“I don’t think I can face it.”
Eric knew exactly what I meant. “Don’t worry. Follow me.”
He led me out of the ward, along a corridor and into a broad, metallic elevator. We went down to the basement, turned left and walked down a very long corridor.
“How do you know where to go?” I asked him.
“I scouted it out while you were talking to the cops.”
Thorough, I thought, just like he is in business. Which was one reason why, at fifty-five years old, Eric Larsen had already climbed to the top of the greasy pole in Vancouver real estate development.
“This way,” he said, and led me into what looked like the mouth of a tunnel. “This underground passage takes us past laundry rooms and out the back way.”
Five minutes later we approached the outside door. Eric grabbed the handle.
“Ready?”
I nodded.
“Keep behind me and don’t stop.”
He stepped out the door and I followed on his heels.
Instantly several microphones were thrust in front of me, amid a cacophony of babbling voices. Early June sunlight blinded my eyes and I looked down at the ground, almost head-butting the mikes.
“Comment . . . related . . . injured . . . recovery . . . set back . . . connected . . .”
Only the main words registered as I pushed away the rest. The questions were background noise, instantly forgettable. I’d become good at that.
Eric’s bulky frame cut a swift path through the reporters. I was wondering how many blocks away he’d had to park – Vancouver General being right in the middle of the city – when he stopped, reached down and opened the passenger door of his silver Jaguar.
I dived inside. Eric shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side, grabbing a parking ticket from the windshield on his way. He turned the key and the engine purred to life.
“How’d you know you wouldn’t get towed?” I said.
“I could tell you I own the tow company VGH employs,” he replied, easing the long automobile through photographers and cameramen. “But the truth is, the new Eric Larsen Wing got me this special parking pass.” He tapped the upper corner of the windscreen.
“City Hall doesn’t seem to agree, though,” I countered, nodding at the parking ticket in his lap.
He scrunched the ticket up and threw it in the back seat. “That’s just a fake ticket I had printed up,” he laughed, “I call it insurance. There’s a stack of them in the glove compartment. Makes regular punters feel better, so they don’t scratch the paintwork.”
I shook my head in near disbelief. Typical Eric the Great Manipulator. We turned onto Broadway and headed west. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“Thought you might like to avoid your place for a while,” he said. “My workmen should have your front door and hallway repaired by tomorrow. You can stay with me and Maureen tonight.”
I pictured the view from the guest bedroom in Eric’s penthouse suite overlooking Jericho Beach. “Shouldn’t be too much of a burden,” I grinned, “Thanks, Eric.”
“Good. I want to talk to you later.”
A shadow fell over me as we passed a tall building and I shivered involuntarily. I had a pretty good idea what Eric wanted to talk about.