A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading/reviewing/enjoying. I appreciate it.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either
Thanks: To NaiveEve and Betz88 for their help and encouragement
-11-
"Waiting At the Station"
Allison primes herself for the next installment of the knight on a train saga, beefing up her bravado as her head sinks into her pillow. But she needn't have bothered. Moments after she and Joe murmur their goodnights and settle into their familiar sleeping positions under the blankets, the phone rings. With a 'what now' groan, Joe reaches over to grab the receiver off the nightstand. After listening for a moment, he turns over, grunts, and hands it to Allison.
She rolls her eyes and sighs, staring at the handset, knowing what is to come.
It is Scanlon asking if she will join him at the station, have a word with Weir.
Why, of course, certainly, yes, si, si, señor.
The train will have to travel on without her, at least for tonight.
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She arrives at the station house to see Scanlon pacing at the top of the stairs, waiting for her. The building and parking area are brightly lit. Streetlamps stand at each corner of the lot, throwing blankets of brightness over the Fiats, Dodges, BMW's, and police cruisers parked there. Those lights provide pretty good assurance that this is one place in the city a felon wouldn't think of plying his craft.
Yet a parking area set in front of a building full of cops might not be a deterrent. It could be the one place a truly crazed citizen might get away with forcing an unsuspecting gal into his smelly, dilapidated Ford Taurus. The thought comes to her unbidden, totally out of the blue, leaving her wondering if this scenario has ever played out here...
Skip it. Don't go there. Do not let that thought prey on your already addled mind...
She hurries up the stairs as Scanlon pushes open the door. "Weir decided to be a talkative sonofabitch tonight, waived his right to counsel for now. We're hoping for a confession but all we've got right now is a lot of babble," he says as Allison falls into step beside him, attempting to match his long strides and doing a fair job of it. She squints through the bright fluorescence of this charming reception area. A few scraggly denizens of the night doze on the bench against the wall, a tearful middle aged woman sits at a desk, chattering and weeping to the gum chewing officer typing out her complaint.
"I was hoping you might be able to make some sense out of his insanity," Scanlon holds open the entrance to a more murky, shadow strewn area of the building. It smells like day old coffee and year old cigarettes. "If we can't make some progress tonight, they'll cart him off for a psychiatric exam. Probably have him declared legally insane once a lawyer gets involved."
"From what you're saying, I'm surprised he's not there already."
"He really should be." Scanlon leads her into the interrogation room. It is rectangular, sparsely furnished, dank and depressing. The grey green walls surround a long wooden table. Weak amber light spills from two overhead domes, illuminating the table's faded, scuffed veneer. There will be no water pitcher set out as a welcome on this ancient, oft used table, no drinking glass, pencils, pens or anything that can be considered a potential weapon.
Here is where Allison will try to eke out some sort of clue as to who Curtis is, looking into his eyes, listening to him speak. She knows she will be leaving herself open to whatever makes this mess of a person tick: what he has done, where he has been. And judging by the disturbing glimpse she caught of him in the mall, it will not be a joy filled ride.
She seats herself behind the table, her gaze traveling to the one way mirror adjacent to the door. Scanlon will stand behind that mirror, observing her progress, at the ready if anything potentially dangerous should occur.
"Ready?"
Allison nods, not so sure she is. Scanlon takes his leave and, as the door closes, she senses movement behind her. Turning her head, she sees Dead Kid and Alexandra sitting in the corner, their eyes boring through her.
No, no, NO.
"Please...go."
"You're supposed to be on the train." Dead Kid throws her that now familiar accusatory glare.
"It will have to wait," Allison hisses as her eyes meet Alexandra's. "And you shouldn't be here."
The girl shrugs, places her hands behind her head and leans back. Her smile is vibrant, so alive. It causes Allison to clench a fist and look away.
The door squeals on its hinges as it opens, as if in protest of what is to come. A rattle of chains and the heavy footfalls of two uniformed cops announces Weir's arrival. The cops escort him in, seat him opposite Allison. Weir's ankles are chained together; his hands are shackled before him. He is clad in the obligatory orange prison garb. But he doesn't look the part of the accused serial killer. With his jovial grin, starry eyes and wheat colored hair, he could be some happy longshoreman out for a grand night at a costume party.
"You can go," Allison tells the officers.
"Detective Scanlon wants us to stay."
Weir giggles and brings his cuffed hands to his face to wipe at his eyes.
Allison sighs. "Tell the detective to give me a few minutes alone with...Mr. Weir." She tosses a grim smile at the accused, who responds with another giggle. "It's the only way I can do this."
The officers look from her to Weir then at each other. They shrug, head for the door. "We'll be right outside."
"Thanks." She turns her attention to Weir. "Hi. I'm sorry about all that."
"Not a problem," he says, jangling his cuffs. His eyes go wide as he takes in his surroundings, jaw dropping as if this dingy hole of a room possesses the magnificence of the Sistine Chapel.
"My name is Allison. I work for the District Attorney's office. Would you mind if I asked you some questions?"
"Certainly not." He beams. "Not a problem. Never, ever a problem."
"But there has been a problem," she says, noticing an odd glistening in the area above the one-way mirror, "with you and the officers." It seems the wall is...perspiring.
"These police officers are coarse creatures, they hold no respect. But you, ma'am, you call me Mister Weir." He snorts out a laugh and shifts in his seat like a restless four year old. "We've only just met but I get the feeling you understand me." Leaning forward, he bares his teeth. They are straight, white, beautiful. "You see the pretty in the horror, Allison. Pretty name, pretty lady." He raises his hands so those shackles jingle, jangle, jingle, before returning them to his lap. "I will tell you this. No one else. Do you understand the privilege, pretty Ali?"
It takes all her will to restrain herself from twisting her lips and looking away. "I'd like to think so."
"You are modest and kind and pretty," he proclaims, eyes shining, head tilting to the right. "So I will tell you a secret about myself. Would you like that?"
"I would." She folds her hands on the table like a schoolgirl waiting for a lesson.
"I love the people I kill. And I kill them because of the beauty. How entrancing they look as they die, so utterly resigned to their fate as the fear leaves them."
His look is soft and dreamy, Allison thinks, like ice cream melting in the sun.
"After the first few strikes of the blade, the eyes go blank and they realize that this is why they were put here in the first place." The words fall from his lips like black roses. Black roses. She pictures fields of them, the ashen faces of the dead bobbing between the petals, like children playing hide and seek. So many. Too many.
The wall is sweating blood. Thick scarlet streams flow down its dull surface before rolling like lazy rivers over the smooth, shiny mirror. She checks in with Dead Kid and Alexandra, still huddled together like kittens in the corner. Alex's chest is a glistening gaping maw. The blood saturates her shirt, which has been slashed into ragged blue ribbons. Dead Kid strokes her hair as they watch the proceedings with open mouthed awe.
"Who is Johnny?"
Weir's blonde brows raise in surprise. "Johnny just drove the car," he blurts out. "But not in New Jersey. I respect him for what he did in New Jersey."
Allison's gaze jumps toward the bloodied mirror, then back to Weir. "What did he do?"
"In New Jersey he shot the doctor," Weir says matter-of-factly, "but in Minnesota he just drove the car."
"I see." She hears a scream, then another, another, until the room is filled with them. She rubs her eyes, wishing she could get the smell of death out of her nostrils.
"Tired, Miss Ali?"
"Yes, Mr. Weir." She rises. "I think it's time I went home."
"I would follow you, make sure you arrived safe and sound." He lifts his bound hands and with a sorry shake of his head adds, "If I could."
An image hurtles at her like a high fly ball plummeting to earth: here is Weir strolling through her kitchen, while her girls sleep on, so innocent, so...unaware. She represses a shudder as he touches the Spongebob magnets on the refrigerator, searches the drawers for the sharpest, deadliest looking of all her knives...
"Thank you," Allison stutters, pushing away from the table. She heads for the door, noting with some relief it has already been opened by a uniform.
"I won't talk to them," Weir calls. "Only you."
"Get a lawyer, Mr. Weir."
As she moves into the corridor, Dead Kid and Alexandra fall into step beside her. "Better get back on that train, lady," Dead Kid tells her. "Your knight's about to fall."
She doesn't respond, just heads toward Scanlon who meets her eyes over the gaggle of detectives and uniforms.
"You okay?"
"It's a good thing he's in here, Lee." She shudders. "You damn well better find a way to keep him locked up."
"He's not going anywhere."
They move quickly down the corridor, steps echoing in the bleakness. Scanlon wonders about Weir's supposed accomplice Johnny. Does he exist? Had he really shot a doctor in New Jersey? Could he be a fabrication: someone created by a sick, albeit crafty mind to toss them a distraction? Allison doesn't think so. She got the impression that as twisted as Weir is, he didn't lie to her...about anything. She has a feeling they will learn more about Weir...and Johnny. Tomorrow.
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"Lancelot"
House sighs as his eyes slip closed, his body sinking deeper into the plush cushions of the recliner. But something about his descent into the trance unnerves Faulkner. He noticed a hesitation before the surrender, a swift, tight-lipped rebellion, a sharp angry glare before the lights went out.
Can't have that, Billy, can we?
No matter. He throws off his consternation like a dog shaking off the rain. After this session, the countdown begins. And in a day or so, the big red "Game Over" sign will flash above the good doctor's head. All done, all gone. There will be newspaper reports, an abundance of weeping and mourning. His colleagues will be mortified, of course. But this was not totally unexpected. The man was a genius, a tortured soul. They all go young, don't they?
Amid all the ruckus, Faulkner will take a much deserved vacation: a tour of the Andes, a place Danielle used to speak of fondly but he has yet to visit. The ruins, the mountains. It will be different, offer him a fresh perspective on...everything. Danielle will be there in spirit. They can commune. Hopefully she will approve of what he has done...for her. The airline ticket, purchased one week ago, is in the locked lower left hand drawer of his desk. Its presence adds to his satisfaction.
He is proud and a little amazed at how well his plans are going. It has only been two weeks and look how much progress he's made. Weir is the only stickety wicket, which is more Johnny's burden than his, but still...
If Faulkner is approached about his association with Greg, he will gladly surrender the meticulous notes he has kept over the course of the therapy. The notes are a fabulous work of fiction. An absolute masterwork. They dance lightly over the truth and never mention the medication in Faulkner's left trouser pocket that will send the doctor over the edge...for the last time.
Of course there is still Johnny to worry about. Currently he sits next to Sarah in their three room apartment just outside Minneapolis, watching and listening to this session via webcam. Their virtual presence at the session is a going away present for the two of them. Faulkner would prefer they leave as soon as possible. But Johnny wanted, needed to watch the show.
And so...it begins.
Faulkner smiles, leans one hand against the armrest of the chair. "How was your dinner, Greg?"
House's head rolls sleepily against one shoulder, then the other. "Mmmm. Lotta food."
"Yes, but it's all so good, isn't it? Makes you comfortable, relaxed and sleepy."
"Good..."
Faulkner lifts House's gauzed wrapped left hand in his. "You've done excellent work here. I'm very pleased."
House's lips twitch; he winces.
"You're very proud of what you did to your hand, aren't you?"
He seems to consider this, his lips moving along with some internal dialogue. He tilts his head, sighs. "No," he says, finally.
"You should be, Greg. In fact, the more you think about it, the better it makes you feel. So happy."
"Hurts."
"You can push that hurt down. You know how."
"Hurts," he hisses through his teeth.
"Push it down. Deeper...deeper...that's it."
House's mouth falls open. A soft moan escapes him as his hand drops to his side.
Faulkner rubs his palms together, those wheels in his grey matter clickity clacking away. "Show me what you used to do it."
Immediately House reaches in his jacket's inner pocket and produces the scalpel. His blood has dried to a rusty brown, tingeing the tip and dotting the lower edge of the blade.
"Very good. Very nice. Open your eyes so you can see it too."
Blinking his eyes open, House scowls as he meets Faulkner's gaze.
Faulkner runs a finger along the top of the scalpel, responding to House's bitter look with a gentle smile. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
House gaze softens as it shifts to the blade, his hand trembling slightly as he tilts his head in wonderment. "Beautiful".
"We have lots to talk about today, so much to do."
The scalpel keeps him in its thrall, and House can only manage a single nod.
"Let's put it with the others, Greg." Faulkner holds out his hand for the blade. After a moment's hesitation, House relents, his scowl returning as he places the scalpel into Faulkner's palm.
"Come." Faulkner hands House his cane, motions for him get out of the chair.
House swings his left leg over the edge of the chair. He grips his right leg, eases it down with a minimum of effort.
"It doesn't hurt, does it?" Faulkner says.
"No pain," House says.
"Your hand?"
"No...pain."
"Very good."
They move into the center of the room, where Faulkner tells House to stop and face the camera.
"Say hello to Johnny, Greg. He lives a long way from here."
House squints at the lens, as if he is trying to see through it...all the way to A Long Way From Here. On the 27 inch screen, his grainy black and white image returns a dazed and curious look.
"It's me."
"Yes, Johnny can see you."
"I can't see him."
"That's okay," Faulkner assures him. "Say hello."
House shrugs. He gives the screen one more perfunctory look before his head bobs, his shoulders slump and his gaze falls to his sneakers.
Faulkner holds tight to his patience. Greg is gradually becoming something of a challenge, making Faulkner glad the game is almost over. "Rise and shine," he says, giving House's shoulder a squeeze.
House's head snaps up. Bleary gaze meets lens again.
"Focus, Greg. Say hello."
"H'lo."
"Thank you." He walks to the camera, shifts it slightly to the left, so it can track them as they move on to...
...the desk. Here the treasury of blades from two weeks ago has tripled in size to include more sharp, potentially lethal tools: a handy little switchblade, a hunting knife and an ice pick are the most recent additions culled from the Greg House collection of sharp things.
Faulkner waves the scalpel in front of House's intent gaze, then offers it to him. "Put this with the others."
House takes the scalpel, then moves his eyes over the glimmering bounty. "The sword," he says with a hitch in his voice. "Gone..."
"You'll see it again but you're going to have to work for it. Once you do, it will be yours." Faulkner touches his shoulder once more. "It will belong to you."
The crease between House's brows deepens; he runs his tongue across his lower lip. He studies this treasure trove again, gaze traveling from one end of the desk to the other. A tear shimmers in the corner of one eye.
Faulkner puts a capper on his elation, not allowing the moment to rule him. He wishes Johnny could see that itty bitty tear, this miniscule yet powerful evidence of their success. Greg is paying dearly for his thoughtlessness, which is only fair. His death won't bring Danielle back. But it is fitting retribution for a life so senselessly cut down.
The tear rolls down House's cheek, glistening in his beard for a moment before winking out. All gone, like the glorious demise of a shooting star. House sniffs, sets the scalpel gently next to the plastic knife, then jams his hand into his jacket pocket.
The corners of Faulkner's mouth turn down. Suspicion, curiosity, distrust conspire to send him exploring. He crosses to House's opposite side and raises a brow at the hidden hand clenching and unclenching... "What do you have?"
House keeps his gaze focused on all the lovely silvery sharp things laid out before him.
"Remember the curse?"
A sharp gasp. A shake of the head. An attempt to ward off...
"Think of us when you hurt," Faulkner enunciates each word to assure the curse's potency. "When the pain gets so bad you wish death would just...take you. I wish you twice as much pain as what's in my heart." He taps a finger against his desk, smiling slowly as he adds, "The curse can't harm you if you own the sword, Greg. But if you don't show me what you have in that pocket, you will never see that sword again."
House flinches, his mouth moves along with some internal rumination. And the hand keeps clenching and clenching, as if controlled by some otherworldly puppeteer.
"Think about the pretty red jewels, the light glinting and glittering off each one." Faulkner coos as gently as a light breeze. "Imagine how deliciously rough they would feel, if you scraped them across your palm. And that perfect blade, would feel so wonderfully cool pressing against your wrist..."
The clenching ceases. House flinches again. It's as if he's been slapped across the face. But after a moment, his expression belies this: stoic; eyes blank, his mouth a thin, still line. He blinks once, twice, slowly removing from his pocket...
...a silver pen.
Faulkner heaves a disgruntled sigh and shakes his head.
House's fingers tighten around the pen, causing his knuckles to go white, the veins in his wrist to strain.
Something clicks inside Faulkner. The deep seated savagery all humans possess floats to the surface, giving him bad thoughts, murderous ideas. The rebelliousness Greg exhibits is interesting yet unbelievably frustrating. His subconscious is trying so diligently to work out an escape plan. And in a clinical sense, Greg's behavior is impressive, certainly one for the books. Unfortunately, it is not making Faulkner a happy guy.
The knives and sinister looking tools lying side by side are sharpened, honed and at the ready. It would be so easy to use one to...expedite the process. Ending this now would make for a rather cheery finale to the evening. Glancing at the lens, Faulkner gives Johnny a somber nod. No. That is not how this is going to happen. The plan was made; the plan will be fulfilled. Johnny is watching, Johnny needs to know this will go the way it is supposed to go.
"Whose pen is it, Greg?"
The fist continues to tremble as House bows his head. His jaw works, the cords in his neck strain as he struggles not to say...
"Wilson?" Faulkner breathes in his ear.
Yes! Greg is making such a wonderful sound: a delectable simpering noise, which crosses the line between a pathetic cry and a groan of defeat.
Faulkner exhales softly, his world brighter now, his frown turned upside down; the muscles in his stomach and shoulders ease. Everything is going to be a-okay, okey, dokie, ju-ust...fine.
"And where does Wilson's pen go?"
House chews a corner of his lower lip. After a moment, he grips the head of his cane and takes a walk around to the opposite side of the desk. There he stares morosely at the wastebasket, extends his closed tremulous hand above it. With a soft, shallow cry, he lets the pen to fall into that endless blackness only he can see.
Faulkner doesn't think he has ever been more elated. He calls House back to his seat, watches his gradual, reluctant return. Reaching into his pocket, Faulkner retrieves the vial of Zolpidem, a useful little drug: a potent sedative that can cause hallucinations under the proper circumstances...
...such as the ones Faulkner has planned.
"Hold out your palm."
House lifts his head, extends his good hand, watches with some interest as Faulkner drops two pills into it.
"Take your meds, Greg," Faulkner says, winking over at the steady glass lens. "We're going on a long, wonderful trip."