanted.
"Eric Kane, FBI, how can I help you?"
"My name is Doctor Jonathan Goodman, Miss Reynolds’ physician. I also have a private clinic down the road from here. I can provide immediate treatment for her when you find her."
"If we have the need to fly her out, can you handle the landing zone?"
"Yes."
"Good, stay here."
Goodman nodded then pulled out his cell phone calling the clinic and putting them on emergency stand-by.
"Doctor, if you don't mind my asking, how did you know?"
"An operation like this in this area—word gets around quick."
"I see and how is it you didn't use her married name?"
"Force of habit. I have yet to meet this man."
Kane nodded, anything possible though he kept further speculation to himself.
"Unit one to Wallace, we have a doctor up here at the command post."
"Affirmative."
Kane excused himself and joined one of the field agents. He had the agent do a quick background search on the convenient doctor.
"Once you confirm his identity, cross reference it with Mrs. Quincannon's file and see if we have a medical history between the two."
"Yes, sir."
A few moments later, the younger agent gave Kane the information he needed, Kane relieved. He thanked the agent and walked back to his makeshift command post.
One thing Eric Kane hated—waiting. Extended searches like this one meant waiting. He asked for a cup of coffee then paced.
"Wallace to base, we may have something."
* * * *
At the Injury Center at San Francisco General, Jim Pearson waited for word about Brett Quincannon's condition. Still in surgery, Brett seemed to be holding his own though Pearson refused to assume anything.
When he'd flown to California earlier in the day with Kane to follow up on The Lasher case he'd painstakingly built with Brett Quincannon, he never once imagined he'd be waiting in a hospital lounge for word on whether his friend would make it or not. All of them had severely underestimated Peter Holmes and his sadistic obsession over Ainsley Reynolds Quincannon.
Pearson dreaded having to tell Brett about Ainsley. He hoped the FBI would find her before Brett regained consciousness.
"Detective Pearson?"
"Yes?"
"I'm Doctor Alfred Wayne, Mister Quincannon's surgeon."
"How is he?"
"Critical."
"Tell me."
"The ligature marks will heal, as will the cuts and bruises. Doctor Longoria removed the bullet from his lower right leg but infection set in. We also had to give him blood. As you know, whoever did this wore a boot having a thick tread deep enough to surround the shell. The problem comes as twofold. First, dirt ground into the wound started the infection which seemed to spread quickly. Second, we had to strengthen the bone but we found several nerves and muscles damaged—almost crushed. He could lose some of the use of his leg."
"Shit!"
"Have they found his wife yet?"
"Not yet,” Pearson said, shaking his head.
"Before we put him under, he kept asking for Ainsley."
"They're still searching."
"I see,” the surgeon said. “I'm going to see him from recovery to ICU. You can see him then."
"Thanks, Doctor Wayne."
Jim Pearson leaned against the wall for support once he'd been left alone. He slid down the floor, sitting on his heels. He didn't want to lose his friend—he valued their friendship too much. Overwhelmed by this and the scope of a case beginning with a dead girl in Central park, Pearson put his head in his hands and wept.
* * * *
"I think I've found something,” one of the searchers called. He rechecked the thermal imager to make sure the image hadn't disappeared.
"What have you got?” one of the handlers asked.
"Over there."
The handler let his dog sniff the area. The shepherd sat down signaling a hit. Several agents carefully removed several layers of branches finding the body of a woman who appeared to match the description of the victim they searched for.
Wallace quickly checked for a pulse then put his coat over her.
"She's alive! Get a medic!"
Chapter 11
A medical helicopter landed in the parking lot of Doctor Jonathan Goodman's private clinic. A trauma team ran out to meet the flight crew after they off-loaded their patient. The flight nurse gave them the latest updated report on their patient's status then, as soon as she'd been transferred to an examining table, they took the flight stretcher and quietly left.
Goodman began issuing orders. While his nurse removed Ainsley's clothes, another cleaned the wounds for Goodman to check the extent of the inflicted damage.
"Doctor, look at this,” she said, showing him Ainsley's shoulder. “It bled profusely on her back where the bullet entered but not at the exit point."
"Looks like there's enough soft moist dirt packed in there to act like a poultice of some kind."
"But, Doctor..."
"Whatever works,” he said. “Now, let's get to work. How do her legs look?"
"One is broken—her left one. She must have fallen from that side of the saddle."
"How bad?"
"It doesn't feel compounded and there are no apparent breaks to the skin."
"Good."
They treated Ainsley and several hours later, she remained unconscious though her injuries had been attended to. Relieved she had not suffered any head trauma, Goodman noted her condition and vitals then left her to rest.
Several hours later, he returned to check on his patient. He made notes to her chart after checking her vitals and the bandaging.
"You've been through so damned much, Ainsley,” he murmured. He heard his receptionist's page and left the room.
<
br /> "Phone call, Doctor,” she said, handing him the phone. Goodman nodded his thanks.
"Goodman."
"Doctor Goodman, it's Eric Kane, FBI. We met earlier at the Quincannon winery."
"Yes, what can I do for you?” he asked impatiently.
"How is Mrs. Quincannon?"
"Miss Reynolds is holding her own."
"Prognosis?"
"So far, so good but I won't know anything more until she wakes up."
"I'd like to be able to tell her husband something positive."
"For now, that's it."
"I see."
"Now, if you don't mind...” Goodman said before abruptly hanging up. He went to his office and took some deep breaths. Ainsley Reynolds had been through enough. Married to a reporter, especially Brett Cannon, was not good for her at all—or him.
He knew it would only be a matter of time until Cannon remembered him. Until then, he had to make sure Ainsley and her husband remained separated.
* * * *
Eric Kane hung up, not liking what he'd just learned. Goodman was a little too overly protective of his patient for Eric's liking, plus the fact Goodman refused to use Ainsley Quincannon's married name still nagged at him. Kane understood the reference in the heat of the moment at the winery while they searched for her but to continue to ignore the marriage screamed at him. What the hell is going on?
He asked Carlin's secretary to run an in-depth background check on Goodman. This time he wanted everything. There had to be some reason why Goodman set his sights on keeping Ainsley Quincannon in communicado.
"Mister Kane, I've asked one of our local agents to do some checking. I seem to remember something scandalous happening with Doctor Goodman being involved."
"Good work, thanks,” he said. “There is something strange going on here."
* * * *
Jim Pearson paced.
Twenty-four hours and Brett Quincannon had yet to come around. This, added to the fact they could not get any information on Ainsley, bothered him to no end. Something is definitely not right.
Because he'd been at Brett's side since they'd flown him into San Francisco General, he didn't find out about Ainsley being taken to a private clinic by her doctor. After comparing notes with Eric, both men agreed it was suspicious—to say the least—especially after the way she'd been found. NYPD protocol would have sent her to the nearest trauma center. Many doctors had ridden in with their patients without requesting special considerations. Damn it, I don't want to tell him this.
Pearson put in a call to his partner and asked him to look into Goodman from an East Coast perspective. Something bothered him—something all too familiar.
* * * *
Brett Quincannon's mind raced. He felt their separation and desperately needed to find her. He saw her in darkness and unable to move. He saw Holmes looming over her and hated his inability to protect the woman he loved.
Several times, the same nightmare overwhelmed him. Peter Holmes had murdered Ainsley and all Brett could do was watch dirt being thrown on her coffin.
Every so often, his shoulder hurt though his mind couldn't understand why when he'd taken a bullet in his leg. The memories of Holmes grinding his boot into the wound made Brett shiver.
"Ainsley?” he whispered. Or did I?
"Doctor?"
One word broke through the fog his mind fought against.
"Yes, Deb?"
"He's trying to speak. I think he said his wife's name."
"I'll take it from here,” Doctor Longoria said. “Mister Quincannon, I am Doctor Benito Longoria. Can you hear me?"
"Yes,” Brett said slowly. “Wife..."
"I have no information on her as yet. I've spent all the time since your arrival with you."
"I see..."
Longoria explained everything to Brett, telling him what they'd done to fix his battered body. Brett listened intently, especially about his leg.
"We tried to repair the damage as best as we could. You're going to need rehab."
"What's the worst case scenario?"
"Walking with a cane. There's major damage to nerves and muscles thanks to what he did. The ensuing infection didn't help either."
"When can I start therapy?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
"Patience."
"How can I be patient when my wife's out there somewhere?"
"Your friend is doing his best to find out what he can. He's totally shot hospital cell phone policy to hell."
Brett tried to laugh but his body ached too much.
"Get some rest and I'll send your friend in."
"Thanks, Doctor."
* * * *
Ainsley felt comfortable and ... what, she didn't know. She remembered the fall from her horse after riding away from Brett, plus two gunshots hitting her. From there, the memories became a blur.
"Brett?"
No answer.
"Brett?” she tried to say with a little more force.
Nothing.
She heard a door open and the footsteps of a heavy man. While they sounded familiar, Ainsley couldn't be sure who they belonged to.
"Ainsley, can you hear me?” a deep voice asked her.
Slowly, she opened her eyes to see Doctor Jonathan Goodman's kindly face looking back at her.
"Doctor..."
"Don't tire yourself, Ainsley."
"Where am I?"
"The clinic."
"How did I get here?"
"Helicopter. When they found you, you were in critical condition."
"Go on."
"I treated the gunshot wounds—the one you are damned lucky on, I might add."
"Why?"
"The way you fell in the dirt drove the moist rich soil into one side of the wound."
"One side? What..."
"The bullet entered in your back, exited out the front. The packed soil stemmed the blood flow so you didn't bleed to death."
"What else?"
"Your leg is broken and is casted. I'm treating you for pneumonia and keeping an eye out for infection."
"What about Brett?"
"I don't know. I've been concerned with you."
"I have to talk to him. He must be worried."
"When you're out of danger."
"Please,” she begged.
"When you're stronger."
Ainsley nodded, too tired to argue, though not accepting Goodman's decision. She needed Brett and knew her slave would move heaven and earth to find her—if he could.
She closed her eyes, seeing her gorgeous slave, her body begging for his. It amazed her how much she needed him in the most basic of ways. Fear of losing him lurked in the shadows of her mind.
She opened her eyes again and looked for a phone but could not find one anywhere near her bed. She pressed the call button for the nurse and waited.
"Yes, Miss Reynolds."
"I'd like to make a phone call,” Ainsley stated, “and it's Mrs. Quincannon."
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm just going by what Doctor Goodman said. He also instructed us not to give you a phone because you need rest."
"I need to..."
"Sorry, Doctor Goodman's orders."
The nurse left before Ainsley could argue any further. Frustrated, Ainsley pounded her fist into the mattress, tears in her eyes.
"Brett,” she cried.
* * * *
Jonathan Goodman, well-respected physician in the Napa Valley, heard Ainsley's impassioned cry for her arrogant bastard of a husband. No way, sister. I won't let you ruin it all again.
Jonas Guttshaw graduated from Harvard Medical School and headed back to New York City. He wanted to use his skills to help the less fortunate in Brooklyn. He successfully set up a clinic and recruited other doctors and specialists to staff it while donating their time. Everyone involved benefited from it and he felt good about giving back.
One night three years into the clinic's operation, Guttshaw locked the door after his last pati
ent. No sooner had the key gone into his coat pocket than an urgent knocking startled him.
"Doctor, we need help!"
Unable to turn them away, he unlocked the door to three men, one injured and two armed.
"What?"
"Gunshot wound."
"I can't ... I have to report..."
One of them pulled his gun on Guttshaw, ready to fire.
"You can and you will if you expect to survive this and you won't report it."
"I could lose my license."
"Not if you play your cards right."
Saving the life of an up-and-coming mob boss ensured many things—funding for the clinic, a semi-lucrative private practice and one very important thing—his life. An arrangement he could and did live with, everything went fine until a nosy investigative reporter came snooping.
Brett Cannon ruined his life. During an investigative report on the new New York City families, Cannon discovered the doctor's involvement in clandestinely treating gunshot wounds and other curious injuries. By the time the fallout happened, Guttshaw had left the city and set up practice in a quiet part of Northern California. The last act of one of the dons got him his medical license in the name of Jonathan Goodman.
Now Brett Cannon threatened him again. We'll see about that.
As long as he could remain a step ahead of the guy, he'd be safe. Using the man's wife could add icing to the cake since all he had to do was hide her and then disappear once he could safely do so. Mexico, maybe...
Goodman started making arrangements. By the time he'd finished, he had a new identity being created for him in the name of Doctor Jack Gaithers. Friends would set him up in a quiet Mexican town and he would disappear in about a week. In the meantime, he would remove Ainsley Reynolds to a private sanitarium under another name. Brett Cannon had taken his life away once before, now he'd repay the favor.
* * * *
Ainsley needed to know about Brett. She had no idea what his condition was or even where he'd been taken. Each time a nurse came into check on her, she begged for a phone and each time, she was told, No, doctor's orders. Frustration mounting, Ainsley spent a good part of her time crying.
When Doctor Goodman finally came in to see her, she begged him to let her make some calls.
"I have to know about him. He must be worried about me."
"No, you need to rest. Besides, in your condition, what can you honestly do for him?"
