A Brutal Precedent (10/11)
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It's after ten when the phone rings for the sixth time, some indecipherable voice on his machine after the beep. His head turns back into the pillow and he remains tucked into warm prima loft, on top of air-conditioned sheets. The contrast of heat and a fresh cool draw him towards sleep instead of wakefulness, but his brain won't stop working. And admittedly, today, his brain feels better- if brains had any feeling at all. Clear-headed, no more marble shifting between the back of his head and the front. Only the inane hole in his memory and the feeling that something he has done is unquestionably wrong discomfits him.
Nothing he ever does is wrong, per se. He makes decisions based on reason. Thus, the reasons, the logic, may be faulty resulting in an incorrect decision. An allergy instead of autoimmune. An infection instead of a genetic disease. Interpretation of evidence based on years of experience. Sometimes, the evidence lied. But he is never wrong.
But this situation is a new can of worms. Thirty minutes: poof, gone. Buh bye. He is an empty vesicle of guilt for no apparent reason.
Action, people. Action. He can't lie here all day. Today, he must do more than just think. There is no one to do his bidding. No one to put his thoughts to action. Mind over body. He must act. But first there is Vicodin, and leftover Chinese, and two cups of coffee.
The hotel is midrange. First thoughts can be so irrelevant. Characteristic beige exterior punctuated by the plain glass windows and the overhanging vehicle drive through: check in here. Dan Mulligan has a job- but it won't support two kids. He's either hard up for intelligence and ambition or he's struggling and has just now got his life together. Either way, the guy needs more help than House could have possibly given him.
"I need to see Dan Mulligan."
Blank stare accompanies the fish mouth expression on the attendant's face. She's young, twenty maybe. She hasn't got a prayer for doing anything useful in her life.
"Dan? Oh, yeah… he doesn't work here anymore."
"What do you mean he doesn't work here?"
She looks down again to where she's filing her nails, leaving bits and pieces of metallic blue on the pristine counter. If House was shorter, he'd have trouble seeing it. But 6'2" is above average and the raised counter is no burden to his sight.
"I mean he doesn't work here." She is open-mouthed, bored.
"You know where he is?"
"I've only been here a week and I met the guy once. How should I know where he is?"
"Then get me someone who does."
Five minutes of waiting and five minutes of haggling later, House is comfortable in lobby chair and a balding man in a nametag that proudly states "Bob Valliant, Manager" is sitting on the arm of the couch, his hands in his lap. "He quit two days ago. Came in here- ran in here actually- and said he had to go. Said his kid was in trouble. I didn't even know he had kids."
"He say where he was going?"
"Nope. But I bet he was leavin' town. He was real antsy like. Real on edge. His kid really in trouble?"
Aren't they all? When he leaves, he feels Bob's eyes on the back of his neck. Doesn't care- isn't relevant. Bob knew nothing. Bobby wasn't a buddy and apparently no one else was either. Mulligan's a loner and loners are usually at home.
But Mulligan's not. He figured as much, but worth a check. Step wince step wince down the four stairs to Mulligan's apartment building, and back to the bike. Always takes too long with the damn cane- walking to a destination in slow motion. But today it's luck. The bike waits. A man approaches, eyes bulge. "Dr. House?"
Awkward situation here. You know me. I don't know you. But this is the norm. He sucks with faces. They all remind him of someone else. New faces that know him, a terrifying memory of being propelled backwards as lead and a sundry of other materials, pressed into one unique and compact mold, rocket through his gut and land him on the floor. He is wary of strangers who know his name. But cowardice is not his style.
"Yeah?" He stops, stands still, leans a bit.
"What happened to your head?" The guy is olive skinned, dark-eyed, and his hair forms a dark 'v' much higher than it should. If he had on the right pants, he could be plumber and the plaid shirt he's wearing barely does his belly justice. Wal-Mart brand. Cheap and easy and not at all stylish. The guy is anxious, red-eyed, sweaty, and if House is right, he's found what he's been looking for.
Half laugh. It isn't really that funny. "Fell down."
"We gotta get inside. Nick has probably got half his cronies out here watching the place." Bingo. Right on target and House follows him as they go back up the stairs and into the building. Mulligan holds the door open and House edges past the bulging belly. Jelly doughnut man. Jelly belly. Jelly Beans. Those sound good. Always have a sweet tooth. Sugar makes the little heart melt in joy- almost as much as the white pills in his pocket.
"Drink?"
Mulligan stands, holding out a canned Budweiser in the slightest of shaking hands. Fear? Drinks like he dresses. "No thanks." Mulligan shrugs, reaches back into the fridge, and pulls a piece of fried chicken from a Styrofoam container to accompany his beer.
"I know you said not to come back until… But I needed my address book and Danny wanted his Gameboy. We left in such a rush. But Danny's great now. He's afraid to go back, but…"
"Where is Danny?"
"Left him with John." Swell. That tells him a lot. John. John Smith? John Kerry? Johnny Appleseed?
"And he's okay there?"
"John's a good guy- said so yourself. Trust him with your life." That narrows it down. Now he knows why John Baxter called. Christ. The kid is shacked up (literally) in the middle of nowhere with no electricity. Nice move, House. Since when has he helped a patient? Christ. "And I tried to call that lawyer…" The rest of the words fade out as Mulligan moves towards the back of the apartment, heading towards what House assumes is the bedroom.
The mind works in mysterious ways and it works even better when subtle clues give it away. Sweaty Mulligan's shaky hand traces the line of the hallway and House can make out the slightest of sniffles. This isn't a quest for an address book and a Gameboy. What kind of idiot takes that risk? One kind. Little Danny Mulligan in trouble either way- abuse from stepdad, or neglected by his addicted biological father. Both shitty paths to tread. Both lead towards rebellion (I hate you), school problems (his grades dropped so far…), alcohol (try this- take the edge off), drugs (just one hit, man), failure (so much potential…). Or not. Depends on the kid really. Depends on the butterfly flapping his wings: Chaos (or lack thereof) rules us all. The lateral shift of a cargo ship by one degree and all is stopped. House doesn't move, but the front door (addicts are careless… unlocked) swings open.