"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-Seven -

"Thin Veneer of Panic"

Panic, they say, is a quick-spreading, all-encompassing, hysterical fear … and panic was about to hit the Paramar Clinic like a vial of nitroglycerin thrown into a populated building.

Nobody saw this coming. Unexplained nightmares about a dog and a bus did not count. If there were outward signs noticeable to human beings, not one of them had their microscopes trained in the right direction …

James Wilson's blood went cold in his veins. He dropped to his knees with a hollow thump beside the dog's still-warm body. He decided he'd been so close to arriving after the time of death, that he might actually have felt the dog's spirit rise into the air and drift off toward the nether world … or wherever it was that good dogs go. He placed his hand lightly on Bobby's head in the manner of some vague benediction, and words of Hebrew ritual ran a jumbled litany through his mind. He pressed Bobby's eyelids closed, just as he would have done for a human.

He didn't honestly believe that such mumbo-jumbo did anything spiritual to assure the animal's safe passage to the hereafter. Truth be known, he felt mentally fragmented and confused and disheartened and unsure whether any of those thoughts were even coherent.

Wilson mustered his strength, straightened both legs, and let his body slide sideways onto his behind like a toppled sack of apples. He shook the cobwebs from his mind as the real world gradually regained shape around him. From the perspective of a few feet distant, his doctor's brain began to assess information from what was now nothing more than a scientific experiment covered with white fur.

The implications of Bobby's sudden death were vast and frightening … and potentially dangerous to four people: one of them Gregory House. Earl Keirkgaard would grieve for the death of the dog he had saved from a painful fate and then lived with for a year. Kip Bernoski would miss Bobby too. There would be no one to buy Meaty Bones for or wrestle with on the reception room floor. Bill Bernard would have no one to bitch at for dragging weeds and dirt along the clean carpet of the corridors, and Tyree Tolliver had lost his playmate.

The worst thing of all … Bobby had been the first nanocite recipient. What were those implications? The hairs at the back of Wilson's neck were standing straight up. He pulled himself together, suddenly remembering what his mission had been in coming back here.

He rose to his feet. They would soon begin to wonder where in hell he was …

Wilson was mildly surprised that he even remembered to gather up the wheelchair, still standing half in and half out of their quarters. He secured both apartments and spun away, running down the corridor, pushing it in front of him toward the lunchroom as though he had a baby in a go-cart three steps ahead of a tidal wave.

Wilson's head was already spinning with the worst news he could ever imagine having to impart. Had Bobby's nanocites, indeed, killed him? Or was it his advanced age? Could it have been something as simple as a heart attack in an old dog … or had an experiment with the innovations of modern medicine called back one of its own? If it was the result of the nanotechnology, then not only was Gregory House in danger of having his new implants fail, but the others who had gone before him were imperiled as well. That nasty lump of fear that had taken root in Wilson's stomach recently, returned with a vengeance and quickly turned to stone once again.

James slowed to a walk and maneuvered the chair around the corner into the large room where the others were still gathered. He must tell Kip Bernoski first. The man was in charge of this place, and deserved to be the one to make the decisions, relay the news to his staff … and Gregory House … and issue appropriate orders.

Gregg was still in his chair at the table, his foot still propped on the other chair. His hand rubbed at a spot just below the right anklebone. Bart Kirkpatrick stood at his side with one hand on Gregg's shoulder. Wilson knew House was having problems with the foot, but that had to wait for now. He parked the wheelchair at House's side and walked quickly across to where Kip stood at the opposite end of the room.

The look on Wilson's face drew the attention of more than one person, mainly because he bypassed his friend and went directly to Bernoski. James leaned close and whispered very close to Kip's ear. "We need to talk …"

The two of them moved away from the others who were setting about helping House get back into the wheelchair.

"What's wrong?" Bernoski asked.

Wilson did not mince words. "Bobby's dead," he said. "I heard him scream, and when I went to check, he was already gone. I'm sorry. I didn't know how to tell you … but I thought it best not to prolong the agony …"

Kip's hand flew to his mouth and all the color leeched from his face like a glass of chocolate mocha, emptying. "Oh God … oh God … "

"What can I do?" Wilson asked. "Tell me what you want me to do. The others have to be told."

They were drawing attention from everyone in the room. Expressions crossing their faces were too raw for anyone to imagine it was anything good. Bart straightened from his concentration on Gregg and turned in the direction of James and Kip. The room had grown suddenly silent, and even a blind man knows when something frightening is in the air. "What's wrong? Kevin? James?"

House turned in the wheelchair and stared at the two doctors. Immediately suspicious; wary. There was a frown of rapt concentration transforming his features, replacing any pain he might have been experiencing. Wilson knew House well enough to understand immediately that House was already running a scenario of possibilities in his head. Dismissing them all, one by one. If his foot hurt, it was forgotten. Gregory House was in full diagnostics mode.

Kip held up his hands for silence, but it was wasted movement. He was stalling for time, an extra few seconds to get his chaotic thoughts in order. The room was already silent to the point of vacuum.

"Jim has just told me," he said, with a sympathetic and understanding eye toward Earl Keirkgaard, "that Bobby has died."

"WHAT?"

The word exploded from every throat. Disbelief. Stunned astonishment. Heads shaking in denial. Without exception, the Lord's name was taken in vain all around the room. Then more vacuum.

"He started to howl when I was leaving with the wheelchair," Wilson said. "I went to check, and when I opened the door, it was already too late. I'm … sorry."

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