by Christy Poff
"Is there anything else?"
"Get one of the men from the village to take the rental car back to town. All he has to do is return it and give back the keys."
"Sí, señor,” she said, taking the keys and leaving him alone.
He went through his mail, finding nothing of importance. Dropping it on the table, he went and poured himself a glass of tequila and took a healthy swig before pulling out a cell phone he purchased in Los Angeles. He waited for his call to go through.
"Pacifica."
"This is Doctor Goodman checking on Miss Anya Seton."
"One moment,” she said, putting him on hold.
"Yes, Doctor,” a male voice said.
"How is Miss Seton?"
"Agitated and delusional. She keeps telling everyone she's someone named Ainsley Quincannon."
"Have you medicated?"
"Yes and she's restrained. We removed the cast as you ordered."
"And?"
"She didn't like it."
"Keep following my orders."
"And if she gets worse?"
"You know what you have to do."
"Yes, sir."
Goodman hung up, pleased. Ainsley Quincannon would seal her own fate and her husband would never find her. He'd spend the rest of his life blaming himself for causing her death—the punishment not harsh enough for a snoopy New York reporter.
"You ruined my life, Quincannon—now I'm going to ruin yours."
"Doctor Gaithers, you're needed in the village."
"Gracias, Maria Elena."
* * * *
Brett Quincannon spent as much time as he could working his damaged leg. It didn't bother him that the doctors objected, Brett now a driven man. He knew what he had to accomplish and he'd had plenty of time to make definite plans.
First and foremost—find Ainsley and get her back. After he knew she was safe and getting the help she would need, he'd go after Guttshaw. The only way he'd ever be able to face his wife again would be after he could assure her the danger from his life would never touch her again—ever.
Part of his rehab involved water therapy. His therapist left him to do his exercises in a small pool. The area he'd been using sat in a corner of the building housing an Olympic-sized pool. The moment she'd left him alone, he eased out of the pool and made his way to the larger one.
Taking a deep breath, Brett dove into the pool and began swimming laps. It felt good to be able to do something he enjoyed while hoping it would help strengthen his leg and the rest of his body.
When he surfaced at the edge of the pool, he stared straight at a pair of feet, one foot tapping impatiently.
"What the hell do you think you are doing?"
"Working out while enjoying the pool."
"You're not ready. You could..."
"I'm more than ready,” he shot back, unaware of the intensity in his voice.
"But you don't understand..."
"No, you don't understand,” Brett retorted. “My wife is out there somewhere at the mercy of a maniac and it's because of me."
"Can't the police..."
"It's me he's after. He'll use her to get to me without caring what he does to her in the process."
"But..."
"No, ma'am,” he said, “I know exactly what I'm doing."
* * * *
The reports Kane received with reference to their on-the-lam doctor disappointed him. In all the information they'd compiled, they could find no clues where he might have hidden Ainsley Quincannon or where he fled to. How is it the mob does better than witness protection?
Jim Pearson had returned to New York, his commanding officer needing him back on the job. He faxed numerous files to Kane's temporary office in San Francisco but, as yet, Kane had learned nothing useful.
Frustrated, he called Brett Quincannon.
"Quincannon."
"Brett, how are you feeling?"
"Better and thanks for the sports medicine guy."
"I figured you'd want the rehab expedited."
"Definitely,” Brett agreed. “What do you need?"
"To the point—I like that,” Kane said, trying to lighten the tone of the conversation. “I need help. In everything you have on Guttshaw/Goodman/whoever, do you have any personal info we can use?"
"My files have yet to come out of the boxes since I've moved twice in as many weeks. Come over to the house and we'll see what I have."
"Can I bring anything?"
"Bring some beer. I'll have the cook put on some steaks."
"I'm on my way."
* * * *
Brett limped into the room he'd decided to use for his personal office. This way, he kept his past separate from the winery's affairs. He looked at various boxes labeled only by year. He indexed the entire lot completely in his head, something which baffled those who knew him.
The box he wanted was in the middle of one stack which sat in the center of all of his files. Groaning, he moved the two cartons on top of the one he wanted. About to pull it out, he stopped when a typically British voice offered to do it for him.
"Connery, you have a knack for appearing when you're needed."
"That's why I'm here,” Connery said, taking the box from where it had been stacked. “Where should I put it, sir?"
"On the desk is fine."
"Very well."
Connery reminded Brett of Sir Michael Caine, one of his favorite actors and, he remembered, one of his favorite interviews. Connery had remained on staff after Brett and Ainsley bought the winery property and had been extraordinarily helpful ever since.
"Is there anything new, sir?"
"Not right now but you'll more than likely be able to replace the boxes later."
"Very good, sir,” Connery said before he left the room.
Brett eased himself into the chair behind his desk and let his body relax. He poured a glass of iced tea replacing the pitcher on a tray that had mysteriously appeared—he guessed while he moved the boxes. Thank you, Connery.
Ever since he'd come home from the hospital, Connery had quietly hovered over Brett, seeing to his needs. Brett knew he'd been in contact with Doctor Hyun, the doctor Kane had put on his case. He knew Longoria didn't appreciate Kane's interference but he'd told Brett he understood and wished him the best.
Doctor David Hyun had put Brett on a plan he used with agents injured in the field, sports figures and anyone whose day-to-day life did not allow for months of long rehab. Considering Kane felt guilty for Ainsley's situation, Brett appreciated the man's help.
Hyun had given him a tough regime to follow and sent him home to finish his recovery once Brett told him about the gym and the huge pool already in place on the property. Brett went home and worked overtime to strengthen his leg after Peter Holmes nearly destroyed it. Working out served another purpose—it kept Brett from suffering a major case of separation anxiety.
As long as he kept his mind busy, he staved off the physical sickness resulting from Ainsley's absence. Not easy to do, Brett knew it would be the only way to get his wife back home to their life together—if she survived Guttshaw's abduction. When he fell asleep, he had nightmares. In his free time, he brooded.
Ainsley had been missing for two weeks and counting with no trace. Brett knew she had to be nearing her breaking point—even a strong Dominant like Ainsley could only handle so much. He'd seen what Guttshaw's treatments had done to others, leaving his patients mindless or just short of having a lobotomy performed to keep them silent. Brett blamed himself for her present state, the time wasted attempting to unsuccessfully find her.
He took a deep breath before he opened the carton marked 1996. In it, he'd filed his extensive research for a year-long and very intense, exhausting investigation—the ramifications from his work—good and bad. He searched for the file compiled on Doctor Guttshaw looking for anything the present investigation had not uncovered.
"Mister Kane to see you."
"Thank you, Connery. Please tell Mella to h
ave the steaks ready at five."
"Very good, sir."
Eric thanked him then joined Brett at his desk.
"Here, you look like you could use this,” he said, handing Brett a bottle of Molson.
"You are a good friend,” Brett beamed. “I haven't had Molson for a couple years."
"I'm still trying to redeem myself."
"You can stop! This is as much my fault as anyone's."
"Still..."
"Let's get to work. We can argue about this once we find my wife."
"Good idea."
The two men went through each folder—page by page, line by line, word by word. They found nothing to lead them to Ainsley Quincannon. Half the carton done, they had the other half yet to go through.
"Sir, dinner is being served on the smaller patio."
"Thank you."
After a relaxing steak dinner and another beer, they went back to Brett's office and the second half of the box. When Brett read his last one, he dropped it into the box, disgusted.
"Nothing in this one either,” Kane said.
"What?"
"The one on his mother."
"Let me see it,” Brett said, taking the file and reading through it. He paled reading the second to last page.
"What did you find?"
"The answer!"
"What?"
"Call Longoria and get him to check admissions under the name of Anya Seton at all hospitals and sanitariums."
"Why?"
"It's personal—something between Ainsley and me,” Brett stated, skirting the issue. “Suffice it to say, the son of a bitch knows the connection and he's using it."
"How?"
"Diego."
"Diego?"
"He's the one who brought Ainsley to the private clinic in the first place."
"If you say so."
"Trust me."
"I'll have to but what does a dead author have to do with this case?"
"Anya Seton was one of his mother's favorite authors."
"Why did you..."
"I wanted to contrast kindly mom with sadistic son."
"I don't want to know."
"Good."
Kane called Longoria and told him what Brett had learned. He hung up a few moments later.
"Well?"
"He'll call us back as soon as he finds out."
"Start making plans. As soon as I find out where she is, I'm going in to get her back."
"Brett, let the bureau handle it."
"Not being smart, but letting the bureau handle this is why we're having this conversation to begin with."
Kane fell silent, knowing Quincannon was right.
"I'll go make some phone calls."
"Good and hurry,” Brett warned. “You can use the tasting room to brief your team."
"I'm on it."
Brett waited for Kane to leave him, knowing the FBI inspector had to get his teams together immediately. He knew what he had to do and Kane had better realize upfront that Brett would be involved in his wife's rescue.
He went outside on the terrace with another bottle of beer. He'd been on an adrenaline high thanks to the break in the case and the possibility of seeing Ainsley soon. Thinking of her, he went upstairs to their playroom, taking in her presence.
"All I want right now is your dominance. I pray he's hasn't destroyed that."
His cell phone rang.
"Quincannon."
"Brett, it's me. Your friend's tip did it."
"Where is she?"
* * * *
Ainsley spent her time trying to remain Ainsley Quincannon. Every time someone called her by the name they insisted on using, she corrected them, denying them. Punishment for her denial helped her keep her sanity but she realized how tough it was becoming.
Her shoulder seemed to have heeled though, at this point, she couldn't be sure about anything. Her leg hurt continually reminding her about Goodman's orders to have her cast removed prematurely. Why? What the hell did I do to him? He was always so good to me until ... When?
She couldn't remember and vaguely recalled him mentioning Brett's involvement in something but she'd given up on that, concentrating on her memories of her husband. Unfortunately, as each day passed, it became harder. She wept when she realized she'd never see him again.
A part of Ainsley realized she faced living the remainder of her life in a loony bin. No one had specifically told her where she'd been brought but all the pieces fell into place—the treatment, the drugs—all of it.
Somewhere in the last shreds of Ainsley's sanity, she refused to believe Brett had abandoned her. He'd never do that to her unless he fought to save his own life. She could remember fragments of what happened at the winery. He'd told her to run to save her life. Did he give his life for mine?
"No, Brett loves me. I have to hold onto that."
In the last few days, she'd watched everything carefully. While she looked out the window at the ocean, she tried to plan her escape. Somehow, she had to get out of wherever she'd been held and find Brett. She needed him more than she'd ever thought possible.
"But what if he doesn't want you?" a little voice asked.
"He has to. I am his mistress."
"And if he chooses to betray you?"
"Then I deserve to either be here or in the ocean."
* * * *
"Pacifica,” a small female voice answered.
"This is Doctor Longoria, San Francisco General. We are trying to locate Anya Seton and we think she may have checked herself into your facility."
"We do have a patient by that name here."
"And her condition?"
"Not good. She's delirious..."
"How so?"
"She swears she's someone else."
"Can she have visitors?"
"Not at the moment."
"I see. Her family is worried and needs to see her."
"Her doctor is unavailable at the moment to speak with you but I'll let him know you called."
"Thank you."
Longoria no sooner hung up before he impatiently waited for his next call to go through.
"Quincannon."
"She's at Pacifica on the coast up north of here."
"And?"
"It's not good."
Chapter 13
"This is Doctor Goodman checking on my patient, Anya Seton."
"Yes, Doctor. I'll get her doctor."
Guttshaw waited until the doctor he'd paid off to care for Ainsley Quincannon came to the phone. He had no idea what his name was, nor did he care. As long as the guy didn't run his mouth off to others, everything would be fine.
"Doctor, how are you?"
"The patient?"
"Refuses to accept her identity, delusional—maybe a little more so than when you called yesterday."
"Keep an eye on her and follow my previous directions."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll call..."
"There's one other thing."
"What?"
"A doctor from San Francisco General called late in the afternoon when I could not be reached. A receptionist answered, confirming patient Anya Seton had checked in."
"What else did she say to him?"
"The patient is not allowed visitors of any kind."
"I see,” Guttshaw said.
"She's new and followed the standard protocol of advising other medical authorities on patients’ conditions."
"How did she know this doctor was being honest?"
"I checked him out through the American Medical Association's registry and he's legit."
"But how did she know?"
"I don't know."
"Then I'm holding you responsible. Remove your problem permanently."
"I can't fire her."
"I said—eliminate the problem permanently. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir—permanently."
* * * *
Police responded to a hysterical woman's report of finding the body of a young woma
n lying along the edge of the Pacific Coast Highway. When they arrived on location, they found she'd been strangled then dumped.
Lividity showed death occurred several hours prior and somewhere else according to the medical examiner's report. It stated two separate locations where blood settled from inactivity of the body.
"She'd been murdered elsewhere—I'd say about ten to twelve hours ago then the killer dumped her about six to eight hours later."
The victim's driver's license gave her address as in the area and her ID card showed she worked at Pacifica, an elite private sanitarium several miles down the coast and south of where the body had been located. Preliminary questioning of the on-duty staff told the investigating officers that the victim left work at around four and no one really knew her since she'd only been on the job a few days.
The officer put out an APB on her car—a Honda Accord—hoping they might learn something from it. Once they located the burned-out wreckage, their hopes of learning anything new vanished. Forensics would have a long job ahead of them in order to find anything. The officer made one comment on his copy of the report—all evidence appears to point toward a professional hit.
"What were you into, my dear young lady?"
* * * *
Brett put on the leg brace Doctor Hyun had given him to wear if he felt the need.
"It will support the injury but do not overdo things,” he warned. “I'm sure my words of caution have gone straight over your head because you are no different than any of my other patients. I understand your reasons and I do not blame you—just take care of yourself because if you don't, you won't do either one of you any good."
Hyun's words burned into Brett's mind—good advice and true. Brett needed to be able to give his wife everything he could because she would definitely need him in every way.
Before he left the master suite of the home they shared, he went to a hidden wall safe and pulled out his Sig .45 caliber. Slipping it into his shoulder holster, he grabbed two extra clips, checked both then closed the safe. Leaving the room, he slipped into a lightweight jacket then went to find Eric Kane. Walking with the leg brace felt extremely good. He appreciated Hyun's foresight, grateful for Kane's guilt over what had happened.
At the foot of the staircase, he met Connery, who handed him his painkillers.
"I imagine you'll need these, sir."
"Yes, I probably will,” Brett agreed. “Thanks."
