Finding A Cure - Prologue
"Hold it right there!"
Lisa Cuddy stepped in front of the boy before he could escape the alley. He looked up at her with panicked eyes.
"I didn't do anything," he immediately defended himself, backing away from her.
She stepped toward him, effectively trapping him between the dumpster and the building so he couldn't exit the alley. She stared at him through squinted eyes.
"What have you got there?" She gestured to the envelope he held at his side.
"Nothing."
"Oh, nothing," she said. "Then you won't mind giving it to me."
"No!" He pulled the envelope behind his back and away from her.
"Yes."
"I can't," he said defiantly.
"You can," she responded calmly but firmly, taking another step toward him and reaching out her hand.
"I'll get fired," he explained, and Cuddy fought the tug of sympathy creeping up in her.
"Hand it over, and I won't call the police." She wouldn't be distracted.
"I didn't do anything wrong!" He cried.
"You sure about that?"
She was fairly confident the boy had no idea what he was carrying back and forth between the hospital and this warehouse. She'd first seen him a few weeks ago, slipping in and out of Dr. Benjamin's office; he'd almost run into her as he'd rushed out of the office and around the corner. He probably wouldn't have registered as a blip on her screen if she hadn't seen him again, and again, and again. Several times a week she'd see him race into the doctor's office and out again just a few minutes later, always with a package in hand.
"It's just papers," he snapped. "There's nothing illegal about that."
"Crimes have been planned with just a few papers," she spoke it as a caution, or perhaps in warning.
The kid rolled his eyes. "It's just medical stuff, not gang secrets."
"Let me see," she demanded again.
"But I don't get paid if Dr. B doesn't get the package," he whined.
"How much?"
"Twenty bucks a delivery."
"You just delivered one," she pointed out. "So this one you're taking back to the hospital will make forty for the day?"
The kid nodded, his brown eyes pleading with her not to ruin the gig for him.
It was a pretty good gig for a kid his age.
"Give me," she commanded.
The boy relented and begrudgingly handed it to her.
"Dr. Benjamin pays you?" She asked as she opened the envelope.
"They both do."
Cuddy took a calming breath. She had her suspicions, but being so close to them being confirmed caused her blood pressure to catapult.
"Both?" She asked, trying to appear nonchalant as she looked over the contents of the package.
A vile of blood. A swab. A list of labs.
"Dr. G pays for the medical stuff to be delivered."
"Dr. G?" She gave him a curt glance before flipping to the next page.
The boy shrugged. "That's what I call him."
Cuddy gasped as she saw the handwritten page: A list of symptoms. Possible diagnosis. Questions along the margins. Like the notes on a whiteboard.
His whiteboard. His handwriting.
"House," she whispered.
She'd recognize his writing anywhere.
"Greg," the kid corrected. "His name is Greg. But I call him Dr. G. He's a scientist or something."
Cuddy felt faint.
It wasn't that this was a surprise. Of course it wasn't. She'd followed the boy because she'd suspected as much.
Dr. Benjamin was a gastroenterologist in the office down the hall from her. She'd been working with him at the hospital for two years now. He could barely diagnose a sinus infection most days because it was "outside of his specialty." And yet just a few months ago he'd not only improved his "success" rate with gastro patients, he'd begun diagnosing cases of varying degrees of difficulty with a speed and accuracy beyond him. His brain was too small and his vision too narrow to think through the details of some of the complex cases, and yet, he'd solved them as if he were a seasoned diagnostician. She'd been immediately suspicious, and it had only increased as she'd noticed the boy, the timing of deliveries and the pattern of testing up to a diagnosis.
Cuddy quickly scanned through the notes, trying to understand what he was up to.
"I got a little brother," the boy said. "And my mom don't work. I really need this job."
She looked at the boy, then. "How long have you been working with Dr. G?"
"A couple of months," he answered. "He needs someone to run errands for him and make the run to the hospital on the count of his leg."
His leg.
"How often do you make these runs?"
"To the hospital?" he asked. Cuddy nodded. "Three or four times a week. Sometimes more if Dr. Benjamin calls."
"You run other errands for Dr. G?" she asked. "Besides to the hospital."
The boy nodded. "Whatever he needs," he responded emphatically. "He's my friend."
"Your friend?"
"We play video games and music and stuff," the boy's smile reflected adoration.
"How did you meet?"
The boy looked down at his feet and shrugged. "He helped me."
Cuddy studied him a moment before asking: "You were in trouble?"
He nodded.
"Your parents couldn't help?"
"Dad's in jail," he mumbled.
"And your mom?"
"Home."
"She couldn't help you when you were in trouble," she asked again. It was starting to feel like an interrogation, even to her. Cuddy told herself to take it easy on the child. He was just a boy trying to make the best of the cards he'd been dealt.
The boy didn't answer at first, but finally said. "She's sick."
Cuddy's eyes widened in comprehension.
"Dr. G helps you with your mom." It wasn't a question.
The boy nodded and looked away. "He helps with everything."
Cuddy felt a tug at her heart. She had suspected he was a street kid. It's one of the things that had caught her attention when she first saw him at the hospital. Now, she was beginning to get a better picture. With his dad gone and his mom sick, he was trying to take charge, to raise himself while taking care of his mom.
"Here," she said, reaching into her purse and giving him fifty dollars. She didn't mind paying off the kid. He obviously had a lot on him. "I'll make sure the package gets to Dr. Benjamin. But you can't tell him you spoke to me."
The boy stared at her, wide eyed.
"I'll keep your secret if you keep mine," she said.
"Yes, ma'am," he took the money and smiled at her. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Go," Cuddy chuckled. "Get out of here."
She watched as the boy took off down the alley and disappeared around the corner.
Cuddy looked through the contents of the envelope again.
What are you up to, House?
Over the past couple of years, she'd imagined many scenarios surrounding when she'd see him again. At first, they'd involved him tracking her down and victimizing her again. When the shock wore off and reasoning took over, she'd imagined him seeking forgiveness, and then help, or worse, barging back into her life and acting as if the past few years had never happened. Later, she imagined finding him in the emergency room, or in the news, or at Wilson's funeral. There had never been a doubt she'd see him again. She'd kept it to herself, of course. Everyone thought he was dead. In all her imaginings, none of them involved her finding him and knocking on his door.
And yet, without considering her suspicions or actions at all, without planning what she would say or preparing a reactions, she stalked to the door at the end of the alley and knocked.