Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
A/N: This is a belated birthday present for Pandorama, who has been an awesome friend and beta. I hope this story lives up to your expectations!
A/N: Thanks to Melissa and Kara for beta reading.
He had waited almost a year for his revenge.
It had taken much longer than he'd thought it would; so much for the defendant's "right to a speedy trial" or whatever bullshit the Bill of Rights awarded the scum of the earth these days. Not that he thought the defendant should have any rights, anyway. He had always been of the opinion that there were simply some people who were above the law, and those who were below it; he had always counted himself in the former category, because he used his super-status to achieve more good than formulaic rules ever could. Those of the bottom status, however, had earned their place in said category because they broke the rules in violent and cruel ways that left beautiful women dead less than one mile away from their homes.
Once the trial had finally commenced (nearly eight months after her death – the prosecutor had had a slew of excuses, everything from bureaucracy to scheduling conflicts to the defense's this or that other motion), it hadn't actually lasted that long. For all the preparation that had been put in by the prosecution, once the case got to court, it didn't get past a jury of the asshole's peers. (He always found that rather disturbing – to think that the peers of a murderer consisted of average Joes instead of jailhouse drug addicts.) The jury had come back after two days of deliberation, firmly and decisively deadlocked. How this could have happened, he still wasn't sure, because it was painfully obvious to him that the defendant was the murderer. Once the mistrial had been declared, he figured it would only be a matter of time before he put himself through the same ordeal again. That is, until he received notice from the prosecutor that the District Attorney had a limited amount of time, money, and resources, and couldn't afford to prosecute cases they weren't sure they could win.
The murderer would be going free.
He had stormed the house in a rage a few days after receiving the news, unsure how justice could have been so blatantly left unserved. His brain formed plans of revenge on all kinds of people: the four jurymen who were too sympathetic for their own good, the ones who had held out to support a man who looked as pathetic as a wet kitten in a blizzard, even though anyone with half a brain could see it had all been an act. He already knew the name of Juror Number Six - he would hunt the man down and torture the names of Jurors Two, Seven, and Twelve from him before slaughtering the man. Then he would proceed to track down the rest and murder them, too. Discreetly, of course. He needn't go to jail just because the justice system had failed.
He also plotted his revenge against the prosecutor, the skinny old woman whose eyesight was about as good as her prosecutorial skills. He would wait for her outside her office one day, cordially invite her out for a coffee (she had intimated once that she would be more than receptive to such an offer), and then stuff her in the trunk and drive around Princeton for a while to see how much she enjoyed the complete powerlessness. He would only open the trunk once she had suffocated to death, so she could experience the overwhelming suffocation he felt every time he thought about what he had lost.
But in the end, there was no vengeance in that. Guilty though those people may have been, they weren't guilty of murder. Justice was a myth; closure was a myth. Even if the jury hadn't come back in a deadlock, even if the murderer had gone to jail, nothing would bring her back. There was no death penalty in New Jersey. No legal punishment could ever be enough, since none of them would force him to suffer the way that he had forced her. Attempts to punish the murderer would be insufficient to satisfy his thirst for revenge. He knew that the only way he would ever sleep at night was if he could be the one to put his hands around the murderer's throat and choke the life out of him.
For two months, he plotted his revenge. He had stopped going to work long ago; the fact that the one person who could make him show up was no longer there was both the reason he had stopped coming and the reason no one had made him come back. Instead he spent his days watching his prey, stalking him silently from a distance. He took copious mental notes, not wanting to leave any detail unnoticed, but also not wanting any written record of what he was planning to do. By now, he had worked out the details of the daily activities of the rather smug businessman. He knew, for instance, that at precisely 6:07 P.M. every night, the man would pull out of his parking garage, and that he would arrive home at approximately 6:43. He would pass the location of the murder at exactly 6:37. He would pass his victim's house three minutes before that.
It was currently 6:32.
House watched as the man's car turned onto the street. As soon as the car was two houses away, it began to stall. House watched as the man urged the car a few more feet, until it ended up right at the targeted spot. The car door was thrown open angrily and the man stepped out into the pouring rain. House grabbed his umbrella and went for the door. It was 6:34.
"Is everything all right?" he asked the man as he approached. He opened the umbrella as he spoke and held it over the man's head.
"My car stalled. Damn thing…I don't know how this could have happened. I just brought it in last week." He opened his phone. "Great, the battery is dead."
"Why don't you use mine?" House asked. "I live right here, and you can wait inside until the tow truck gets here." He gestured unnecessarily to the house behind him.
The man closed his phone hopelessly. "All right," he conceded. "My name's Sean, by the way."
"Greg," House replied, extending his hand and shaking Sean's. "It's a pleasure." He led Sean through the door.
The house had been meticulously combed. Her photographs and degrees had all been taken down from the mantles and walls. No evidence of her baby remained. He had even contributed little to the décor, but he knew that the murderer – Sean, he reminded himself – would not notice.
"Here," he said, handing Sean the cordless phone. "I'm feeling in need of a drink. What's your poison?"
House already knew what the answer would be. "Whisky, if you've got it."
He did. "Coming right up," he said. House retreated from the room into the kitchen. He had already set the two glasses out on the counter. He retrieved the bag from the liquor store that he had stashed under the sink, and then the small bag next to it. He poured two glasses of the amber liquid, and then opened the small bag. The sodium thiopental seemed almost to glimmer inside the glass vial. Carefully, he poured a measured amount into one of the glasses. The clear liquid mixed quickly into the drink. He then dumped the rest of the vial's contents into the bottle of whisky. He knew that Sean would be unable to resist with the bottle in front of him; House had never seen him say no to a single drink.
Satisfied, he took the two glasses, grabbed the bottle of whisky around the neck, and reentered the living room. Sean was already sitting on the couch, the phone lying on the coffee table in front of him.
House handed him his drink and then sat down opposite. "What did they say?" he asked casually as he took a sip.
"Said they're backed up with requests because of all the traffic accidents the rain's been causing, but that they'd get to it as soon as they could." House watched carefully as Sean took a long drink from his glass.
"Well, I don't mind you waiting with me until they come. No sense in you freezing outside in your car."
"That's very generous of you." Sean drained his glass and reached for the bottle. "Do you mind?"
"No, go ahead," House urged him. "I'm not much of a drinker myself." He took a small sip from the glass in his hand, as if to demonstrate the point. "So," he began, setting his mostly-full glass on the table. "Have you lived here long? I just moved in last week."
These were test questions, to see if the drug had kicked in yet. The sodium thiopental had specifically been chosen because it inhibited the higher cortical functions of the brain, making it more difficult for a person to lie. Sure enough, Sean's response was exactly as expected. "It'll be two years this June. I moved from Seattle."
House nodded. "And what brought you to Princeton?"
Sean shrugged. "Work, what else?"
Correct. House saw his victim reach for the bottle again and knew that he was getting more pressed for time. "This seems like a very active neighborhood. Lots of people jogging all the time. Especially the women."
"Oh yes," Sean mused. "The women…" He took another long sip.
House pushed the bottle closer toward himself, as though preparing to pour himself another drink, even though his glass was still half-full. "Any one woman in particular ever catch your eye?" He wasn't worried about sounding too forward; he knew that the combined effect of the drugs would make this question seem commonplace.
"Now that you mention it, there was one, once. She used to live in this house, actually. Extraordinarily beautiful woman. Long dark hair and blue eyes. It was a very strange combination. It drew me to her right away."
House fought to keep his tone even as he leaned in closer. "What happened to her?"
"She died," Sean said. "Murdered one day while jogging."
"Do you know who killed her?"
Sean closed his eyes and sighed. He was silent and still for so long that House feared the drug had kicked in too quickly. Just as he was about to get up and check Sean's vitals, the murderer opened his eyes.
"I did."
He had been watching her for over a month, and he just couldn't stop. He watched her now from the window as she turned the corner, never breaking stride. Her body was limber and athletic. The wind whipped her dark hair back from her face as she ran. Her blue eyes were focused and determined. He knew without a doubt that she was the type who always got what she wanted. He admired that quality in women. It made them so much more desirable.
It would make her a much more worthy prize.
As she passed the house in the middle of his street, he slipped outside. His knife was tucked protectively in his back pocket. He waited for her to pass his front door, and then he counted to five in his head. Next to his house was a thicket of trees that marked the entrance to the woods. The woods were thick and deep, only traversed by hunters at the beginning of the season. He knew the season was still two months away. It would be the perfect place.
He came up from behind. By the time she had turned around, his hand was already covering her mouth, his other arm wrapped tightly around her neck.
"Why are you telling me this?" House kept his voice low.
Sean took another long drink. "Well, there's this great thing called double jeopardy. I was already tried for this crime. There was a mistrial. The D.A. says they're not going to try me again. So I'm off the hook for this one."
"You know that's not really how double jeopardy works, right? You have to be acquitted first." House had been fighting hard against his bitter sarcasm, but this time, he couldn't help but let some of his underlying anger seep through. Luckily, it seemed that Sean was too far gone to notice.
He threw her to the ground. As he had expected, she rolled to her side and started to get up. He struck her with a blow across the face and she dropped to the ground again. Despite the sharp twigs that were poking into her back, she still hadn't cried out in pain. Her tenacity excited him even more. The next time she tried to get up, he kicked her square in the chest, knocking the wind out of her. Taking advantage of her dazed expression, he quickly lowered his pants and then proceeded to lower hers.
Her eyes widened when she saw what he had done, and for the first time, he thought he saw a flash of fear. Her lips parted and she began to scream. He had her hands pinned behind her head; he made to grab both of her wrists with one of his hands, but as soon as he loosened his grip, she began to fight back. He took a blow to the face as he pulled the knife from his back pocket.
"Try that again and I'll slit your throat."
House could almost feel his blood boiling with anger as he listened to the murderer describe his attack. He squeezed his fingers around his thighs to reassure himself that his hands were still on his legs and not around the man's throat. He reminded himself that he wanted this, had planned for this moment for weeks, and he wasn't about to end it before he got every last detail.
However, he couldn't prevent himself from uttering at least one line. "You know she had a kid, right?"
"Really?" Sean looked thoughtful. "No wonder she fought so hard."
The knife had silenced her. Perhaps she thought there was a chance he would actually let her go once he'd gotten what he wanted from her. She endured the assault in silence, her wary eyes never leaving the knife blade. When he finished, he saw her close her eyes and breath a deep sigh of…was it relief?
"I promise I won't tell anyone," she whispered.
The blade seemed to gleam even brighter in the sunlight. "I know that you won't."
House tightened his grip around his legs.
Bright red blood flowed from her neck as the blade pierced her skin. He drew the knife slowly from one end to another, watching her expression of shock and horror as he did so. She fought as hard as she could, but her arms dropped limply to her side after a few seconds of blood loss. He watched as the light left her eyes, leaving the blue irises nothing more than useless tunnels, reflecting the light into a now lifeless body.
"You didn't."
"I did." The glass hit the table with a dull clunk. House watched as the murderer reached forward for the bottle again, but he was unable to reach it. He suddenly slumped forward in his seat, his chin against his chest. House looked casually at his watch. It was 7:36.
"Right on schedule," he muttered. He got up to check for a pulse, but he knew the man was dead. Sodium thiopental took approximately forty-five minutes to kill its victims. The murderer had been consuming it for over forty, in increasing amounts as he drank more and more from the bottle.
House pressed two fingers to the man's neck and nodded, satisfied. He left the man's glass where it was, but picked up his own and tucked it into his pocket to dispose of later. He pulled the prepared suicide note out of his pocket, a brief paragraph that included the man's confession to the murder and how he intended to kill himself using a drug used often in lethal injection. House knew the note might draw some suspicion, but since he intended to be far away from Princeton by the time anyone found the man, it didn't really bother him.
Satisfied with his crime scene, House retreated from the table. His cane was resting by the mantle. As he picked it up, his eye caught one of the photographs that he had laid face-down before the murderer's arrival. Slowly, he reached for it and turned it upright again. Instantly, he wished that he hadn't. Even in the dark he could tell it was a picture taken from last Christmas, when she had brought her daughter to visit Santa Claus for the first time. He had been there; he had taken the picture himself.
He stared at the picture for a long time, taking in the bright smiles on the faces of the mother and daughter. The picture was taken barely three months before her murder. Her smile was so happy and innocent; it gave no indication that she was in any kind of danger. It was a smile in anticipation of her daughter's smile when she opened her gifts from Santa. It was a smile of promise, like many of the ones she had given him when they were alone together at night. It was a smile full of life and potential. It was a smile full of joy. And now he knew he would never see that smile again…He wondered if he himself would ever smile like that again.
When he couldn't stand to look at it any longer, he tucked the picture into his pocket alongside the whisky glass. He cast one long, last glance at the interior of her house, and then closed the door behind him. As he walked away, he put his hand into his pocket and clenched his fist around her photograph.
He knew that Rachel would want it someday.
A/N: I know this story was different from what I usually write, but Pandorama wouldn't accept anything other than Huddy, and this idea had been in my head for a while. In case you're wondering, sodium thiopental can be put to all the uses it was in this story; see Wikipedia for more information.
Please review and tell me what you thought!