Chapter Two
'Get some sleep,' Lisbon had told Jane before leaving his hotel room. Sure, that would be like telling Rigsby to not snack between meals, or Cho to 'turn that frown upside down', or Van Pelt to quit trying so hard to please everyone. It just didn't work. He knew Lisbon meant well but how could one expect him to sleep when the good Dr. Wagner had decided to toy with him by playing the Red John card? Though the doctor's attempt at writing Jane a letter from the psychopathic killer did lend weight to the merit of Jane's plan, which, judging by the time blinking from the nightstand's clock, he needed to start putting into motion. Pushing himself up off the mattress, he straightened his vest as he cast a cursory glance at the documentary still playing on the TV screen. He grinned when he saw the cheetah had caught its prey.
Fifteen minutes later Jane was at the all-night diner he had found close to where the team had set up headquarters in Palm Springs. Armed with a red diary, a few pens, and what was sure to be the first of many cups of strong coffee, he settled into one of the red vinyl booths furthest from the door. (And with the best view of the parking lot, just in case someone he knew stopped by.) At least this place was the real deal diner-wise with the apron-clad wait staff, the slouchy cook behind the grill and the continuously percolating coffee. Jane took a swallow of coffee and began to write.
It was interesting, really, he thought an hour or so later, the things one could fill a diary with. Hopes. Dreams. Secret wishes and crushes and plans for the future. Or with words like 'confess' and 'killer' interspersed with random equations and ramblings. The latter was quite easy, really, when there was a lot rolling around inside his head . . . and when there was someone he burned to say words such as 'murderer' and 'you did it' to (along with a few others), but couldn't. Not yet, anyway.
Jane warily eyed the steaming cup of coffee he had just thanked the waitress for pouring. He needed it to stay awake and to get Lisbon to go along with his plan without telling her about it. Yet even as he thought about taking another sip his stomach recoiled in protest. Too much too fast, he supposed. But it couldn't be helped and again, there was the plan to consider. Really it was simply an exercise in mind over matter. It wasn't like he hadn't survived worse things than an ulcer.
Grabbing the white ceramic mug, Jane raised it to his lips, pausing to blow the steam off it. He then almost dropped the mug when a large bottle of Tums clattered onto the scratched formica tabletop. Laughingly letting an expletive fly, he set the cup down and managed to swipe off the few coffee droplets that had landed on the diary's pages before they left too noticeable of a stain.
"Way to further solidify the dumb blond stereotype," a somewhat familiar voice said. "And you used to kiss your wife with that mouth?"
Jane looked up at the tall, somewhat scruffy-looking man standing by his table. Piercing blue eyes, wooden cane, and not a hint of an apology for anything he had done or said. Ah, it was the fellow who had tripped him at the airport; and he had obviously remembered Jane.
"Way to further solidify the grumpy old cripple stereotype," Jane replied. "But I'm not dumb. Not unintentionally, anyway," he added with a grin. Jane chose to ignore the accurate past-tense reference to his wife, instead grabbing the bottle of antacid tablets. Liberating two of them, he quickly chewed and swallowed. He wasn't surprised when the man sat down across from him, snatched the diary, and began reading it. Jane's hand was beginning to cramp and a bit of a rest would be nice.
"So doctor," Jane said after a few minutes, "what's your prognosis? Will I live, go insane, or die trying?"
mhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmh
He would almost take working in the clinic over this inane conference.
Almost.
Unfolding his frame from the rental car he had been aimlessly driving in for the past hour, House grabbed his cane and pocketed the keys for the red Mustang before making his way to the doors of the 24-hour diner. Now this place looked like it was capable of making a real Reuben. He plopped himself down at the lunch counter, nodding at the cook behind the grill before pulling out the laminated menu resting between the napkin dispenser and the glass bottle of ketchup. When the waitress came over with a pad and a stubby pencil (thankfully, she wasn't cracking a wad of gum – too cliché), he ordered a Reuben, a coffee, and made sure there would be gravy with his fries. The waitress said something about having stiff competition for the coffee, casting a sideways glance at the back of the diner before calling out his order to the cook.
House fiddled with a sugar packet as he scanned the booths lining the far wall. Most of them were empty. One was occupied by a couple of horny teenagers (like there were any other kind), another by a blond-haired man writing steadily in a small red book, pausing only to choke down another mouthful of coffee. Something was familiar about him . . .
Just then the waitress plunked a cup of coffee in front of House and, taking note of where he was looking, said "He's been here for an hour. Hasn't stopped writing or drinking." As if to lend credence to her words, she made her way to the man's table to refill his cup. He thanked her for it with a smile before returning to his writing. The waitress arched an eyebrow as if to say 'See?' as she made her way back to the counter. House said nothing, turning his attention again to the man in the booth. Wait a second – white dress shirt, vest, probably the same ugly brown shoes . . . and quite possibly the beginnings of an ulcer if he kept up with the coffee.. It was mini-Chase from the airport in Sacramento. Well, not 'from the airport', but he had sort of run into House at the airport. Heh.
Waving the waitress over, House inquired as to whether she'd like to give up the bottle of antacid tablets she kept tucked behind the counter or clean up watery vomit, grinning when she wordlessly handed over the industrial-sized bottle of Tums. He made his way to the back booth where mini-Chase sat, warily eying his fresh cup of coffee before he picked it up with a fresh resolve.
Idiot.
House tossed the bottle on the table. "Way to further solidify the dumb blond stereotype,'' he said. "And you used to kiss your wife with that mouth?" Mini-Chase laughingly swore before wiping a few droplets of coffee from the notebook's pages.
Without missing a beat the man replied, "Way to further solidify the grumpy old cripple stereotype." He made no mention of House's reference to his dead wife, his expression faltering for only the briefest of moments before an affable smile settled on his face again.
House tightened his grip on his cane, ducking his head down briefly as the guy added something about not being unintentionally dumb (right) before taking a couple of antacids. As he did, the front cover of the book he had been writing in closed and House saw the cheap gold-colored lettering spelling out 'diary'.
This just got more and more interesting.
Sliding into seat across from mini-Chase, House grabbed the diary and flipped to the first page. Mini-Chase did nothing besides set his pen down and flex his fingers. The guy was either a complete idiot or some sort of idiotic genius. House flipped through a couple of more pages. Or maybe the guy was just insane.
"So doctor," mini-Chase said after a few minutes, "what's the prognosis? Will I live, go insane, or die trying?"