Chapter 7 - The Eviction from Paradise
Back in Vancouver, the rain had turned into a sleet storm.
In Room 608, David Mercer was weeping into his thin, rough hospital sheets. His femurs throbbed with a dull, burning agony that painkillers could no longer dull. He was parched, exhausted, and broken.
The hospital door opened, but it wasn't Gunther.
It was a stern-faced woman in a tailored black suit carrying a clipboard, flanked by two armed Vancouver police officers.
"Mr. David Mercer?" she asked crisply.
David blinked, hope flaring weakly in his chest. "Yes! Yes, that’s me! Are you from the American Consulate? Please... you have to get me out of here! My wife is torturing me! She hired an ex-military maniac to abuse me!"
The woman didn't flinch. "I am Dr. Alistair, Chief Financial Administrator for Vancouver General Hospital. We received a formal revocation of your American Express Centurion line from Vance-Sterling Capital in New York."
David froze. "Vance... Sterling?"
"Yes. It appears your corporate coverage has been canceled due to executive termination. Furthermore, your private health insurance provider has dropped your policy due to criminal fraud proceedings initiated in the State of New York."
"No... no, they can't do that!" David gasped, his voice cracking. "I'm an inpatient! I have compound fractures! I have human rights!"
"Under Canadian provincial healthcare regulations, non-residents without active insurance or valid liquid deposits cannot remain in private executive suites," Dr. Alistair said coldly. "Your daily room rate is currently outstanding by fourteen thousand dollars. Since your corporate cards are dead, you are being discharged from this facility."
"Discharged?!" David shrieked in horror. "I can't walk! Look at my legs! I am in traction!"
"You will be transferred via county transport to a non-profit municipal convalescent center in Surrey," she continued, signing her clipboard with an indifferent flick of her wrist. "They have an open cot in the four-bed recovery dormitory. The county transport departs in twenty minutes."
"Surrey?! A municipal dormitory?!" David cried, thrashing against his bed. "I am a multi-millionaire! I run Mercer-Cole Equity! You can't put me in a charity ward with drug addicts and vagrants!"
The bathroom door swung open. Gunther Weiss stepped out, wearing his heavy winter coat, his duffel bag slung over his massive shoulder.
"Gunther!" David sobbed, desperate enough to beg the very man who had spent three days tormenting him. "Gunther, please! I will give you a million dollars when my offshore accounts unlock! Protect me! Don't let them take me to a charity ward!"
Gunther looked down at David. His stone-carved face showed neither anger nor pity. Just total, absolute indifference.
"My contract with Client Clara Vance concluded at noon," Gunther said, zipping his duffel bag. "She paid me a bonus to give you this."
Gunther reached into his pocket and dropped a single envelope onto David’s immobilized chest.
David tore open the envelope with trembling, sweaty fingers.
Inside was a one-way Greyhound bus ticket from Vancouver to Port Authority Bus Terminal, New York. Dated for two weeks from today—the exact day his casts were scheduled to be downgraded to walking boots.
Stapled to the bus ticket was a brief handwritten note on thick cream stationery:
*David,*
*Lily took her first steps across the pediatric pavilion today. Her lungs are clear. She laughed.*
*I thought you should know that when you threatened her life for ten thousand dollars, you didn't prove your strength. You only proved how small a man can truly be.*
*Your bus leaves on the 14th. Don't be late. The FBI will be waiting at Gate 4.*
*—Clara*
May you like
David let out a ragged, broken howl of pure despair, clutching the bus ticket to his chest as two burly county orderlies wheeled in a rusty transport gurney to wheel him out into the freezing Canadian rain.
***
