A/N: This chapter in the last few weeks was not brought to you by Cancer, Construction, Crazy work, or Continuing toward publication. Okay, those last two were a stretch to get the alliteration, but work has been crazy, and Mom's book has taken a good bit of time working with them on final details. Should be out soon, though, like within a month; we're definitely in the homestretch. Anyway, while all of those have been going on and at least three of them continue (construction is completed!), I finally had time to write up another chapter of Phantom. Appreciate your patience on this one. It will be completed. And yes, there is more in my series, but we're finishing this one first. I definitely don't have time to have two open fanfiction stories. Thanks for reading!

(H/C)

Cuddy drove back to her apartment on autopilot, her mind busily trying to wrap itself around all the new data from today and from her conversation with House.

Odd. She had thought of him as Maestro for so long, and she still did with the medicine. There, he was confident, brilliant, conducting the differentials as Toscanini had conducted opera, all the separate tracks flawlessly managed into the glorious whole in what was nearly a form of medical music. But the lonely, trapped soul she sensed over in that abandoned building, the one she had spoken to tonight, that was House. He stepped into the name easily in her mind.

Would House have been the Maestro publicly by now if not for this charge? She could imagine how much good he would do loose in the world, though the world probably would be annoyed often by his bluntness and eccentricity and impatience.

Hopefully he still could be that brilliant physician. She refused to let this drop, no matter what he said. Whatever he was punishing himself for with his solitary confinement, surely it didn't merit this length of sentence.

But how on earth could she convince him of that? Solving a decade-old murder case when she'd never read more than one or two mysteries sounded far easier than drawing him out of his shell back into civilization.

She barely made it back to her apartment before James Wilson showed up, and he looked surprised at finding her not yet ready for their date. She knew the lapse of efficiency was uncharacteristic. Still, he was pleasantly understanding as always, and he waited in the living room while she finished changing and putting herself together in the bathroom.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated as they left. "I was working on something today and just lost track of time. I have been looking forward to tonight."

"Not a problem," he assured her. He looked over at her at a stop light, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. "May I ask what you were working on? I thought you had today off."

Well, she'd walked straight into that one. She scrambled mentally for a few seconds, and he beat her to the reply. "I'm sorry. You're right; it's none of my business. You don't have to tell me."

She reached over to put a hand on his on the steering wheel. "Thanks, Wil- James. I wish I could tell you, but it's private." He gave her a smile with just a touch of curiosity but accepted the statement.

Once again, it was nearly the perfect date. The meal was wonderful, the conversation excellent, and he also was a wonderful dancer. She had always loved to dance herself, and she even forgot at times all her discoveries of this day. It was very late that night when he brought her back home, and then they shared a bottle of wine together, talking about old times, speculating about new. Before he left, she confirmed that he was as good a kisser as he was a dancer. If he had pushed, she probably would have let him stay, but he was the perfect gentleman tonight, saying that he didn't want the wine making decisions for her. She went to bed and fell asleep quickly.

She woke up on Sunday with her mind pointing back like a compass needle to House and with a new conclusion that had formed while she slept.

He had to have someone else helping him.

She replayed her memories of his lair, taking inventory. The food might be plain, but it wasn't out of date, either. The magazines were current. The Tylenol was full, a nearly new bottle. He had a modern computer and printer/scanner.

The thought of House sneaking out routinely to go shopping with a murder charge hanging over his head simply didn't make sense. There was too much danger that somebody in this town might recognize him. He looked more than 10 years older than that newspaper picture, but anyone who had known him then would still know him on sight now if they took a good look. Besides that, his mobility was bad enough that any trip would have been a chore.

No, someone else, most likely another employee at the hospital, had to be taking him supplies regularly. Now, who might that be? If Dr. Nordstrom remembered him fondly, a few others might. She doubted it was Nordstrom, though. If he had known where House was hiding and had been aiding him, he would hardly have talked about him with her even as much as he had. No, he would have been on perpetual guard against introducing that whole subject.

So who else? There was no way short of breaking and entering that she could possibly access personnel records in the HR computer, but she made a mental note to keep eyes and ears open and start a list of those hospital employees, not just doctors but in any area, who had been here for sufficient years. Maybe she could narrow it down.

Of course, it might not be somebody he had known back before his charge. Maybe there were others like herself whom he couldn't resist introducing himself to over the years of his isolation. Maybe she was simply the latest in a long string.

She didn't think so. She didn't want to think so.

Meanwhile, she had another tactic in mind for today. Recalling the date of the murder from the internet stories, she ran a Google search on it adding House, Lexington, and obituary. Fairly quickly, she found the obituary for Blythe House. Cause of death had been a heart attack. There was a picture provided, and the woman looked to Cuddy's medical eye like a nice candidate for a heart attack. She was overweight with a full face and a not-totally-healthy color. Nice smile, though.

The obit mentioned her hobbies, her friends. The fact that she had a son was stated but not elaborated upon, not even to include his name. Even given the news that had been breaking simultaneously with her death, that surprised Cuddy. The name Cuddy particularly wanted, however, was prominently included: John House, retired USMC. Blythe's qualities as a supportive wife during his career were praised. No subsequent search for an obituary under his name yielded results. Hopefully, he was still alive.

Cuddy switched to personal information databases, growling under her breath at the price some wanted for all details, including jail records. She didn't care about jail records; she simply wanted a current phone number. She had to start somewhere, after all, even though as awkward phone calls went, this one probably would take the prize in her life to date.

Having found the correct (she hoped) John House and his address and phone number, she took a deep breath and dialed.

"Hello." It sounded less like a greeting than like a command. Years of retirement had not diminished his military tone.

"Is this Mr. John House?" she asked.

"This is Major House," he stated, emphasizing the title.

"Major House. This call might seem strange, but I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes." No harm in stroking his ego at first, softening him up. "My name is Lisa Cuddy. I've been doing some research and hoped you might help me. First of all, I do want to thank you for your service to your country."

She could almost hear his chest jut out. "I appreciate that, but I was just doing my duty." He didn't believe that, just thought the sound bite came across better. She was already starting to dislike him in this conversation, even on their short acquaintance, and she stomped the feeling down. She didn't even know him, and personality clashes wouldn't help the conversation any.

"Your military record speaks for itself," she said. She hoped that it did, though all she knew of it was what had been in his wife's obituary. Come to think of it, there had been an amazing amount of military praise of her husband in that, given that his wife should have had the starring role in the piece.

He was lapping this up. "I'm very proud to have been a Marine, and I hope my country is as satisfied with me."

"Oh, I'm sure they are. We owe so much to our veterans. I'm sure I don't fully understand the extent of the sacrifices men like yourself have made, but I do appreciate it."

"Well, it's good to know we aren't forgotten, especially by the younger generations. So many of them don't appreciate what we went through for their sake. So you're doing research on veterans?"

"Not quite." She gathered herself to enter the main subject, realizing he was quite likely to hang up on her unless she established her good intentions up front. "I ran into some old newspaper stories on your son Gregory, and I wondered reading them if anything else had ever been heard from him. I assure you, I'm not a reporter or a police officer, and I'm not trying to capture him or convict him without a trial. I even wondered if there's a chance he might have been framed."

Silence. Absolute silence for several seconds, then the sound of accelerating breathing. "Major House," she said quickly, "I do not mean any ill toward your son. I just wanted..."

His reply sliced across her final word with all the firmness and finality of a "dismissed" from a commanding officer. "I have no son," he practically spat out. In the next second, he hung up on her.

Cuddy sat there still holding the phone, surprised. What was that about? She'd expected him to be protective of House, whether or not he had heard anything further from him since the murder; he was his father, after all. She had never expected that level of venom and directed not at her but at his son even as he denied him.

It was a long time before she remembered to put down the phone.