by Christy Poff
"Godspeed, sir."
The two men shook hands before Brett headed to the rear door of the house that opened to the breezeway between the mansion and the winery. Brett loved the layout of the property and appreciated the attention to detail and comfort. Yes, I made the right decision buying this place.
He entered the huge tasting room which Kane already had looking like an operations center command post.
"I see you've made yourself at home,” he mused.
"It's been easy. Most of the agents on the original search teams and the equipment stayed in the area. The men and women are all onboard for this."
"Good,” Brett said, before taking a deep breath. “I know where she is."
"Where?"
"At a private sanitarium north of here called Pacifica."
Kane went to a laptop, entered his request and brought up the website for the private mental hospital situated on a hillside overlooking the Pacific Ocean. On another laptop, he looked at one of the bureau's classified files on the facility—a pre-plan of the building listing hazards, utilities and other important information along with the floor plans.
Together, they looked at both files, deciding on several plans in order to secure Ainsley's freedom. Brett hated not knowing where they had been holding her but they both agreed on one thing—Guttshaw would want her kept away from anyone who might recognize her. One wing provided the needed security the bastard would want.
Chills ran up and down Brett's spine knowing they'd more than likely figured Guttshaw's game plan out. The only area secure enough for a high-profile case like Ainsley would be in the wing housing the violent patients or the criminally insane with money.
"My God, she's so genteel and..."
"Brett, we'll get her out, I swear it."
* * * *
Several hours later, three black Chevy Suburbans left Cannon Vineyards heading to the Pacific Coast Highway. They drove about half an hour before parking off to the side of the road passing by the white gates of the private hospital.
The teams joined up with Kane and Quincannon to get last minute instructions. Kane reaffirmed his reservations about Brett taking part in the operation but Brett determined to do it anyway. Nothing would stop him, even though Kane warned Brett he might be arrested for his own safety.
"I'm getting her out of there,” Brett stated emphatically.
"Then be careful."
"I plan on it."
"Gentlemen, you have your assignments. We go in five,” Eric announced. “Carlson, can I see you?"
"Inspector?"
"I want you to back up Quincannon and yank him out if need be."
"Yes, sir."
"Thanks,” Kane said, feeling relief with the knowledge someone would be watching Quincannon's six.
While he'd remain at the mobile command post, three teams would go into position, team one remaining back until they got the signal to go. Waiting for teams two and three to send word they'd made it into position, Kane silently said a prayer for a safe and happy outcome to the operation.
He watched Brett Quincannon—cool under fire.
"You should be an agent,” he mused.
"I did covert ops in the military, couldn't wait to get out."
"Branch?"
"Army."
"I see."
"I took a shot meant for a diplomatic target, saved his life and ended my military career."
"Why journalism?"
"Why not?"
Eric Kane knew when he wouldn't get any more out of a suspect or witness, Quincannon no different.
"Sir, two and three are in place."
"Affirmative,” Kane confirmed. “Team one—go."
Without a word, the remaining agents deployed as they'd been ordered. Brett waited a few moments then followed.
The wait began.
* * * *
Ainsley saw a rare chance and took it.
For days, she'd kept an eye on everything happening around her. She mentally noted every small or large event in an effort to try to do two important things—keep her sanity and try to escape.
She'd been sitting in a chair near the window when one of the attendants came into her room, then suddenly left. He pulled the door closed but it didn't latch and remained ajar. She waited and listened then slowly dragged her ailing body across the room.
Taking a deep breath, she peered into the hallway seeing no one around. Cautiously easing into the corridor, she headed away from the desk toward another door. Her leg in absolute agony, it took what seemed an eternity to get halfway down the hall, normally a short distance. Add in her constantly sedated state and everything went against her.
"Where do you think you're going, sister?"
Ignoring him, Ainsley kept going driven by her need to get to Brett. He'll know what to do...
"I'm talking to you."
Ainsley refused to acknowledge the voice talking to her. She finally made it to the door fighting to open it. Her heart sank when she discovered it locked like every other door.
"Get me a jacket!” the orderly yelled.
Ainsley became frantic, searching for another way out. I can't let them catch me...
"Come on, Miss Seton, time to go back to your room."
"No, please, don't,” she said, fighting the orderly's firm grip.
"We can do this easy or hard—it's your choice."
"I want to go home to my husband."
"You're not married, Miss Seton,” he told her, stressing the name they forced her to answer to.
"I am married. I'm Ainsley Quincannon,” she said in a weak voice.
Another attendant joined them and they forced Ainsley into a straight jacket. Ainsley found a hidden strength to fight them but her efforts seemed short-lived. They dragged her down the hall past her room.
"Where are you taking me?” she asked, becoming agitated and terrified.
"Your new room until you learn to behave."
"No, don't!” she screamed. “Help me, please!"
No one came to her aid, cries like hers a norm in their wing of the hospital. Her pain echoed through the building, ignored by everyone.
* * * *
Unknown to Ainsley—or anyone else for that matter—one man heard her cries. They sent chills through him, rage boiling in him. Knowing he had to keep to the plan set out helped keep his overwrought emotions in checque.
Brett Quincannon slowly took a deep breath and let it out in an attempt to regain control. He repeated it several times more with little success thanks to the sounds echoing through the building.
Quickly, the team made its way to where they thought Ainsley Quincannon might be incarcerated. Another scream told them their subject had been taken elsewhere in the wing—not a good sign. They followed the sound to a section used for those who became dangerous to themselves and others. Simply put, they had taken someone to a padded cell.
They took positions and waited for the right time to arrest the perpetrators involved. Brett stood off to the side, his Sig .45 caliber in his hand prepared to fire. The more he heard, the sicker he became. Brett knew exactly what was happening, ruing his helplessness to do anything for her.
"Miss Seton, behave!” a male voice ordered.
"I'm Ainsley..."
"No, Miss Seton, you are not,” the orderly told her.
Brett cringed from the venom in the man's voice. Why?
* * * *
Ainsley immediately recognized her new surroundings, the sight of padded walls with no windows horrifying her. Just like in the movies...
"Miss Seton, behave!"
"I'm Ainsley..."
"No, Miss Seton, you are not,” the orderly reminded her.
"I am,” she said, refusing to be called anything other than her name.
"Go get the gauze,” he told the other orderly. The other man did as ordered and handed a roll of gauze to the man holding her, who pushed her to the floor then bound her ankles together. She tried to fight him but his overbearing size w
on out.
"Thought you'd get away, didn't you, Miss Seton?"
"Help me!” she screamed.
"Good,” he said, “saves me the trouble of forcing your mouth open."
Ainsley felt the gauze in her mouth then several more layers after he finished wrapping it around her head to quiet her. She wept, hating her new circumstances.
"I'll contact your doctor so he can medicate you. Until then, I'd calm down and relax, Miss Seton."
Again Ainsley tried denying the name he used, tears streaming down her cheeks. She watched the men leave, the bright light of the room hurting her eyes. She closed them, sobbing.
Somebody, please, help me...
* * * *
Methodically, the federal agents went through each room of the private facility searching for Ainsley Quincannon. They secured each wing after making sure she wasn't there then locked them down to make sure the other patients didn't suffer any more than they had already. The teams converged on the wing housing the violent and criminally insane, apprehending the orderlies working the floor, along with several nurses and other staff members.
Brett went to the desk and accessed Anya Seton's file.
"She's supposed to be in Room 515."
"Room's empty,” one of the agents said after he checked it.
Brett watched Carlson go over to the group under guard and quietly ask if any of them knew her whereabouts. No answer.
"You have a patient here against her wishes as a result of a criminal conspiracy. This can be considered false imprisonment and is punishable by a jail term."
Still no response from the group. Then a young nurse spoke up, the others telling her to be quiet.
"I know where she is."
"Don't say a word if you know what's good for you,” the huge orderly warned.
"It's not right what you did,” the young woman retorted. “I didn't apply for a jail term when I came here."
"Where is the patient you know as Anya Seton?"
"She's in a padded cell. They put her in there half an hour ago,” she said, pointing to the two orderlies.
"You're dead, I swear,” the orderly hissed.
"Take the rest of the group in, charges pending,” Carlson ordered. Four of his agents escorted the group out of the wing then outside to a waiting van.
"Tell me what you know about this,” Carlson coaxed.
"They told me she tried to run and escape. She's been swearing she's not who we know her as but, every time she does, her doctor orders more medication for her. She gets very agitated and it doesn't help her. It's not right the way they treat her."
"Are there any other files on her case?"
"The doctor's private files are in his office. The shift supervisors give him a report at the end of each shift but I've never seen updates on that computer there."
Brett, who'd been clenching his fists impatiently, knew she spoke the truth, everything running true to form like the ones in New York and Connecticut.
"You have to get his private files. It's the only way to know what's been done to her and you've got to get them before he destroys them."
"Brett, find your wife and get her the hell out of here. I'll make sure we get everything you need plus we'll make sure there's no record of her ever being here."
"See if there's a contact for Guttshaw so we can find him."
"You got it."
"You don't sound like FBI,” Brett observed.
"I am but every once in a great while, one does what one has to do. Now, go..."
Brett nodded then followed the nurse's directions to Ainsley's new room.
Carlson instructed an agent to erase the Seton file from the computer at the nurse's station after printing a copy out then directed the nurse to take him to the doctor's office. On the way, he called Kane and brought him up to speed.
* * * *
Tired and weak, Ainsley desperately fought to free herself of the restraints. She'd never considered putting her slave into a straight jacket and never would, no matter how much he begged. I love him too much...
Slowly, she pushed her way over to the corner of the room then tried sitting up. Proud of this small accomplishment, she continued sobbing. Nothing mattered as long as Doctor Goodman left her somewhere she'd never be found.
"Help me!” she tried to scream, the gauze keeping her quiet. She whimpered like a child ostracized from the rest of its class, only she'd had her world taken from her.
Images of the two oversized orderlies haunted her. Terror ran through her at the thought they would return. The one had hurt her and for what? All she'd done was deny the name they called her by and her one fleeting attempt to flee.
"Behave!"
The word burned into her mind. She began having problems differentiating between the role of a dominant and this man's dominance. It scared her knowing her last tie to the real world had just snapped.
Ainsley Quincannon let her sanity go, lost to her and—maybe—a blessing. She stared at the bright white padded walls of the room and settled into life as someone else—Anya Seton, blissfully ignorant of what went on around her.
One tiny image held—she saw her husband and prayed he'd find a better life.
Catatonic, Ainsley had no clue what happened on the other side of the door. She stared, her beautiful bright eyes glassy and distant. She'd lost her grip on life and gave up—Goodman had won.
* * * *
"Doctor Gaithers, gracias,” the little boy's mother said.
"De nada,” he replied, smiling.
After they left his office, he placed his daily call to check on his patient in California.
"Pacifica,” a strange male voice answered.
"I'm calling to check on Anya Seton, my patient in..."
"One moment, please."
Guttshaw waited, pacing.
"Good day to you,” a cheery male voice said. “I'm the doctor filling in for your usual contact."
"Oh, what's going on?"
"He left on an extended vacation."
"Vacation? Where? Why wasn't I advised?"
"He's going to Club Fed."
Guttshaw nearly choked, feeling lightheaded from the news.
"Who are you?"
"Your worst nightmare,” the voice quietly said. “You'd better hope the Feds get to you before I do, Guttshaw. I owe you..."
"Quincannon?"
"Right again,” the voice said.
"But you..."
"Suffice it to say, I will find you and pay you back for this."
"Go to hell!” Guttshaw screamed into the tiny phone.
"Been there and back,” the voice said. “In fact, I'll see you there."
The line went dead, Guttshaw trembling. He paced wondering where and when everything went wrong. He took the cell phone and put it in the medical waste bin then instructed one of the men who helped at the clinic to take it to the landfill and bury it.
"But, Doctor, the hazard?"
"Do as I say, Manuel."
"Sí, señor."
Guttshaw went into his study, slammed the door and locked it. He then went over every arrangement he ever made for his Mexican retreat, praying he'd made no mistakes. He knew Quincannon. If the guy found out where Guttshaw escaped to, he would not have long to live.
"Quincannon's dangerous and he means business."
Guttshaw kept saying it over and over, needing the reminder. If he didn't or let his guard down in any way, shape or form, he'd be a dead man.
* * * *
"Brett, I..."
"Like I told him—he better hope you guys find him first."
"Brett, you can't turn vigilante. It won't help either one of you at all."
"I can't let it go. He's thrown..."
"Inspector Carlson, we've located Mrs. Quincannon."
"Where is she?” Brett immediately asked.
"Second door on your left,” the female agent said. “I have to warn you, sir—it's not good."
"Why?"
"She
's in a catatonic state."
"Shit!” Brett cursed. “Carlson, weave your magic. She's going to need someone outside the box to bring her back from this."
"I'll advise Kane,” Carlson said, keying his radio. “Go be with your wife."
Brett nodded then cautiously disappeared into the room where the field agent found Ainsley.
An agonized cry echoed throughout the ward.
"My God, Ainsley, no!"
The agents involved in the search operation moved away, leaving him alone. They went to various ends of the corridor in order to keep everyone out of the area of Room 2A. Carlson bowed his head, said a silent prayer, then quietly advised Kane.
"He's with her now."
Chapter 14
"My God, Ainsley, no!” Brett cried. “What have they done to you?"
Brett slowly crossed the room to where his wife leaned against the wall—her beautiful hair disheveled, her gaze distant. Afraid to scare her, he cautiously knelt beside her, brushing her hair from her face. He gazed into her eyes, trying to see into her soul but found nothing or as Pearson would say—there's no one home.
He easily removed the gauze wrapped around her face then moved to her bound ankles. A quick check of her legs told him the broken one had not healed.
"Baby, I'm so sorry,” he said, pulling her against his body so he could release the buckles holding her prisoner in the straight jacket. Once he removed it, he threw it to the side then put his jacket around her. The entire time, she did not react, her stare constant.
He slid his arms around her fragile body then lifted her up and carried her out into the corridor. One of the agents helped Brett wrap Ainsley in a blanket. Brett thanked her then headed out of the ward to the facility's main lobby.
The flight team met him and helped Brett gently place Ainsley on the flight stretcher. Brett told the flight nurse everything he knew then, refusing to leave his wife, Brett boarded the helicopter taking her to San Francisco General.
Unsure what she felt or didn't, Brett squeezed her hand. He tried talking to her, totally at a loss for words. The first time I can't say anything to her.
Rage coursed through him but he held it back—he had to. He could not risk Ainsley's life for any reason. He knew how unstable she'd become emotionally and physically, hating his helplessness. He bent closer, his lips next to her ear.
