"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 11

"Stopping-Off Place"

Friday evening,

Somewhere in West Virginia:

Traffic on the interstate was widely spaced and traveling at road-eating speed. Wilson set the cruise control to 70 and relaxed into the back of the seat with his right hand on the wheel and the opposite elbow out the window.

The weather on this late Friday afternoon was deceptively warm for this time of year.

The sky was azure, the mountains in the distance sun-dotted with splashes of gold and silver and looking like the gateway to a magic kingdom. On the horizon though, the first shadows crept across open fields. There were darker clouds competing for dominance with the fluffy white ones. Those that floated past were raggedy and scattered, as if Mother Nature had ridden through the middle on some ghostly steed, tearing out snatches of white and gray and scattering them upon the wind.

Trees rushed past along the side of the highway, thrusting thin bare branches upward

like bony fingers reaching in supplication. Winter was encroaching upon the land with stealthy fingers.

In the passenger seat, Gregory House catnapped. His head swayed gently against the

seat back. One hand lay across his belly and the other one rested lightly on the shaft of his cane where it was propped between seat and door. He was holding on out of habit, Wilson knew, never letting it stray more than a few inches from his reach.

Wilson looked across at his friend from time to time, searching for signs of stress or discomfort and sadly taking note of a tightening in the sharp profile. House seemed ever

older and so much more vulnerable. A fold of loose skin formed a shadow beneath his jaw line attesting to weight he had recently lost, and skin tone he would probably never regain.

Without the fire in those penetrating eyes, Gregg's features lost something vital and commanding in repose. The ridge above his brows, once a bold and attractive feature, looked alarmingly Neanderthal. His long Patrician nose with the tiny upward thrust at the tip, no longer gave an impression of strength and humor. It just looked austere. Wilson knew it stemmed from the pain that never departed for long, and House's constant efforts to hold it at bay.

Wilson sighed and tried to relax, turning his full attention back to the highway. He must soon choose an exit and locate a motel with good, comfortable double beds in double-occupancy rooms … decent television reception.

They were roughly half the distance to Lexington.

Wilson resettled in the driver's seat and buzzed the window shut about five miles further down the highway. Traffic was increasing. Wind was picking up and the outside temperature was beginning to dip.

It was probably the shift in wind velocity as the car slowed; or it may have been the change in road sound when the tires left concrete and crossed onto asphalt at the exit ramp. It could also have been just a matter of instinct. Whatever it was, it woke House with a start, as though he'd been jabbed in the ribs with an elbow.

Wilson glanced across briefly and saw the man's body tense like a coiled spring, and his fingers tighten on the shaft of the cane. The words that came out of his mouth were pure reflex:

"Where are we?" His voice was harsh and dry and grating and demanding. His sleepy calm had fled.

Wilson ignored the challenge he knew was already coloring House's mood. "West Virginia. Have a good nap?"

"Oh yeah ... always …" There was sharp sarcasm in the tone.

"It's past dusk," Wilson continued calmly. "There's a Marriot at this exit, so it may be a good time to stop for the night. Maybe we can get ahead of the rush in time book a good room. One with certain amenities …"

House struggled to sit up, shifting in the seat and hitting the latch that brought the passenger seat slowly upright.

Wilson watched his friend white-knuckle the cane and clamp his jaws together.

"What 'certain amenities'?"

The words were chiseled from granite; spoken as though they had been rifled into stone with a Thompson automatic.

"Easy access, stuff like that … you have a problem with that?"

"You mean 'accommodations for a cripple.'"

Wilson sighed impatiently, grinding his teeth.

"Yeah House. Looked in a mirror lately? Limp … cane … face that's white as a sheet … teeth clamped together like vise-grips? Familiar?"

"Don't patronize me, Wilson. You hijacked my sorry ass for this useless excursion to Ho-Butt country … a trip that can't possibly end well. Don't push it!"

He turned his head in the opposite direction and leaned against the seat, staring out at the world beyond the passenger window. House effectively shut Wilson out.

Wilson guessed they had both suffered enough camaraderie for one day.

They were making good time.

When they had transitioned from 64 West to 79 South near Morgantown, Wilson was beginning to cramp across the shoulders and back, more than ready to park the car. He knew that if he was stiff from the highway, it must be even worse for House.

House, of course, wouldn't be caught dead admitting he was sore enough to confirm Wilson's earlier speculation. Unless, of course, a little whining that would get him something he wanted. He hadn't started that yet, but it was a distinct possibility.

It was coming up on 6:00 p.m. Darkening rapidly now. Clouds loomed larger and grayer and heavier. Wilson stopped at the stop sign and turned right toward the Marriot.

They lucked out.

The big motel was quickly booking up for the night. Local weather reports said snow was headed their way, even though daytime skies had given no indication. Travelers were holing up, choosing to wait it out in case it decided to snow and blow out there. The one unoccupied room on the ground floor was #127, the only one with handicap accessibility, and Wilson scooped it up eagerly. Evidently no one else with a protracted disability was stopping by tonight.

The room was large: two double beds, dresser, chairs with a small writing table, and plenty of room to spread out their overnighters. The bathroom was laid out in a manner Wilson wished House would utilize to renovate his own bathroom in Princeton. There were no slippery surfaces, plenty of sturdy grab bars, and a bathtub-shower with an access door that opened out. He could tell House was looking it over and endeavoring not to appear impressed.

Wilson left the older man sitting on one of the beds and walked toward the door, meaning to return to the car for their luggage.

House watched him balefully, mouth set in a rigid line, eyes mere slits. "Where the hell are you going now?"

Wilson glanced over his shoulder and paused with a hand on the doorknob. He was painfully aware that House had been bristling with disapproval this entire trip, and perhaps rightfully so. He was making his dissatisfaction known with every drawn

breath.

Wilson admitted that it might have been lousy timing to drag him on a road trip when he was in extra pain. Truth be told though, even if Wilson waited until House regained his best mobility, the stubborn ass wouldn't be caught dead visiting his mother while his estranged father, so recently deceased, still factored into the equation.

Wilson bit down on his lip for an instant, then replied with a flippant snip of sarcasm that he had not intended to sound so impatient. "I'm tired of your attitude, House. I'm going out for our luggage and taking a break from you!"

"You should be used to me by now. You yanked me off on a trip I didn't want to go on to see somebody I don't want to see."

"Fine. Sit there and sulk. I'm going out for dinner, a steak, a drink and a movie. Lock up before you go to bed."

Wilson opened the door and stalked out, letting it thump closed behind him.

What the hell possessed me to say that?

He did not see House's body slump forward, or the translucent lids drop slowly over slits of blue. He walked quickly down the carpeted hallway toward the lobby.

House was disoriented for a moment until his tired mind figured out that Wilson's angry reply had been little more than road fatigue. He thought briefly of ways to smooth things over when Wilson got back.

He let his chin drop to his chest. His arms slid down until they dangled at his sides. He sat still and tried not to think. Finally he took a deep breath and looked up again long enough to stare at the closed door with a vague twinge of regret. Then he turned slightly on the edge of the bed and reached for his cane. Maybe a hot shower would calm him and make his brain stop turning angry somersaults …

Methodically he began to peel off his clothing. He discarded everything in a heap on the floor. His sore hip ached dully. His leg, surprisingly, was quiet, and by some miracle he did not feel a desperate need for Vicodin.

He sat naked and exposed, thin body dotted with gooseflesh. Slowly he looked around. The room was loaded with Marriot Hotel "amenities", as Wilson had called them. State-of-the-art handicap accommodations in this suite must have cost Wilson a fortune. House felt a momentary twinge of remorse for his earlier outburst. His friend had done nothing to deserve another lashing from his forked tongue.

Ever since the infarction years before, Wilson always positioned himself to look out for his acerbic colleague. He'd never let on that he was doing that, but House always knew. James seldom intruded upon House's personal space unless invited to do so, which was never. And then House had insistently challenged him about the "partly" thing and received an earful. His friend's revealing remarks about crippledness and amputation had struck a nerve within him. He'd had no idea that Wilson felt that way. It had rattled him more than he realized.

He grasped the curve of his cane, preparing to stand. Slowly and painfully he rose to his feet and took a lurching step away from the bed, pausing to catch his breath.

House was sore, but that was mostly due to protracted inactivity. He maneuvered toward the bathroom, opened the door, eased himself inside and reclosed it. He turned on the bath water and adjusted for heat. He stepped in, sat down on the built-in bench and flipped up the lever for the shower.

Cascades of water as hot as he could stand it streamed across his aching body. He lowered his head and reveled in the sensual pleasure of hot water cascading over his scalp and running in wonderful rivulets behind his ears and off the end of his nose and chin. Clouds of fragrant steam rose from the composition floor and enveloped him in a warm cocoon of something nearing rapture. He luxuriated in it, unmindful and unaware of everything else in the world.

Wilson returned with their luggage twenty minutes later. He was chilled to the bone.

He set the suitcases down and looked around. House was not there, but his tee shirt and sweatpants were. Huge snowflakes lay on Wilson's head and shoulders. He shook it onto the carpet and hung up his coat. He heard water running in the bathroom.

When he knocked softly on the connecting door there was a small smile on his face.

"House? You okay in there?"

"Yah. Must have been some really lousy food at that restaurant you went to. And a short damn movie. You don't sound very drunk …"

"Don't overdo it, House!" Wilson warned.

"What? You say something?"

"I said I ordered pizza and beer."

"I figured you might."

"House?"

"Whaaat?"

"Uh … I'm cold … and it's kind'a snowing out there. Could you hurry-the-hell up?"

"You need to shut your pie hole, okay? You're getting on my last nerve …"

*Pause*

"Sorry …"

"No you're not. Get your ass in here and reach me a towel!"

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