by Maya Tawi
They took Chase's car. Knowles made Chase drive, while he himself sat in the passenger seat and relegated House to the back-- but only after engaging the child locks in the back doors. House felt insulted by the implication. What, did Knowles think he was going to jump and roll out the door in the middle of 95 or something?
Chase had visibly relaxed once they'd exited the building without incident, going so far as to shoot occasional annoyed looks in Knowles's direction, though House could have told him that the danger would only increase the farther they got from other people. It was possible that Knowles was psychotic enough to fire a gun in the middle of a large hospital with hundreds of people around, but not very likely. Now that it was just the three of them, it was a very different story.
House could have told Chase that, but he didn't. He needed Chase thinking clearly and not panicking.
He stared out the window as Chase drove, idly committing the route to memory. After about fifteen minutes of silence, apart from Knowles's muttered directions, he couldn't take it anymore.
"I can't believe you've never heard of the band Anthrax," he said.
Chase didn't seem surprised when he spoke; he was probably wondering why House had waited so long. He just rolled his eyes in the rearview mirror and said, "Why, have you heard of Dead Baby Meat?"
House opened his mouth.
"Never mind," Chase said quickly. "You're not normal."
"Normality is overrated," House said.
In the passenger seat, Knowles raised the gun and said, "Shut up and drive."
Chase glanced at him. House was pretty sure he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes again.
"I could've driven, you know," House said about twenty minutes later.
"No," Chase and Knowles said in unison.
House scowled at the mirror. "I do have a car. I'm not incapable."
"You're a menace," Chase said, sliding the car smoothly into the next lane. "I've seen you drive."
"At least I don't drive on the wrong side of the road."
"Neither do I," Chase pointed out.
"Yeah," House said. "Well. You should."
"I'll take that under advisement."
"Your eyes are gonna stick if you keep rolling 'em like that. Fair warning."
"Shut up--" Knowles began.
"And drive," Chase finished with a sigh. "Yeah, I know."
Robert Chase, House decided, was unflappable. He'd been startled at first, granted, but as time went on and House didn't get him killed, his natural imperturbability had begun to reassert itself. It made it annoying to try and get a rise out of him, as House had been doing with a general lack of success for over a year now, but he supposed it made Chase the ideal person to get kidnapped with.
Still, at least Wilson would have played I Spy with him.
"I spy," he called cheerfully, "a brand-new paint job in your immediate future."
Chase jerked the wheel to the side to avoid the yawning ditch immediately ahead, and swore loudly when yet another branch scraped a long, vicious-sounding gouge along the side of his car. "You're a bloody psychic," he said through clenched teeth.
"I bet you wish we'd taken my car now, don't you?"
Limbs continued to batter the small, sporty car as they bounced slowly along the winding path. Beneath them, the suspension groaned in protest. Finally Chase hit the brakes in frustration, and the car jerked to a stop.
"That's it," he said. "There's no road here. I can't drive any farther."
"Fine," Knowles said, swinging the gun back and forth between the two of them. "Get out. We're walking."
"I'm not," House said.
Chase was affronted. "What, just leave it here?"
"Oh, sure," House said. "I'm sure there are roving bands of forest-dwelling auto thieves out there just waiting to make off with your precious wheels."
Knowles drew back the hammer of the gun with a loud click. "We," he pronounced slowly. "Are all. Walking."
House eyed the gun and kept his mouth shut. If they'd been vulnerable earlier in the parking lot, they were ten times more so out here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods in every direction.
Chase looked around for the first time, possibly having similar thoughts. "Where the hell are we?"
"Bumfuck, New York," House said, before Knowles could respond. "Or thereabouts. Let me guess-- lake house?" He glanced at Knowles. "Of course you have a lake house. So where's the lake?"
"Get out," Knowles said.
"You have to let me out," House explained, with exaggerated patience. "Remember?"
Once outside, he slammed the door shut and leaned against the car, fishing in his pocket for his Vicodin. He looked around, wrinkling his nose. Too much nature. Too much fresh air. His lungs already hurt.
"So," he began, poising to swallow, and Knowles looked at him in horror and demanded, "What are you doing?"
House froze with his hand cupped in front of his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chase on the other side of the car, slowly straightening from where he had been bent over, examining the damage to his paint job and muttering to himself.
"Going for my afternoon jog," House bit out finally, when Knowles's eyes narrowed. "What does it look like?"
"It looks like my wife's life is in danger and you're popping pills!"
Chase coughed and said in a low voice, "Listen, you really don't want to--"
"That first part isn't exactly my fault, is it?" House interrupted loudly. "Actually, come to think about it, neither is the second. You got a problem, take it up with my leg muscles. Oh wait, you can't-- they're dead." He swallowed the pill with a savage flourish, glaring a challenge at Knowles the whole time.
"--go there," Chase finished with a sigh.
Knowles threw his hands up. House watched Chase eye the gun, poising to tackle him, and then realize that he was still on the wrong side of the car. It was kind of funny. "Great. I manage to get my hands on the one doctor with a pill habit."
"I highly doubt he's the only one," Chase muttered. The sarcasm in his voice would have perked up House considerably, if they hadn't been talking about him.
"So," he said again, and closed his eyes and willed the Vicodin to start working. "Where's the patient?"
The long walk through the woods was long, arduous, and best forgotten. Chase walked beside him, tactfully keeping his mouth shut when House stumbled or slowed to a snail's pace, and Knowles followed behind with the gun. The second time House had to grab at Chase's arm for balance, he felt compelled to mutter, "Sorry 'bout this," and then cleared his throat loudly.
Chase heard, damn him. Ears like a bat. "Why, Dr. House, was that an apology?"
"Treasure the moment," House growled. "It won't happen again."
"Don't worry. I'll write all about it in my diary."
"Even if it is all your fault for being a cultural illiterate."
Chase smiled a little. "Now that's the House we all know and tolerate."
House studied him for a moment, then said, "You're really not mad."
It was an observation, not a question, but Chase answered anyway. "At you? No. The man with the gun, now..."
"You're way too forgiving. It's not healthy."
Chase smiled again, an odd little smile that he couldn't quite read. "Dr. House, has it ever occurred to you that I genuinely don't mind your temperament?"
House stared at him. "No."
"Right, well, I hate to break it to you, but you'll have to try harder."
"Don't think I won't," House muttered, still staring.
"Oh, believe me, I don't."
"You bizarre freak of nature."
"Coming from you, that's saying a lot."
"Hurry up!" Knowles yelled behind them.
"Bite me!" House yelled back.
It felt good.
As it turned out, there was no need for anybody to crawl through an air duct. This rather disappointed House, who found that he had been looking forward to seeing Chase get mussed and dusty.
That, he decided after a moment, was probably not a sentiment worthy of deeper investigation.
Instead, Knowles left them just beyond the treeline as he hiked across the clearing to a large cabin, perched as advertised on the edge of a sparkling blue lake. They could watch his progress as he approached the armed man at the door, but no one at the cabin would see them unless they knew to look.
Chase could have run then, House knew, back through the woods to the car, and from thence back to Jersey and what could charitably be called civilization. He didn't, and though House hadn't really expected him to, he discovered that he was unreasonably grateful for the fact nonetheless.
There was only one way to express such gratitude. "Run, you idiot," he hissed.
"You're welcome," Chase answered absently, his gaze fixed on the cabin.
With a sigh, House turned to observe as well. The gunman wasn't his old friend not-Knowles, but rather someone new, and House wondered just how large this operation was, and how many pockets these people had their hands in. As he watched, Knowles reached the cabin and said something to the gunman, gesturing widely.
"Oh, sure, wave your hands some more," House muttered. "That's not suspicious."
But apparently the gunman was dumber than he looked-- no mean feat-- and after a few seconds of discussion, he started off down the driveway, away from the cabin, and Knowles hurried back to where House and Chase were waiting.
"Come on," he said. "We've got ten minutes."
House rolled his eyes. "Oh, great. I'll just go ahead and set up the express IV drip."
"You know," Chase murmured, "your eyes are gonna stick."
Knowles set his jaw. "We'll take her out of here if we have to."
"Right," House said, pointedly ignoring Chase. "Well. I'm not carrying anyone."
The cabin was one sprawling story, thank Christ; House had already struggled up one stairway during this case, and that was one too many for a lifetime. Knowles led them through the foyer to a small, darkened bedroom, and House only had time for a vague impression of exposed beams, high arched ceilings, and tasteful, stylish furniture before his attention was riveted by the patient on the bed.
"We meet again," House observed, as he limped across the room. "You're like a bad penny. Or a nagging cough."
"Doctor... House," Shirley Knowles said weakly, and closed her eyes, seemingly exhausted by the effort.
"Got it in one." House gave her a critical, head-to-toe look. She looked better than the last time he'd seen her; at least she wasn't vomiting blood. Yet. Studying her, House felt a rare burst of sympathy with a patient. Knowles-- Shirley-- had been dosed with antibiotics twice, enough to kill off some of the bacteria, but not to knock out the spores. Essentially, she was embarking on her third foray into the Wonderful World of Anthrax, and despite her husband's best intentions, House rather doubted there was an end in sight.
For one thing, there were bad signs-- the stiff way she held her neck on the pillow, the near-imperceptible shivers... House pressed a hand to her forehead. It was cold.
"Shit," he said simply, and turned to Chase. "What do you think?"
Chase felt her face and nodded. "Definitely meningeal. Even if it's not, the anthrax is too far advanced. This woman needs to be in an ICU."
House gave him a quick, sharp look. Either he was a better diagnostician than House had previously given him credit for, or-- far more likely-- he, too, was thinking two steps ahead. The important thing was to get Shirley Knowles to a hospital where they could properly treat her. It was far less important to be truthful with her husband about the prognosis of her disease.
Especially when he was the one who'd made her sick in the first place.
House glanced at Knowles. "Well? It's your show. What's the script say now?"
Knowles chewed on his lower lip, looking torn.
"Tick-tock," House added nastily.
Knowles started to pace back and forth. House caught Chase's eye and nodded, and Chase reached into his bag for the Levaquin injections they had procured from the pharmacy.
After Chase had dosed Shirley and wiped the injection site with a sterilizing pad, he glanced up. "Seriously, man, she's dying. If you want to save her, we have to get her out of here."
Knowles spun and stared at him, searching for signs of deception. Chase just stared back, guileless and wide-eyed and unruffled.
House was, despite himself, impressed.
"Fine," Knowles said finally, and worked his jaw as though trying to swallow something inedible. "Do it."
"Don't do us any favors," House muttered.
Chase looked at Knowles's gun, then at House's cane, and met House's bland shrug with a sigh and an eye-roll. He pulled back the comforter from the bed and started to gather the top sheet around Shirley, speaking to her in a low voice as he did.
"Hurry up," Knowles said.
Chase shot him a pointed look. "Do you want to carry her?"
Knowles bared his teeth. In Chase's arms, Shirley gagged, leaned over, and vomited on his leather jacket.
House winced.
Chase, however, barely reacted. "Come on, up you get," he murmured, and hoisted her somewhat awkwardly against his shoulder. "We're going for a walk, now, and it won't be fun, but you'll feel better at the end. Okay?"
"I like... you... better," Shirley managed to say.
Chase hid a laugh with a cough, and House remarked, "He is quite the ladykiller, isn't he? Oh, I'm sorry-- that word would be better used to describe your husband, wouldn't it?"
"Shut up!" Knowles yelled. He swiveled the gun back towards House. "You, out the back door. You--" He gestured to Chase. "--follow him. You--" House again-- "any more smart remarks, and I will shoot you."
Somehow House managed to keep his mouth shut through sheer force of will, and he simply raised his hands in mock-surrender. Chase gave him a dubious look. House narrowed his eyes in return. They'd better not start planning his funeral just yet.
The back door opened on five steps that descended to a path around the lake. House navigated them slowly and carefully, hating the helplessness and vulnerability he felt.
He hated it even more when a figure rounded the corner of the cabin and pointed yet another gun at him. And this time, it was not-Knowles, with the second gunman, not-not-Knowles, close behind.
If these people were going to keep pointing guns at him, he'd have to come up with more creative nicknames for them. Not-Knowles, he decided, looked a little like General Patton, while not-not-Knowles reminded him of Sid Vicious, for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on. It would do for now.
"Back up the stairs," Patton said, and House gritted his teeth and began the slow, laborious process of ascending the five steps he'd just taken such great pains to descend.
"It was the hand-waving, wasn't it?" he asked Sid as he climbed, to distract himself more than anything else. "I knew it was too much."
Sid inexplicably failed to indulge him. Clearly Matlock hadn't got everything right.
"Drop the cane," Patton said, once he reached the top of the steps.
House just looked at him. "You know, I could swear I've heard that one before--"
A loud click. "Do it."
House narrowed his eyes into his best glare, with no discernible effect. There was no graceful way to lower his cane gently to the ground, so finally he just dropped it on the path and-- well, "prayed" was inaccurate-- hoped it wouldn't get scuffed.
Patton, it seemed, had other ideas. "Kick it over here."
House looked at the cane, his leg, and finally fixed Patton with a long, withering look.
Patton was undeterred. "John," he said, and Knowles edged forward and kicked the cane down the steps.
House watched in helpless, impotent fury as Patton lowered his gun, took aim, and fired.
The report was deafening, and he couldn't help but flinch. Beside him, Chase jumped, nearly dropping his cargo, and fumbled with Shirley Knowles for a few long seconds, which would have been amusing had House not still been blinded by rage.
That had been his favorite cane, the heavy one with the solid wood handle. Now, it was two splintered pieces on the ground, blown apart by a bullet.
"The next one," Patton said, "goes into the kneecap of the first person to piss me off."
House finally found his voice. It never took very long. "In which case that cane might have come in handy. I see you have issues with long-range planning. Did you really think I was likely to whack you with my stick and handily disarm you?"
Patton smiled coldly and raised the gun again. "Thank you for volunteering."
"House," Chase hissed in alarm. His knuckles were white.
"Oh, relax," House said. "He's not going to shoot me."
"Really," Patton said, drawing back the hammer. "Any particular reason, or was that just wishful thinking?"
House smiled thinly, aware that it wasn't reaching his eyes. "Right leg, please. Unless you intend to carry me, I still need at least one leg to function."
"That's your plan?" Chase demanded under his breath. "A bullet in your bad leg?"
"You got a better one?" House retorted, not looking at him.
Patton didn't lower the gun. But he didn't fire, either.
House raised his voice. "He's not going to shoot me," he repeated, "because I'm already incapacitated. Obviously I'm not going to climb out the window and run away."
"You're assuming that would be the point of the exercise," Patton said.
"Oh my. Well, we know what happens when you assume, although you're doing a perfectly good job of making an ass out of yourself." House smiled again, wider this time. "But more to the point, he's not going to shoot me because he doesn't want to fire that gun if he doesn't have to."
"Stop talking," Patton said. Any traces of amusement were long gone from his face.
It wasn't a suggestion House ever had much success in heeding. This time he didn't even try.
"In fact, if anyone's going to shoot us, it'll be John Boy here." House raised his eyebrows. "That is the plan, isn't it? I bet that gun's registered in his name. He's the one who took us from the hospital, the security tapes will show as much. Right now, Patty here is keeping his options open. He hasn't decided yet whether or not to kill the witnesses-- which would be us, for the slower among you-- but if he does, it'll be our good friend John who's implicated, while Itchy and Scratchy ride off into the sunset together. Very romantic. That's not a suggestion," he added, for Patton's benefit as much as Chase's. "I'm sure he'd shoot us if he had to. He just doesn't want to."
John Knowles looked shell-shocked. "Phil? You're not-- is he--"
"Don't feel bad," House said. "You're an amateur. You're obviously not very experienced with crime. If you watched more TV, now--"
Patton fired.
For a moment, House genuinely feared that he'd miscalculated for once, that his arrogance had gotten Chase killed-- or, worse, himself. But the bullet didn't hit him, and the body that fell to the ground with a meaty thud wasn't Chase's.
He made himself wait a beat before he looked down. John Knowles's wide, sightless eyes stared up at him, the bullet hole in his forehead like the legendary third eye come to life.
Beside him, Chase made a strangled noise, and Shirley Knowles started to slip from his grip.
"Davey," Patton-- Phil-- murmured, and Sid Vicious skirted around the three of them to Knowles's body, where he crouched and pried the gun from his fingers. Phil kept his gun pointed at House and Chase.
Acidly Phil said, "Should I tell you the rest of my cunning plan, or would you like to finish doing it for me?"
House found his voice. "There's no need to be flippant."
Patton smiled. House just couldn't think of him as Phil; it was too innocuous, too buttoned-down a name. Probably wasn't his real name anyway. "I don't want to kill you two. You got that much right. But make no mistake, I will do it if I have to." He nodded at Sid, who actually did look like a Davey, pizza-face and all. "And now I have John's gun, and he can conveniently disappear. So I suggest you make a serious attempt to refrain from pissing me off."
"You know," House said, "I never did like you."
"Mutual," Patton said. He gestured with the gun. "Back inside, please."
House followed Chase and his bundle back into the house. His leg was starting to throb again, and without the cane, his progress was even slower than before. The skin between his shoulder blades itched, expecting a bullet that didn't come.
Yet.
End Part Three
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