Not all is as it seems. Not all is as presumed, or anticipated. And sometimes, nothing can be done about it. Nothing can be done to change it or analyze it or break it into manageable pieces. Sometimes you just have to take it for what it is. And Gregory House now had to take it for what it was worth. This, he couldn't solve.
He slowly drove through the narrow streets of a neighborhood he'd never hoped to visit, Rachel's address clutched in his hand but his mind in a different world - a world only real now that he was forced to face it. This indeed was a mystery, brought to life in a way he never wished possible.
Medical mystery? No . . . Mystery of life? Closer, but still too intangible to touch. The mystery of chance and fate and perception and . . . the mystery of 'mysteries' in general. The fact that House couldn't fix this was disturbing enough, but the fact that no one could fix it was gut-wrenching.
In the back of his mind, he was still scanning the streets for the white skin and cowboy boots to match. But in the forefront of his now hard-hitting logic, he knew he would never find it. This is not your typical, residential neighborhood, he observed the obvious. No homes with '2.5 kids, a dog, and a white picket fence'. He made sure to look for the white picket fence too - he had been so convinced that's where he'd find Rachel. And he could march, his version of a march, on up the cobblestone steps and demand to speak with her father. But there were no cobblestone steps, and somehow, he doubted there'd be a father either.
There was only dirt and desolation. He was surrounded by it, and couldn't deny it. There was no lonely breeze to sweep over the dying houses and rusting cars; the only sound as he drove was that of his growling engine, and that of a gunshot in the distance. It was followed by a burst of yelling, and shortly thereafter, sirens. Dilapidated porches adorned the dying yards. It was like he'd driven under a canopy of storm-angry clouds, as the world was suddenly strange - a weird color, a cold shadow.
He parked on the side of the street and gazed emptily out the window. He was here, wherever 'here' was. This was the address Rachel had given him: corner of Linkin and Bently. How could he be so naive? "Damn," Greg cursed aloud. There were no houses at this particular corner, just some broken-down old shacks and a mangy group of wayward drifters lighting up a couple of joints. He knew Rachel didn't live in a box, or hoped she didn't, so he took the car out of park and pulled away from the grass - if that's what you could call it. It didn't really look like grass.
What now? He looked down at the x-ray in his passenger seat. He didn't know where to go from here. He didn't know where to look, where to drive. All part of a puzzle that was turning way too damn stressful for even him.
There were thugs and pushers at every corner and all along the street as he drove. House suddenly felt a pang radiate from his chest as he realized the situation: he was in a bright red, perfectly restored, '65 Corvette, driving through the ghetto, with a wooden cane as his only defense. His worries came to a climax when he saw a .45 caliber protruding from the back of a baggy pair of jeans. He drove just a little bit faster, noticing the covetous expression of the gun's owner at House's car. But it was to no avail. A different black guy stepped out into the street and House had no choice but to brake.
"Shit." He tried to stay calm, keep his cool. He even thought of taking off his high-topped, 'kool with the kidz' tennis shoes - to throw them out the window as a peace offering. Anything but his darling Corvette.
The sweaty, shirtless body with a flashy silver chain swaggered his way up to House's car. His dark blue boxers stuck out way above his sagging black jeans, and heavy Timberland boots dragged across the ground as he trudged forward. He stopped two feet from the car and bent his knees as he leaned back in exaggerated admiration; the gesture was accentuated with a fist at his lips and an "Ooh, baby!" out loud to his comrades. The guy then motioned for House to roll his window down. Against his better judgement, House complied.
Just as he did so, he noticed a pistol wedged between the jeans and the dark blue boxers. His quick wit returned within seconds and before he knew it, he was saying, "Nice gun." He didn't know what had prompted it - the sudden chill up his spine, he guessed. "The M9 9 mm Beretta. Comfortable carry, but the barrel always has been too long for me." House hoped he knew what he was talking about; he had noticed that the handle looked exactly like that of a sidearm he kept in his closet at home.
A nod was the gangster's only response to House's comment. "Hot car, yo. Wha chu pay for dis?"
Now that was a loaded question. What was he to say to that? "Gift. I lied for some mobster. Got this baby outta the deal." He smirked. He was trying to sound calm and collective, laid back even. But he was also careful not to overdo it.
"Shizzle. '65, right? Damn sho . . . Fuckin' wicked wheels, yo. Chrome carb?"
House squinted as he attempted to understand what he was saying. Oh, the carburetor. House nodded his head and replied, "Edelbrock." Great. The last thing he needed was to engage in a conversation with this thug about the expensive parts under his hood. House got a strong whiff of marijuana as the guy rocked back and forth in his untied Timb's; he watched while he jerked his head around at the rap music blaring from another guy's boom box.
"Yeah. Tha's a bad mutha." He curled his upper lip over in appreciation of the beauty, then held onto his pants as backed up to swagger away.
"Hey," House stopped him. What the hell am I doing? I'm lucky to be alive. Let the guy go on his merry way. But again, his curiosity exceeded his judgement. "Gotta strange question for ya."
The guy tipped his head up and gave another quick nod.
"You know a white chik around here named Rachel?" House continued, unsure of himself, trying to catch onto the lingo but somehow failing miserably.
"You a cop?"
"Cop? No. Doctor." He was prepared to spill a sarcastic comment into the conversation, but stopped himself from making that mistake.
"Docta? Don't look like no docta ta me!"
House held up the x-ray and hoped it would work. It did. The guy stared him down, daring him to be lying, and merely pointed a finger. House let off the brake, rolled up his window, and followed the direction of the finger. He released a breath of anxiety and wondered what he'd find when he got to wherever he was going. Somehow, he knew he wasn't going to like it.
