by Christy Poff
"You don't understand—I need to talk to him. I need to know if he's alive."
"You need to get better."
"Why are you doing this?"
"It's for your own good."
Ainsley looked at him, seeing a man she thought she knew but began to realize she no longer did. He pulled the protective cap off a syringe and swabbed her arm, Ainsley looking at him in horror.
"What are you doing?"
"Shut up, Ainsley. For once, take commands instead of giving them. If you'd only stayed true and not decided to submit, Peter Holmes would never have attacked you and you would never have met me. You are becoming a huge problem."
"You knew Holmes?"
"No, I knew Diego and he's the one who brought you to me after the first attack—remember?"
"But...” she stammered. “Noooo..."
Whatever Goodman injected into her arm burned. She felt it make its way through her body torturously slow.
"You are the one person who right now will bring me down."
"How?"
"Your choice in men."
"What?” she asked, her lips beginning to numb. “What has Brett got to do with this?"
"Everything."
The burning intensified as the syringe's contents moved farther into her system. She gasped, her body jolting.
"What..."
"I've given you something to keep you manageable. In a short while, you'll be transferred to a private sanitarium up the coast for safekeeping. You'll remain there for the rest of your life, my dear. I'm warning you—behave or the sensations will be harsher."
"But..."
"It was good while it lasted, Ainsley. Diego sent me a gorgeous and wonderful patient but I won't miss you."
"But...” she croaked before screaming.
"Doctor Goodman?” a nurse said, running in to find him holding Ainsley down.
"Miss Reynolds is being moved to a private sanitarium up the coast for her own safety. Her depression has started into the violent stages,” he said, Ainsley quieting. “She's calmer now but make sure she's restrained so she doesn't hurt herself any more."
"Yes, Doctor."
"You see, Ainsley, you're not the only one who commands blind trust."
He turned to leave the room, Ainsley finding it impossible to move.
"Brett..."
* * * *
"What do you mean there's no clinic listed for this number? I just called it last night."
"I'm sorry, sir, but the number's been disconnected,” the operator said.
"And there's no forwarding number?"
"I'm sorry, sir, there isn't."
Jim Pearson cursed as he ended the call. What the hell's going on? He called Eric Kane to bring him up-to-date and find out how they had lost her.
"This is strange,” Kane agreed. “I tried to go see her and the nurse told me no visitors allowed."
"I don't like this at all."
"Neither do I. How's Quincannon doing?"
"Fortunately, he's still a little sedated because of the painkillers, though he wants to see her. The doctor's been handling him but it's not going to work much longer."
"I'm on my way over to the clinic. I'll let you know what I find out."
"Didn't you have someone watching the place?"
"Yes, and I can't get a hold of him either."
Pearson thanked him then stared out the window of the solarium trying to figure out how to break the news to Brett Quincannon that his wife was missing. He hated being the one to deliver bad news to a victim's family or to the family of an officer injured or killed in the line of duty—most of whom he didn't know. This was one of his closest friends.
"Detective?"
"Yeah,” he said, coming back to reality. “What's going on, Doctor Longoria?"
"Have you found out anything new about his wife?"
"She's missing."
"What?"
"We can't get in contact with her, her doctor or the clinic. The clinic's phone has been disconnected."
"That is strange,” Longoria agreed. “I'll call the other medical facilities in the area to see if they've gotten a transfer."
"Thanks, Doc."
"Just one question."
"What?” Jim asked, knowing he knew what Longoria would ask him.
"How is it you lost her? Why didn't you have somebody with her?"
"That's what I want to know. The Feds had charge of the scene. I came in here with Brett and have no clue what transpired after I left."
"Good luck finding out."
"Thanks."
"Take a few minutes to gather your thoughts together then go in. He wants to see you and he needs to know."
"I know, Doc. Thanks."
* * * *
Brett Quincannon sat up in his hospital room at San Francisco General Hospital. He stared out his window at the sky but all he saw in his mind was his beautiful wife. Where the hell are you?
"Knock, knock."
Brett looked to where the familiar voice came from, happy to see his friend.
"Yo, I hear you've been here the whole time."
"I have."
"Thanks, I owe you."
"You may be throwing me out of here once I tell you..."
"What's happened to Ainsley?” Brett asked, sitting up more.
"The Feds seemed to have lost her."
"What?” Brett screamed.
"The way the story goes, an older gentleman claiming to be her personal physician, who conveniently also runs a private clinic down the road from Cannon Vineyards, stated he'd take her there for immediate treatment once the searchers found her. He did then refused Kane's calls. Short answers was all Eric got out of him."
"Didn't he assign an agent?"
"One who is also conveniently not answering his cell phone."
Brett went to get out of bed, Jim stopping him.
"Whoa, where do you think you're going?"
"To..."
"You will do her no good if you do this. Kane's on his way to the clinic to see what's going on. He'll call me as soon as he finds out something."
"We're talking about Ainsley."
"I know and I dreaded telling you this but..."
"But she's out there..."
"And you're here with a rebuilt leg that needs to heal some more."
"It doesn't matter without her. I couldn't protect her from Holmes and now some maniac has her God alone knows where."
"And we're doing everything we can to find her. I called my partner and he's doing background on Goodman from a New York angle."
"Why New York?"
"Call it a gut feeling."
A knock on the door interrupted the conversation.
"Detective, there is someone at the desk who'd like to see you for a moment."
"Thanks,” Jim said. “I'll be right back."
While Jim went to talk to whoever wanted to see to him, Brett closed his eyes, his fist clenched. He'd failed her—his mistress and only love—and Pearson proved to be right. He could not help her if he couldn't walk. He hated feeling helpless—even more so now.
Pearson returned with a thick file folder under his arm. Brett took a deep breath, slowly letting it out to calm his body.
"Doctor Jonathan Goodman has a New York history but under a different name. Tell me what you think and don't hold back."
Brett took the file, looking at it closely. He read it, his anger beginning to take over.
"Well?” Pearson asked.
"This son of a bitch is mob-related. I heard he left New York after I did an investigative piece on the new families."
"I remember it."
"Well, this guy treated their people and never did the proper notifications."
"It looks like he left one coast for the other. Could he be blaming you for anything?"
"Good possibility. His departure lost him an extremely lucrative private practice."
"Would he call home for some help?"
"Probably, I imagine
he still has ties though at this point, they may be thinning out."
"Where would he stash her?"
Brett sat deep in thought, trying to remember his investigation.
"The family Guttshaw had strong ties with liked to stash their problem children in private sanitariums. They'd pay off the hospital big time then keep whoever hidden away using intense drug therapy."
"I'll talk to Longoria. He's checking local hospitals for recent transfers."
Brett pounded his fist into the bed. He knew exactly what Guttshaw/Goodman/whoever would do to her. He'd seen one of their hidden problems and what had been done to her had made him sick.
"He'll use an assumed name—something totally unexpected like a politician's or celebrity of some sort. He might even use one known but not to the general public. I remember he once used Benjamin Franklin."
"I'll tell him."
Brett pressed the nurse's call button.
"Yes, Mister Quincannon?"
"Could you find Doctor Longoria please?"
"He's in emergency right now."
"Thanks,” Brett said, disappointed.
"Don't worry, Brett, we'll get her back."
"But will she be in one piece?"
Chapter 12
Ainsley woke what seemed like an eternity later. She looked around the room, unsure where she was. She thought she had been moved but after the injection burned its way through her, she couldn't be sure of anything. She tried moving but found she'd been restrained to the bed. Why?
"Ah, Miss Seton, do you feel calmer now?” a nurse asked.
"What..."
"You became violent and your doctor medicated you before he had you transferred here."
"Where?"
"Pacifica."
"When?"
"Yesterday morning."
"I need..."
"You need rest."
Ainsley began to become agitated. She needed to talk to Brett. She didn't want to hear about needing rest.
"Please..."
"Now, Miss Seton, do you want me to give you a sedative?"
"No, please, no..."
"Then behave, Miss Seton."
"I'm Ainsley Quincannon."
"No, you are Anya Seton. Are you related to the author? I love her books."
"I'm Ainsley..."
* * * *
Jonathan Goodman left explicit instructions for Ainsley Quincannon's care and treatment. Following past habits, he signed her in to the sanitarium under the name of Anya Seton, an author of historical romance novels his mother favored. He further ordered her cast be removed telling the doctor he paid off how much easier it would be for everyone involved.
Once he learned she was settled into her new home, Goodman went back to the clinic to make sure no evidence of her being there or his practice remained. Getting rid of the FBI agent then dumping his body in the compost pile in the rear of the building had been unexpected but necessary and he managed to take care of it without a lot of to-do. He burned Ainsley Reynolds’ clothes, along with the clinic's records. Before he locked up and left, he kicked over a trash can he'd lit a fire in and waited for the flames to take hold.
Locking the door on another part of his past, Goodman left the clinic and the Napa Valley, heading south in a rental car leased to yet another alias.
Hopefully, this is the last time.
* * * *
Eric Kane sped to the address he'd been given for a private clinic in the Valley. He kept going over everything happening from the moment the helicopter flew Brett Quincannon to the hospital over and over again.
He kept questioning his decision to allow a private physician with literally no identification to disappear with the prime witness to a serial killer's trail of death. He'd made a fool's decision he would forever blame himself for, especially if Ainsley Quincannon perished thanks in part to his stupidity.
The first thing he discovered was Agent Graham's car. Quickly, he checked it out finding no clues to lead him to the missing agent. He found a half-filled coffee cup from a nearby convenience store, and the key still in the ignition.
Removing the key, he locked the car after checking the trunk and headed to the clinic building across the street. Peering in a window, his worst fears came true. He could see absolutely no sign of a medical practice ever existing.
Walking around the side, he followed a sidewalk to the rear of the property. He spied an open window and slipped inside, finding another empty room. Kane cursed his stupidity even more. Face it, you've just put the screws to the biggest case of your career...
He called the local field office requesting a forensics team to respond to his location. He ordered an APB and BOLO put out on the missing agent and the doctor who could have a hostage and, dreading the possibility he had to consider, he requested search dogs and a cadaver dog. He knew in his heart the good doctor had left no witnesses.
Suddenly he smelled smoke.
Eric Kane crossed the room to a closed door. Quickly checking it with the back of his hand and feeling no heat, he cautiously opened the door to see a trash can on its side. Flames burned inside and ate at the flooring around it. He stomped out the fire on the floor after righting the trash can then Eric ran to the bathroom and found a bucket. Filling it with water, he doused the remaining fire in the trash can then called 9-1-1 for a fire department response.
"Inspector?” a voice called.
"In here."
"I'm with forensics, sir,” the agent announced.
"Good, I want this can and the area around it processed immediately."
"As soon as I can, sir."
Kane left him to his job, walking into the back room where he'd made his initial entry into the clinic. He looked out the window and saw a search team in the backyard. On one side, there was a beautiful garden while on the opposite, a high fence walled off the compost pile he'd discovered earlier.
A yell caught his attention when one of the dogs hit on something. He ran outside and got to the spot just as the first discovery had been made. Under a thick layer of dry leaves and other degradables lay the body of his missing agent.
"Shit!"
* * * *
Ainsley sensed someone in her room. She tried to move her head to see but it hurt too much. A headache she figured came from one of the gunshots overwhelmed her and she felt extremely hot. She felt the perspiration rolling down her face and neck. Now, what's wrong with me?
"Doctor?” the nurse said.
"Yes?"
"She's awake again."
A man loomed over her, Ainsley trying very hard to understand what was happening to her.
"Miss Seton, I'm Doctor Jones and I'm taking care of you while you are here at Pacifica."
"What?"
"You are suffering from several things. The fever and sweating are from the pneumonia after your foolish horseback ride."
"Can't move..."
"You've been given a sedative to calm your violent tendencies. You are restrained for your own safety since you tried to attack one of my nurses."
"What?"
"Your cast has been removed as well—can't have you kicking the staff."
"But it's broken..."
"And it might heal if you remain relaxed and noncombative."
"I want my husband."
"You are not married, Miss Seton."
"My name is Ainsley..."
"No, Anya, it's not and you must stop believing otherwise."
"I am Ainsley Quincannon and I am..."
"Nurse, her medication."
"Yes, doctor."
"No more, please..."
"I'm sorry but you leave me no choice."
* * * *
Brett and Jim waited for Eric Kane's phone call. It never came. Instead, he walked into Brett's hospital room.
"Brett, before I give you the latest, please accept my apology for this. I take full responsibility for what's happened."
"As you should,” Brett said, holding back his emotions. “Where i
s she?"
"I personally went to the clinic. It looked like no one had ever been there—all the rooms empty save the trash can someone lit a fire in so the place would burn to the ground."
"And?” Pearson asked.
"We have definitive proof your wife was there and recently. Our suspect burned her clothes, along with all his patient files and records. I had a test done on the fabric and the technician found Ainsley's epithelials in one of the folds of the fabric protected from the fire. We got lucky because they survived the fire."
Brett felt relief having the proof but he still felt responsible, especially after learning about Guttshaw or whatever he called himself now using his wife in an effort to save his own ass. God, how am I going to make this right again?
His thoughts drifted to the argument a few days after they married. The hatred in her eyes when she thought she'd been betrayed by him would be nothing compared to how she might feel once this ended. How the hell can I face her? I've failed the one true love in my life—my wife. My Mistress...
"Brett, are you all right?"
"No, I want out of here. I need to find her."
"We're doing the best we can,” Eric assured him. “Jim's idea of going back to New York then learning about your connection saved us a hell of a lot of time. We've started tracking him."
"But it doesn't find her,” Brett stated. “You haven't seen what his methods do to people. He'll make her wish she were dead."
"Brett, I swear..."
"I don't want words, I want my wife!"
* * * *
Jonathan Goodman pulled into the gates of a secluded reserve in Northern Mexico. Located in the mountains, it had natural protection surrounding it. Anyone unaware of its existence would never find it. He'd stumbled on to it by accident while vacationing in Mexico twenty years before and snatched up the property immediately.
Following the driveway, he went up to the house and parked off to the side. Gathering his bags, he went up to the front door. An older Mexican woman waited for him, taking his things from him to put in his room.
"Maria Elena, any news?"
"The village is overjoyed you've come back. They've had to travel hours to get needed treatment. Now, they look at you as a blessing from God. Welcome home, Señor Gaithers."
"Gracias,” he said, smiling. The fact the villagers felt this way told him they would protect him. No way would they risk losing their blessing from God.