WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.
Chapter Fourteen
11:10 P.M.
November 26, 2012
Oceanview Motel
Oceanview, OR
Chase sits on the bed in his too-quiet motel room and listens to his cell phone ring. It is on the table by the window, but he cannot muster the energy to go and get it.
If it were Barnes or Cameron calling, he reasons, they would try his room phone or simply come to his door. It might be House, but he especially does not feel capable of facing that conversation at the moment. The niggling voice in the back of his mind tells him it is unprofessional and perhaps a little dangerous to avoid an opportunity to analyze what has just happened. But at the same time, he is unsure which pieces of information he is allowed to share regarding the latest developments. Furthermore, he knows Cameron is feeling vulnerable about the damage done to the lab, and he does not trust House to have any sort of empathy for her, to respect the fragility of her situation and not go digging deeper to satisfy his own curiosity.
A few moments after the first set of rings, the phone begins again, a second call from whomever was trying to reach him before. Chase leans back against the bed's stiff headboard, trying to stretch the tension out of his shoulders. His mind has been racing since the afternoon, struggling to make sense of everything they have learned. His gut instincts tell him that somehow both Smith and Cunningham have a role to play in this case, whether they are currently aware of it or not. He has learned from the hundreds of patients he has treated while working for House that any sort of connection, however elusive, is rarely a coincidence. And yet he cannot work out how either of them could be responsible for the spread of the virus, how any person could have that kind of power when they have found no evidence of any sort of disease transmission beyond the usual routes. The destruction of the lab bothers him immensely as well, seeming to suggest that there is something far more sinister at work here, something beyond a vengeful act of nature.
And then there are the pills in Cameron's bathroom, the vague mention of cancer from Barnes. These things disturb him more than anything else; three years since their marriage ended, and he still cares more deeply for her wellbeing than for the threat to global health that is rapidly emerging before their eyes. This knowledge lends a medical explanation to the profound changes he has already observed in her. In this way, it is somehow comforting, and yet simultaneously a terrible confirmation of his worst fears. He knows that the failure of their marriage is unlikely to have caused a disease as indiscriminate as cancer, but she would not have had to face it alone had they still been together.
When the phone begins ringing a third time, Chase resigns himself to the fact that he needs to answer it. The number is from Princeton-Plainsboro, he realizes as he glances at the screen, but it is not one of the hospital extensions he recognizes.
"Hello?" Chase carries the phone back to the bed, sitting heavily. He half expects it to be House, sneaking into one of the departmental lounges, or the lab, or Cuddy's office.
"So I guess you weren't actually listening when we talked about you calling more often." Mandy's voice from the other end of the line is startling, sending hot guilt burning through the pit of his stomach.
Chase has not thought about her in days, he realizes, distracted by the immediacy of the case and far too many memories. Now, hearing her voice tinny and foreign as the phone carries it thousands of miles, everything seems suddenly crystal clear, as though the fog which has seemed to engulf his life for the past few years has at last been lifted.
"I'm sorry," says Chase, taking a breath. The apology sounds empty on his lips, insincere and trite. He has used up the power of these words in their relationship; it has never been enough, and now it is too late.
"Right," Mandy sniffs, clearly uninterested in any sort of reconciliation. "That would be why you haven't called me a single time since you left. Why you were so eager to just run off to the opposite coast indefinitely. Why you have yet to say anything when I've told you I love you. Because you're really sorry."
Chase takes a shaky breath, feeling an unexpected wave of emotion tightening his throat. Her words now echo a forgotten memory, the sounds of a fight drifting through closed doors in his childhood home. Now, he has the devastating sense that he has become his father's ghost, unable ever to care enough, to commit entirely. He has spent the past three years effectively alienating everyone who was once close to him.
"I am sorry," Chase answers quietly. "I never—meant for you to get hurt." It feels like a phrase he has spoken a thousand times before; he is perpetually disappointing people as his own father once did him. These are the words he should have spoken to Cameron years ago, but was unable then to find.
"Hurt?" Mandy repeats, clearly tearful now, even across the phone. If she was not calling with the intention of ending their relationship, she certainly anticipates that it is about to happen now. "It's a little late for that, don't you think? You don't get to treat me like crap, then expect it to all be forgiven just because you didn't intend for me to get upset."
"I know," says Chase. "I don't—expect you to forgive me. I expect that you'll be really angry. Probably hate me. That's okay, I'm sure I deserve it. I just—wish you hadn't gotten caught up in all this."
"And what is 'this'?" Mandy demands, breathing audibly now. Chase wonders where she is in the hospital, and hopes for her sake that it is somewhere private. "The juvenile mess you call your personal life? Honestly, Robert, I think you might be the most selfish person I've ever met. I should have listened when everyone tried to warn me about you."
"I'm sorry," Chase repeats, feeling completely powerless. She is entirely correct, he thinks; the person he has allowed himself to become is repugnant in every way, and he has blinded himself to the transformation, content to become dishonorable in an escape from misery. "I thought—I was ready to move on. That I could have something real with you. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to pay for my mistake."
Mandy snorts, loudly. "Right. Don't worry, Dr. Chase. We're done. You can go back to your womanizing guilt-free."
"Mandy—" Chase starts, but the phone line goes dead before he's had a chance to say anything more. For a moment he simply stares at the phone, debating the merit of a call back, but he senses that this will only do further harm. All he can do now is accept responsibility for the hurt he has caused.
Angrily, Chase throws his phone down, missing the bed and watching it bounce across the carpeted floor. The back of it pops out, battery coming loose and skidding until it hits the wall. Sighing, he sits on the bed again, and rests his head in his hands, not bothering to retrieve the pieces. He grinds his thumbs into his temples, watching the nebulous clouds of colors on the backs of his eyelids. It feels as though the world has come to a standstill, the glass façade he has so carefully built up around himself shattered in an instant. He cannot go back to wishful ignorance, can no longer bury the truth of his mistakes beneath endless drunken nights and superficial intimacy.
He cannot tell how much time has passed when his thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door, fast and hard, insistent. It goes on for a moment before Chase drags himself to his feet, blinking away the bleariness before looking through the peephole. Cameron is standing there, clearly agitated, hugging herself and looking down the hallway as though afraid to be seen.
"What's up?" asks Chase, opening the door and stepping back to let her in.
"Close the door," Cameron orders. She takes a shaky breath as she watches it swing shut, clearly trying to relax. "I tried calling your cell. It's going straight to voicemail."
"Oh," Chase stammers. It has not occurred to him in the aftermath of Mandy's call that others might be trying to reach him. "Yeah, it's—" He shrugs, pointing helplessly toward the pieces of it, still on the floor in the corner.
Cameron raises her eyebrows. "Call from someone you didn't want to talk to?"
Chase pauses for a moment, loath to tell her what has happened, but knowing that honesty is his only choice now if he wants to reclaim anything of the past. "That—girlfriend Foreman told you about. Ex now."
Cameron regards him in silence for a moment, puzzlement furrowing her brow. "She called to break up with you just now?" Something hardens in her face, then. "Well, I guess that's what happens when you put on the inscrutable act long enough. Thought you would've learned that by now."
"Yeah, I get it," Chase snaps, still feeling strangely raw, as though a scab has been ripped off the surface of his life. "I messed up with her. I messed up with you. I deserve to die alone and miserable."
"Oh, quit the pity party," Cameron interrupts, surprising him. He is accustomed to her anger and her aloofness both, but this is the first he has been met by contempt. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are?"
"Why did you come here?" Chase demands angrily, stung despite the fact that he is forced to acknowledge the truth of her words. "If you don't want anything to do with me, then why are you here? Come to gloat?"
"No," Cameron answers forcefully. She casts a look around the room, as though halfheartedly searching for an excuse, then sighs heavily. "This afternoon, I got a call from Martha Cohen, my boss in Atlanta. She wanted an inventory of the equipment that was destroyed."
"I thought you weren't going to tell her," says Chase, confused.
"That's the point." Cameron crosses her arms again. "I didn't. But I did find out that reports of the incident were on the local news tonight. Not to mention the internet."
"So you think—what?" asks Chase, still trying to piece things together in his mind. "That Barnes or Hale called and reported you?"
"I don't know." Cameron paces across the room, looking too restless to stand still. Quickly she stoops, retrieves the pieces of his cell phone and slides the battery back into place. "I think—that maybe whoever did this was the same person who tipped off the press. Maybe the point wasn't to destroy the lab. Maybe someone was looking for something."
"Like what?" Chase takes his phone back from her as she holds it out in her bandaged palm, turning it back on.
"I don't know!" Cameron repeats, pacing again. "There's been a reporter hanging around the hotel for days now. Word is starting to get out. This many cases—people want us to tell them something. Tell them we're making some kind of progress. Some kind of proof that we can still keep them safe."
"And why are you telling me about it?" asks Chase. It seems to go against all of her convictions, fly in the face of her current opinion of him.
"Because—" Cameron pauses, biting her lip. "Somebody did this to discredit our investigation. My investigation. I have no idea who that somebody was. But—I know that you were with me when it happened. So now—you're the only one I can really trust."
For a moment, Chase cannot find anything to stay, stunned silent by the profound irony of this situation. Since finding her again here in Oceanview, all he has wanted is to regain her trust. But now, he would gladly give it up again if it could free her of this sense of betrayal.
"Okay," Chase answers at last, trying to collect his bearings. "Okay. Just—tell me what you need."
"I got a call from the police today, too," says Cameron, running a hand through her hair. She looks more exhausted than he has ever seen her before, on the verge of losing her composure entirely. "Jereboam Smith is a runaway from Washington. He's a wanted man there. Domestic terrorism. Apparently he had a tiny church there, too. He was making explosives. Planning a mass suicide. Offering themselves up to god."
"So you think—what, that blaming the Synchronicity group was a ploy? A scapegoat?" Chase rubs his eyes again. "You think Smith has something to do with the outbreak?'
"I think that if he was prepared to blow up a church and all of his followers in order to act on his faith, he's more than capable of leading people into exactly the kind of contact that turns an anomalous case of a virus into an epidemic." Cameron goes to the window, rearranging the curtains before moving back across the room again
"And what do you think we should do about that?" asks Chase, gently catching her by the shoulders as she moves to pass him again. When she looks up at him, there is a raw, unmasked fear in her eyes.
"Smith has an ex-wife," says Cameron. "She lives about an hour south of here. I think you and I need to take a trip tomorrow morning."
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