Chapter 6 - The Merciful Hand of Matron Gertrude
The intake coordinator at North Shore Custodial didn't even hesitate.
"For double the commercial day-rate, Mrs. Montgomery, you don't just get a caregiver."
"You get Matron Gertrude Vane."
"She spent twenty-four years running the infirmary at a maximum-security women's correctional facility in northern Manitoba."
"She does not tolerate whining."
"She does not tolerate unauthorized visitors."
"And she views patient complaints as a sign of moral weakness."
"She sounds like an angel," I said without a trace of irony.
"I am sending you the power-of-attorney medical clearance forms right now."
"Both patients—my husband Tristan and his young associate Chloe—have suffered extensive skeletal trauma."
"They require total bed rest, zero internet access to prevent neurological strain, and a very spartan, therapeutic recovery environment."
"Matron Vane will follow your written physician protocols to the letter," the coordinator assured me.
"Where should we transport them upon discharge?"
"Transfer them to your long-term residential annex on the outskirts of Surrey," I instructed.
"The isolated brick property."
"Do not bring them to a luxury hotel."
"Their medical needs are far too severe for modern distractions."
"Understood, Mrs. Montgomery."
"Matron Vane will take custody of your family members at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."
Ten hours later, the double doors of the Vancouver General Hospital orthopedic ward swung open.
Tristan lay flat on a rolling transport gurney, his broken leg suspended in a heavy plaster casing.
Beside him, Chloe sat strapped into a transport wheelchair, her face pale, bruised, and swollen beneath her bandages.
They were both expecting a luxury limousine and a team of smiling private concierge nurses wearing cashmere scrubs.
Instead, a towering woman with iron-gray hair cropped close to her skull stepped into the foyer.
Matron Gertrude Vane stood six feet tall in orthopedic leather shoes and a stiff, starch-whitened canvas uniform.
She held a heavy metal clipboard in one calloused hand.
She looked down at Tristan Montgomery through thick, wire-rimmed spectacles with the enthusiasm of an executioner inspecting a condemned cell.
"Tristan Montgomery?" she barked, her voice cutting through the lobby like a foghorn.
Tristan blinked against the bright morning light, his head pounding.
"Yes... who are you?"
"Where is the executive transport team from the Four Seasons recovery suite?"
Matron Vane let out a single, sharp bark of laughter.
"Four Seasons?"
"You are entering the specialized residential wing of North Shore Custodial, young man."
"Your legal wife signed over your long-term rehabilitation custody to my personal authority."
"She gave very clear, very specific medical directives."
Chloe looked up from her wheelchair, her voice trembling with panic.
"Wait... what about me?"
"I am an independent patient!"
"I didn't authorize this woman to touch me!"
Matron Vane stepped forward and snatched the clipboard from the discharge nurse.
"Your emergency admission was co-signed under the Montgomery marital health guarantor policy, little girl."
"Without it, the hospital was about to surrender you to the municipal indigent shelter."
"You have no Canadian assets and no domestic insurance."
"You belong to my unit until your invoices are cleared."
"Now, shut your mouth before you aggravate your cervical collar."
Tristan tried to lever himself up on his elbows, shouting in outrage.
"This is an outrage!"
"Give me my phone!"
"I demand to speak to my personal attorney in Seattle!"
Matron Vane reached down with lightning speed.
She plucked Tristan’s smartphone directly from his helpless, trembling fingers.
With a flick of her wrist, she dropped the five-thousand-dollar titanium device into a heavy lead-lined Faraday lockbox strapped to her belt.
She clicked the padlock shut.
"Patient directive rule number one," Matron Vane announced calmly.
"Zero digital stimulation."
"Blue-light emissions disrupt melatonin synthesis and aggravate postoperative inflammation."
"Your wife was particularly concerned about your blood pressure."
"You will receive zero phone calls, zero internet access, and zero electronic entertainment."
"You can't do this!" Tristan roared, thrashing against his traction straps.
The sudden movement pulled violently on his fractured femur.
A blinding jolt of agony shot through his pelvis, cutting off his shout into a strangled shriek of pain.
Matron Vane leaned down until her cold, flinty eyes were mere inches from Tristan’s nose.
"Do not scream in my presence again, Mr. Montgomery."
"It offends my ears."
"And when my ears are offended, I sometimes forget where I placed the key to the pain medication locker."
She turned to the two hulking male orderlies standing beside the transport van.
"Load them into the back of the transport unit."
"Secure the straps."
"We have a long drive to the recovery facility."
Chloe began to weep hysterically as the heavy steel doors of the medical transport van slammed shut.
Tristan lay locked in the dark cabin, staring up at the bare metal ceiling.
May you like
For the first time in his pampered, predatory life, the hedge fund titan realized he was completely powerless.
And hundreds of miles away in Seattle, Detective Vance and I were walking through the front door of his abandoned penthouse with a federal search warrant.
