Chapter 4
Day three began with rain. He had been lucky with the weather so far, even if it was colder than he had expected, but it really caught up with him that morning.
Once he had checked out at the front desk, he decided a leisurely breakfast was in order and planned to wait out the rain that way. This was still National Park area, so the diner next door was full of tourists equally unwilling to leave the shelter it provided. The place was packed, and service was slow. Servers tried to keep up with orders while stepping around backpacks and rain gear on the floor. It took ten minutes to get a refill, and when his food finally arrived, the eggs were scrambled instead of fried.
"What's this," he asked his server who had already turned away.
"Breakfast," she replied tersely and walked off to deliver another plate to another table.
"You know, I'd rather eat what I actually ordered," he called across the aisle. "But it's fine, I'm sure items I didn't order won't show up on the check."
"They will if you eat them," she shot back before disappearing behind the counter to pick up more orders.
The guy at his table sniggered into his coffee.
House would've preferred to eat his breakfast alone and in silence, but since this place was a hive of activity and noise, with no free tables when he arrived, he joined the person he thought least likely to start a conversation. Hiding behind a newspaper, a mug of coffee and an empty plate in front of him, he took him for a fellow traveler, maybe a trucker, who would be on his way soon. He had been wrong. Although, technically, laughing behind a newspaper wasn't the same as talking, so maybe he could just ignore it.
Except that the guy now tried to cover up his laughter by coughing. Very funny.
House tucked in. The eggs weren't bad at all, and he didn't really care whether they were fried or scrambled or boiled, as long as there was plenty of bacon to go with them. And his portion was definitely generous.
The theatrical coughing continued.
Enough was enough.
"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you're laughing about the cartoon of the day in that rag there."
On the other side of the table, the newspaper was lowered slowly and revealed a grinning face framed by dark hair and a slightly shaggy beard.
"I'm laughing because the same girl brought me beans I didn't order. When I pointed that out, she said she'd be happy to take my plate away and put in a new order for me. I didn't take her up on the offer because I didn't fancy waiting another hour to get something to eat. You were lucky; you got yours in half that time. I wouldn't say another word if I were you."
The newspaper went back up.
House tried to place the accent and ended up at something British with a hint of Aussie. It wasn't from this continent, that was for sure, and maybe not even from this hemisphere. The man was in his early forties and probably a tourist. In jeans and a t-shirt, he wasn't dressed like a businessman. Besides, businessmen wouldn't hang around in a packed diner next to the Interstate. Reaching for the maple syrup, House discreetly checked for a backpack under the table and found none. What he did spot was a pair of clean but well-worn cowboy boots. So not a tourist after all. There were no car keys in sight. Not a trucker then either.
"So, what's your verdict?"
The newspaper hadn't moved.
House really wasn't in the mood for a chat. He'd had trouble getting out of bed this morning, his morning dose of Vicodin had taken forever to kick in, and even now his leg was still achy. The weather was bad, he hadn't even made it a quarter of the way yet, he needed more coffee and the waitress kept ignoring him. He had not come here to make friends.
"Does it matter?"
"To me?" The guy sounded bored. "Not really."
House's cellphone chirped. He didn't need to look to know it was Wilson. Third day on the road, and this was the third text. He guessed Wilson sent them on his way to work. Since parking was a problem at his workplace, he often took the bus and said he enjoyed having time to read the paper before starting work. House considered not replying, but experience told him that Wilson would keep texting until he received a satisfactory reply.
'You got on the road OK this morning? How was breakfast?'
House sighed.
'Trying to drive here, stop worrying. Go vaccinate some bawling babies.'
He pushed his phone back into his pocket and continued with his breakfast.
"Your wife worried you got held up by the bad weather?" The newspaper rustled.
His mouth full with surprisingly decent homemade bread, House replied, "Something like that."
"You got far to get home?"
"Depends how you look at it." House had no intention of telling this guy his life story.
Finally, The Beard reappeared. Paper folded and put down on his seat, he drank the rest of his coffee and said, "You're not exactly the chatty type, are you?"
House replied around a mouthful of bacon and eggs. "I guess where you come from, people are really quick on the uptake."
The Beard grinned.
"You apparently come from a place where people love to try and figure others out but then get cranky when others do the same." He grabbed his coat from the next seat and said, "Safe travels, wherever you're headed."
House nodded and watched him make his way to pay at the counter. It was the smart option. People had probably grown old and had grandchildren in this place while waiting for the waitress to bring the check.
He finished his breakfast. By the time he had managed to get another refill, the rain had stopped and things outside looked a bit brighter. He wasn't the only one who had noticed, and the diner was a lot quieter. He could even hear the radio playing now; it was tuned to some local station he had never heard of. And he wouldn't care if he never heard it again because this wasn't what he considered suitable background music for his breakfast. Time to leave.
The next time the waitress looked in his direction he waved her over, but she was busy clearing tables and just shrugged and pointed at the counter.
For a moment he considered simply walking out, but in his biking gear he wasn't exactly inconspicuous. And he definitely didn't need the local law enforcement on his heels.
Helmet in one hand, cane in the other and backpack over his shoulder, he paid at the counter and then made his way out to his bike.
He was glad he had invested in proper clothing. Back in Princeton, he hadn't used his motorbike in the winter, so he'd never needed gloves or biking pants. Jeans did the job just fine. But out here he would've frozen to death by now without the right clothes. And it wasn't even winter anymore. He looked up at the sky. There was probably more rain on the way. He would have to start listening to local radio after all, he decided, if he didn't want to risk getting into a proper storm.
While he drove, he didn't have to think. Or at least that's how it used to be. When he used to take his Fireblade out of town, there was no space for thinking. The bike and the road demanded his full attention. That had been just the way he liked it because once he started thinking, his mind went places he didn't want it to go, to places he couldn't control. Besides, when he was working, his brain was in high gear all day, all the time. He needed space, a calm space. Taking his bike on the road opened up that space for him.
That's how it used to be.
In hindsight, it had been one of the reasons why he'd chosen the bike over a car and even more so over the train. He wanted that clear headspace again, needed it.
But things were different now. After a couple of days on the road, he had tuned in to the bike's sound, its rhythm and its kinks. Driving along seemingly endless roads, he felt his brain disengage from the task of controlling the bike. This bike didn't need controlling as his old one had, so his mind went off on its own.
It went ahead to New Jersey, to Stacy and what awaited him there. He started to play through all the possible scenarios and outcomes. Most of them weren't good.
But he also went back; back to that burning building, back to the night Gregory House had died in Princeton, New Jersey. And he saw all the options he'd had. He had been stupid - stupid and impulsive. There had been other ways out. He'd been too blind and too proud to see them.
Well, he'd have to take one of those options now to fix the mess he had gotten himself into.
