This Just In [Internet Bonds Series Book 6]

by Christy Poff

  "Why? Why, Ainsley?"

  * * * *

  A week later, Brett sat in his private office with a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring at his life stacked in cartons marked only with the year of the assigned research. He contemplated what he should do with the boxes, torn between holding onto his past and the need to break away from it.

  His past had come back to haunt him tenfold and it involved an innocent. Ainsley suffered because of a report he did on the mob over a decade before when he accidentally uncovered information on Doctor Jonas Guttshaw.

  Brett started with the earliest research and went through each file. If he found nothing important, he shredded it and went on to the next one. Boring, it kept his mind busy and off matters at hand. He spent the next several days going through each carton. When he got to the one holding the mob files, he put it off to the side, went to the most recently dated box and worked his way back.

  Another few days and he had one carton left—the same one he and Eric Kane had gone through months before. He stared at it, a new rage coursing through him. Somehow, the answers he sought had to be inside.

  He stared at the year—1996. Eleven years, a madman had been free to live his life in comfort while his victims suffered emotional problems and lived needless nightmarish lives. Where's the justice?

  Slowly, he removed the lid, setting it aside. He pulled out each file, reading every word again. The answer had to be in this box. If not...

  Hours later, he had the file on Guttshaw sitting on the desk in front of him. One by one, he reread each page carefully, his mind overwhelmed by everything, though grateful the headaches had been taken care of. Had they not been, this would have wound up being a long, drawn-out process.

  "Can I get you anything, sir?"

  "Not right now,” Brett answered, rubbing his eyes. “How's..."

  "She's asleep. Her nurse gave her a mild sedative."

  "Why?” Brett asked, concerned.

  "She told me Miss Ainsley seemed restless and her leg seemed to be aching."

  "I'd better..."

  "In the morning, sir. When I left, both of them enjoyed a sound sleep."

  "Damn, I've been so preoccupied with all this, I've neglected..."

  "No, sir, you haven't,” Connery quietly assured him. “You've needed the distraction. Right now, there is nothing you can do for her considering her emotional state."

  "But..."

  "If I may play your Devil's Advocate..."

  "Go on,” Brett said, appreciating Connery's candor.

  "You need to get on with your life. You can't spend it waiting for her to return. What if she doesn't come out of it? You can't let the vineyard operations go. Life is going on and you have to go with it, even if she does not."

  "Connery, you are a good friend and somewhere inside me, I know you're right but..."

  "You won't be failing anyone, sir."

  "How do you guys get so smart?” Brett asked, referring to all the knowledgeable butlers he'd met over the years.

  "Years of practice. The former owner of this fine household availed himself of my counsel, as it were. Now, you..."

  "I'm glad you're here and thanks."

  Connery left him only to return a short time later with a tray for Brett. A roast beef sandwich called to Brett, who realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.

  "Thank you, Connery."

  "My pleasure, sir,” he said. “I'll let you know if she wakes."

  Brett nodded, sinking his teeth into the thick sandwich. After a few bites, he took a drink from a bottle of Budweiser then sat back. He thought about what Connery had said and it made sense, even to his frazzled mind. Somehow, Connery's words freed him from his self-imposed prison. He's right, how can I help Ainsley when I refuse to help myself?

  He finished his meal, slid the file to the side and decided to put off reading it until the next day. He left his office and went upstairs. After checking on Ainsley and kissing her good night, he crossed the hall to the guestroom he occupied and showered. Afterwards, he slid his naked body between the sheets. It took a short while before Brett Quincannon fell off to sleep but when he did, he slept hard—the first time in a very long time.

  * * * *

  In the morning, Brett woke early, dressed and went out to the stables. He saddled Zinfandel and rode out to the upper fields. He didn't look at grapes or inspect vines and he spoke to no one—he just rode, needing to clear his mind. It felt good to enjoy an aimless morning ride, something he had not done in ages.

  Hours later when he returned, he had a late breakfast then went upstairs to see his wife. When he entered the room, her nurse quietly left her patient's bedside.

  "How is she?"

  "About the same—her therapist increased her program yesterday and I think her leg is bothering her. I gave her a mild sedative to..."

  "Connery told me,” Brett said before he thanked her.

  "You're welcome, sir,” she said. “Will you stay with her? I need to do something and I'd rather not leave her alone."

  "Go ahead, I'll be here,” he assured her.

  Brett sat down in the chair next to their bed, taking Ainsley's hand while not hearing the door close when his wife's nurse left.

  "Ainsley—Mistress—I'm here when you're ready to come back. I may not be here immediately at your side but I'll be close enough to run back if you need me.” He took a deep breath. “Things are happening around here which need my attention seeing as we do own this beautiful place. Please understand that, while all of this is important to both of us, you are the most important of all to me."

  He paused, trying to find some glimmer of hope—even a small one—in her distant eyes.

  "Do you remember a song done years ago by a group named Bread called Everything I Own? Part of the lyrics is give up my life, my heart, my home—that's how I feel. I'd give it all up just to have you back again—our life together, your dominance—everything."

  Brett worried her wedding rings with his thumb.

  "Please, Mistress, I need you."

  Brett put his head on her hand, tears streaming from his eyes. After a few moments, he kissed her then left her to enter the world of the living. Being with her drove him to the file waiting on his desk.

  * * * *

  Ainsley heard what Brett said. She knew he talked to her several times a day but this time felt different. She could feel the heat between them and her body's reactions to him but nothing else. Her present state refused to allow her to live again.

  This time something different occurred. He'd mentioned a song from her teens—one the radio stations played often about the time her father gave her her first transistor radio. She remembered listening to it for hours.

  Slowly, her fragile mind wrapped itself around the memory and the lyrics of the song, Ainsley determined to recall each and every word.

  Finally, Ainsley had found the strength she needed to do something other than stare. She felt a little bit more alive—something she'd not felt for weeks.

  Brett, wait for me—please...

  * * * *

  In his office, Brett stared at two things—a manila folder and a mug of extremely hot freshly-brewed coffee. He took a drink from the mug then opened the folder.

  Over the next several hours, he poured over the research in the file. What he felt he didn't need, he slid to the side, though several times, he'd gone back to the previously read documents to confirm different facts.

  Near midafternoon, he sat back knowing more about the mob and its Doctor Fix-it than he remembered initially learning. He found a sheet of paper he'd never seen before. Quickly, he checked the rest of the file finding several others—the paper new and white instead of showing ten-year aging.

  "Connery!"

  A few moments later, Connery entered the room.

  "Sir?"

  "Check the rest of the house. It seems we've had a break-in."

  "What? I don't recall anything missing."

  "Who
ever did left something instead of robbing us."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I've got financial statements from fifteen years ago, a copy of a deed of sale to a property in Mexico and travel itineraries for the last decade—all for our friendly neighborhood Doctor Horror."

  "I'll have one of the men check right away."

  "Connery, while I spent all my time at hospital with my wife, did we have any visitors?"

  "Not that I recall but I'll check with the staff."

  "Thank you."

  When Connery returned after speaking with the staff, he had one bit of news.

  "No one on staff saw anyone during that time and there were no visitors."

  "Damn, someone left these,” Brett said, pointing at the new sheets of paper he'd pulled from the folder.

  "My man tells me he's found trampled plants and a strange footprint under one of the windows. He checked the window and found it had been pried open."

  "Where?"

  "The hallway to the north side."

  "Which we rarely use."

  "Exactly,” Connery agreed.

  "Good, then I'm not crazy."

  "No, sir."

  "This also tells me whoever did leave this had to have been in the house recently in order to know what is and isn't used."

  "Should I call the authorities, sir?"

  "And tell them someone broke in and left things instead of stealing them?"

  "Good point."

  Connery left him. Brett spread everything out in front of him wanting to get an overall view of what he had. After an hour, he sat back staring at several pieces of paper.

  "You sick son of a bitch."

  * * * *

  Connery answered Brett's page, meeting him out on the terrace.

  "Walk with me,” Brett said.

  "Sir?"

  "What I have to tell you is between you and me. I don't think our friend bugged the gardens."

  Connery fell silent, digesting the thought of this invasion into their lives.

  "Go on, sir."

  "I know where the bastard is and I know who broke in."

  "And, I assume, you're going after the one."

  "Yes."

  "What about the FBI?"

  "Kane broke in. To them, the case is cold but, as a New York Inspector, he cannot push anything out here without raising suspicions and unnecessary questions. He found information he must have thought I could use, left it here to be found when I got around to it then headed back to the Big Apple. He gave me time because he has a damned good idea what I'll do."

  "But, if I figure your intent correctly, I wonder if it's a wise move."

  "Maybe, maybe not but I have to do this for my wife."

  "And I should tell anyone asking..."

  "I'm looking at a new strain of grape or something."

  "I'll take care of it,” Connery assured him. “One question..."

  "If anything changes with Ainsley, call my cell phone. If it's not on, leave a voice mail and I will get back to you."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Connery, it's safer this way. You can't be forced into telling anything you do not know. If my wife asks, you won't be lying to her."

  Connery nodded.

  "What should I pack for you?"

  "You're a good man,” Brett said, shaking the older man's hand.

  "Thank you, sir. Now, about what you'll need..."

  * * * *

  Brett made arrangements for a rental car to be dropped off at the house. He went to the safe in his office and pulled out his Sig .45 making sure he had enough ammunition for it before he grabbed a small Beretta. He closed the safe then slid the Sig into his shoulder holster followed by two extra clips. The Beretta slid easily into his boot in another specially designed holster.

  He grabbed a jacket, slipping into it to hide his weapon then took the file he'd found his answers in. He did not want anyone figuring out his plans or where he'd actually gone plus, if anything happened to him, no one would know, meaning no one else would be hurt by Brett's enemy. If his plan proved unsuccessful, Ainsley would be safe—his last gift to her.

  "Sir, your car?” Connery asked, referring to the rental.

  "Thanks,” Brett acknowledged, relieved at the speed of the delivery.

  "You are not coming back, are you, sir?"

  "I plan to but this way, there'll be no trail leading back here."

  "Covert ops?"

  "Old habits..."

  "I understand,” Connery said. “I'll see to your luggage."

  "Thanks,” Brett said. “I'll be out in a few moments."

  Brett went back upstairs to see Ainsley. Before entering her world, he stopped to take a deep breath. He opened the door and went inside then nodded to her nurse who quietly left them alone.

  He found Ainsley sitting in a chair by the window overlooking the valley. Kneeling in front of her, he took her hand, kissed it then pressed it against his cheek.

  "Beautiful Mistress,” he said, smiling.

  Brett gazed into her eyes, still beautiful but distant. He told her about the day, his usual routine then steadied himself to go on with more.

  "I have to leave you, Mistress, on business dealing with the winery and the vineyards. I'm not sure how long I'll be gone but please remember you won't be alone while I'm away."

  He stood, leaned down and kissed her forehead.

  "I love you, Ainsley Quincannon—always and forever."

  Brett kissed her again then left his wife. He hated leaving her but he had to take care of Guttshaw face-to-face—the sooner the better. It's the only way...

  Brett took one last look at his gorgeous wife as if printing a picture of her in his mind before closing the door and leaving. He didn't see the lone teardrop run down her face.

  Chapter 16

  Doctor Jonas Guttshaw—Doctor Gaithers as he was known to the people of a tiny Mexican village—paced. Several calls to the private mental institution he'd stashed Ainsley Quincannon in had told him absolutely nothing. The only thing he did know for sure—Brett Quincannon wanted him dead.

  Fortunately, he couldn't be traced by cell phone. The one he'd been using the day Quincannon threatened him had been disposed of. He had used several others in the meantime, smart enough to switch off each time he called Pacifica.

  After a few attempts to learn about his patient, he stopped calling. He'd been found out, his subterfuge uncovered and his captive more than likely moved. Guttshaw didn't care figuring she'd be under medical care for a very long time. Besides, she knew nothing, so even if she did recover her sanity, she wouldn't be able to tell anyone anything anyway.

  Guttshaw relaxed at the thought of taking everything dear to Quincannon away from him. After all, the report the New York City television news aired ruined his practice and his lucrative sideline. Guttshaw vowed to repay Quincannon and he now felt the slate had been cleaned and they were even.

  "I'm living in a beautiful Mexican retreat and he's left with a mental invalid. What more can I ask for?” he asked.

  He could think of one answer—Quincannon dead—but he felt satisfaction knowing he caused an excruciatingly slow demise for his enemy.

  "Doctor, your next patient is waiting."

  "Gracias, Lupe."

  * * * *

  Ainsley watched Brett walk away from her. She felt a teardrop fall onto her cheek. I have to leave for a while—the words burned in her mind. She didn't hear the rest of what her husband said to her. Concentrating on those words, she rued the fact she'd driven him away.

  Now, you've gone and done it. He's gone and walked out of your life for good.

  She listened to the voice in her head, despair entering her dismal world. Helpless to stop him, she prayed he'd come back to her.

  I'm sorry. This isn't my fault. Please, Brett...

  "Brett..."

  * * * *

  Brett closed the door to the master suite and stopped, leaning against the wall. Sadness overwhelmed him as he let his body
slide down the wall to the floor. Sitting on his heels, he cried unable to understand why Ainsley's condition had been allowed to consume her life—and his.

  Several hours later, he pulled into the drive of his Yorba Linda home, the one he'd spent about two weeks in before Mistress Anya came into his life. He'd intended selling it but pulled the listing due to everything happening to him and Ainsley. At least I can use it as a base.

  "Your pickup will be delivered by two and they will take the car back."

  "Good, I appreciate this."

  "I'm glad I can help. I miss having you around."

  "I wasn't in the house that long."

  "You made an impression,” she said, smiling. “How's your wife?"

  "About the same—physically fine but emotionally distant."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I firmly believe you two will be together in every way. I refuse to think anything else."

  "Thanks, I needed to hear that."

  On schedule, an agent from the car rental company dropped off a four-wheel drive Dodge Ram pickup. Brett signed the paperwork using the same alias he used for the car, wanting a trail leading away from him. Besides, he liked the touch of irony—Jonathan Goodman made a good alter. Brett smiled—the circle will be unbroken.

  He slept for a few hours before leaving after sunset. He wanted to get where he was going, do what he had to and be on his way back to the States before or just after sunrise. At least, he hoped his plan would go according to schedule but he expected the worst. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have left three letters.

  One he left in his Yorba Linda study for his housekeeper—if anything happened to him, the house would be hers free and clear. He left two for Connery—one with instructions on what to do with Cannon Vineyards in the event he didn't return and Ainsley remained in her present state. The third letter went to Ainsley if she'd be able to read it herself. If not, Connery would put it in the safe until she could or until after her death when he would destroy it.

  Never before had he'd done anything like this because he didn't have roots or anyone he truly cared about. It amazed him how thorough he'd been, especially after calling his lawyer in New York and Judge Joseph Allan, the man who'd married them and who remained on as their legal council. Brett shook his head and walked out of the bedroom. He said a quick good-bye to his housekeeper then slid behind the wheel of the Dodge and drove away.