"GUESSWORK"
- Chapter Four -
"Where Are You?"
The day was slowly closing in around him. He could feel it settling down like a fat hen on a nest full of eggs. Even from behind the closed door of his office he could hear the faint metallic thump of outer doors closing, and the elevator humming and humming as people made their way home at the end of the workday.
It was 4:15 p.m. and he sat with his tie loosened from his shirt collar, the sleeves rolled meticulously to the elbows; his elbows propped in the middle of the desk, and his chin nested in both palms. A little reminiscent, he thought, of the hen on the nest. Waiting.
First shift workers had been relieved over an hour ago, and some of the second shifters were bustling about on their way to beds-and-meds and preparing to serve the evening meal. Hallway doors thumped open and closed in a regular and familiar rhythm. Even though the "cancer-kids" ward was way down on the other wing, the sounds and smells of this particular time of day was just this side of comforting as he sat there, willing it to be 4:30.
House would be leaving rehab in another ten minutes, and he, James E. Wilson, had promised to give his friend a ride home. They would not be stopping at any bars to celebrate the release, however. Those days were over. Any celebrating the two of them did after today would be done with Pepsi or Mountain Dew. Or O'Doul's or sparkling cider. Something non-alcoholic.
James had attended all the open AA/NA meetings up on the rehab floor on Sunday nights. All of them had. Cuddy, the kids, and himself. Open meetings up there encouraged friends and relatives of recovering alcoholics and addicts to experience a crash course on what "The Program" was all about, and what their loved ones and themselves could expect in the coming days … "One Day At A Time" …
Some outsiders came to the meetings willingly; others not so willingly; some, not at all. Some of the patients on the wing welcomed their families with open arms and tearful reunions. Some, less so. Some had lost everything through their addictions, because their families had long since given up on them and moved on.
Gregory House, "Gregg H." in Program vernacular, was somewhere in between. He encouraged his staff's attendance at open meetings, and acknowledged their support, although somewhat reluctantly. But when meetings actually got underway, he sat as far across the room from them as he could possibly get, and spent the required hour hunched in his seat, playing with his cane or picking at his fingers.
The meetings opened with everyone standing to recite the Serenity Prayer. Then someone read the Twelve Steps, the Twelve Traditions and How It Works.
After that, someone from an outside group stood up to share his or her story. The visitors would hear how that person had been drawn into the use of drugs or alcohol … or both … usually at a very early age … and how he or she had become addicted. They would tell what it was like, what had happened, and what it was like now.
Everyone would rise, then, and recite the Lord's Prayer, and the meeting would end.
During the social times at meetings' conclusion, when coffee and cookies were passed around and conversation encouraged, House would walk over and speak a few words to them. Usually he would acknowledge the fact that they were there, mumble a few awkward words, and then hobble painfully off to his quarters.
Wilson always noticed how Gregg's aloofness seemed upsetting to Cuddy, although she understood a lot more than most of them believed she did.
It also seemed puzzling in the extreme to Foreman, who had never seen House so silent and subdued before. Or so lame! Foreman probably thought it must be very difficult for the man, trying to manage chronic pain without his Vicodin.
Chase, on the other hand, had seen this scenario before in a very personal manner. The very fact of his own presence in the rehab unit was extremely painful for him. But he came anyway even though House had very little in common with Chase's alcoholic mother.
Cameron, however, looked devastated by House's pale, stern face, and Wilson had seen her looking after Gregg's retreating back with raw emotion in her eyes. He was not sure what she expected rehab to do for House … transform him to a warm and fuzzy, sweet and cuddly bunny? If so, she was certainly going to be disappointed, because House was House.
This was the most difficult thing Gregg had ever done in his life, with regard to self-discipline, and Wilson knew it. He could not counsel Cameron. There were some things she had to learn all by herself.
James shifted in his desk chair and glanced at his watch.
It was 4:25 p.m., just enough time to go to the elevator and ride up to the fifth floor. Give House a hand with his backpack … if Gregg would let him … and accompany him out of there with as much dignity as possible. At least there would be no one in the lobby to ogle and whisper. The office staff would be long gone by the time they got down there.
Wilson pulled open the big glass door at the check-in counter of the Rehab Wing and walked up to the desk. He was a little surprised that House was not already there waiting for him. He frowned, and the woman behind the desk looked at him quizzically.
"Dr. Wilson? What are you doing here?"
"I came for Gregg H. I was to pick him up here and drive him home. Where is he?"
"Why, I thought you knew. Gregg went home at noon today. He took a taxi."
"Whaat?" Wilson was instantly alarmed. "But his leg! Was he able to walk all right? How did he look? Did he go straight home?"
"I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson. I wasn't here. Tom W. was here." The woman reached for the thick logbook on the opposite side of the desk. "Here … you can see where Gregg logged out. Three minutes past noon. Tom's initials are right beside his signature, and there are no notations on the log, so he must have been able to walk well enough to leave the hospital on his own."
Wilson whirled. He had seen and heard enough. He hurled a "thank you" over his shoulder as he strode out the door and back into the corridor.
He was already pulling out his cell phone as he hurried toward the elevator.
House's cell phone rang and rang, and then switched over to voice mail. "House! If you get this, call me back! I'm on my way over."
He tried the house phone at 221b. The answering machine mocked him in Gregg's voice: "You've reached a number that's no longer in service … go away!"
"House!" Wilson bellowed. "Answer the damned phone!" His words echoed hollowly in the empty hallway. He looked around with a guilty hunch to his shoulders, but no one was there to hear him.
He punched the elevator call button and waited nervously until it dinged to a stop. The door slid open. Empty. He got in and hit the button for the ground floor.
Six people got onboard on the way back down, and he did a slow burn with every stop.
At the ground floor, Wilson exploded out of the car and ran for Cuddy's office. She was there, and so was Eric Foreman. They were discussing a new case on House's watch.
"Cuddy!" He shouted, bursting through her office door. "I was just upstairs to pick up House … and they said he left at noon. Did you know anything about it?"
Cuddy's eyes widened, Foreman stared. It was news to them. The three of them stood and looked at each other.
Wilson turned and tramped back out the door, headed for the underground garage and his Volvo. He was going to rake Gregory House's ass across the coals until his butt turned bright red!
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Wilson pulled up in front of House's place and jammed on the brakes. It was past five o'clock now, and daylight was fleeing the sky. There was no light on in the apartment, and Wilson was already worried. Was Gregg all right? Was he hurt? Ill? Out of his mind with pain? Drunk … God forbid!
What??Wilson stormed in through the outer door and put his shoulder against the door to House's apartment. It was locked.
"House? House! House!"
James fumbled with his keys and finally found the right one. He let himself in, and immediately caught a whiff of spent tobacco. Thank God! He was here!
"House? House … where the hell are you? Are you all right? House?"
No answer.
Wilson hurried through the apartment, room by room, turning on lights as he went. No one was there.
Steve McQueen's cage was empty.
Ahh … fuck …Wilson went into the living room and sat down on the couch to think.
The shed!
House kept the damned suicide machine out there during winter months, along with his '91 Dodge Dynasty. With no snow on the frigid ground right now, and no ice to screw up its balance and handling, his friend may have taken the bike out just for the sheer exuberance of being a free man. Wilson pushed himself up from the couch and walked out through the kitchen, let himself out the back door and walked the short distance through the yard.
The padlock hung loose on the door, and he did not need to go inside to know the bike was not there, although the car was! He was not sure whether to be worried or relieved. It was no longer a concern what Gregg was doing … but where in hell he might be doing it. Releasing endorphins by taking a thrill ride? Screaming along a back road somewhere because the pain in his leg was driving him insane and he was trying to outrun it? What?
Wilson took a deep breath to clear his head and trudged back to the apartment, relocked the back door and returned to the couch.
House … where the hell are you? You tear me up when you pull crap like this! What is it you see in me that gives you the right to scare the shit out of me? Do I have a sign on my forehead that screams: "Sucker"???
He stood again, and methodically this time, went through the apartment looking for clues that might tell him where his friend had gone. The hamper in the bathroom contained smelly blue jeans, an old tee shirt, underwear and socks, and a towel and washcloth. Gregg had showered and changed before he went … where?
Wilson had a few thoughts that made the hairs on his arms stand up straight. Would he have gone to a bar? Thrown away those forty-five days of rehab and in the process of getting drunk, returned quickly to a life of addiction? There was a drowned cigarette butt in the sink, but that didn't mean much. He'd taken up smoking again while in rehab.
The bar scene didn't sound like House either. Not now! If nothing else, the man was possessed of an icy determination to stick to something until it was either accomplished, or it killed him. He did not expect Gregg to return home soused to the gills.
Then, what?
Hurt?
He'd been sedentary for six long weeks. He'd had little physical exercise during that time, except for walking around between rooms in the rehab wing. He would be weak and sore, and his leg was probably hurting like hell, so that he had to either move or climb the walls. Could he have piled up the bike somewhere and now lay injured and unconscious by the side of some seldom-traveled road?
Wilson sighed. He called the police and asked for information on any motorcycle accidents. There had been none.
He went out and got in his car and checked every one of Gregg's favorite watering holes within a five-mile radius. None of them had any motorcycles parked out front. None of them had any customers crazy enough to tie one on at a bar and ride a bike there, especially in weather as cold as this.
Wilson went back to House's place, determined to wait until midnight to see if Gregg came home. If not, he would make the rounds again.
He removed his coat and jacket, kicked off his shoes and made himself a comfortable place on the couch. He pulled a blanket up to his chin and catnapped awhile.
At 11:30 p.m. he could not stand it anymore.
Wilson got out his cell phone and called House's number. But the thing just rang and rang. He pulled it away from his ear and stared at it. Where in the hell was he?
In the stillness of the apartment, Wilson heard a faint chiming somewhere. Familiar, but not! He froze and listened. Then it stopped.
What the hell … ??He pushed "stop", and entered House's number again.
Faint. Whispery. He strained to hear.
The tinkling strains of Baba O'Reilly … as though it were being played on a tiny music box from somewhere very distant … under water ...
Wilson removed the phone from his ear and held it tightly against his chest. He listened, eyes staring fixedly with the effort of concentration.
The bedroom. The sound was coming from the bedroom, and he moved toward it.
It stopped.
Wilson dialed the number a third time.
Baba O'Reilly. No mistaking it. He tiptoed toward the dresser. Pulled open House's sock drawer.
The tune clarified. A tinkling sound of tiny bells.
Wilson placed his own cell phone on the surface of the dresser and reached into the underwear drawer.
There, in an antique candy tin, the tin in which Wilson knew Gregg House kept a wad of twenty-dollar bills, laid the tiny black cell phone that Gregg usually carried on his person. This was Gregg's quick source of cash for GameBoy cartridges, Monster Truck Rally tickets, antique vinyl record albums of old jazz groups, fancy motorcycle gear … this was his stash of mad money. The last Wilson had heard, there was close to $2000 in there!
Now it was empty, except for Gregg's cell phone, which had been hidden in there on purpose. To Wilson, it meant one thing, and one thing only: House was long gone. Where? Why? Who knew? Had he forgotten to turn it off? Gregg was carrying cash, and he was on a mission known only to himself.
The fact that he had not said anything to Wilson was the first clue.
Wilson took Gregg's phone and put it in his pants pocket. Something niggled insistently at his mind, but he couldn't quite figure out what the "niggle" was trying to tell him. He picked up his own phone from the surface of the dresser and returned to the couch.
He sat down again to think.
It was time to take an inventory. Wilson knew this place as though it were his own. He'd stayed here many times over the years, the last of which had been the crazy two weeks or so when he'd been in the process of breaking up with Julie.
Methodically, he began to search through closets and drawers and hidey places.
Then it came to him. Had Gregg put the cell phone in the candy box on purpose? Had he left it as a message to Wilson, the only human being on Earth, who knew him as well as, if not better than himself? House was a lot of things, but absent-minded was not one of them.
Was he daring Wilson to find him? Go after him? Was this some silly game of cat and mouse? He wouldn't put it past House … not for a minute. This might be another of Gregg's methods of distracting himself from his pain. Would he do something like that? Yeah, he probably would.
But the "game" idea didn't quite make sense. This was too elaborate for a game, and quite without any purpose that Wilson could fathom. Unless something serious was involved here! Something that House needed to do. Something he needed to check into or take care of. Something that, if it failed, House expected Wilson to pick up on and follow through. Because he still counted Wilson as his best friend, the friend who knew all the obscure workings of that devious mind … and who would know how and where to look …
If this was true, then the answer wasn't here!
Wilson waited another fifteen minutes, poring over every conversation he could remember that he'd had with Gregory House, going back weeks before his friend had finally entered rehab. There was nothing he could think of which might have supplied him with any other clues.
It was puzzling, and very strange. And the explanation he was looking for was not here in this elegant dump of an apartment.
James threw on his overcoat and went out to his car once again, and headed back to the hospital.
It was 2:30 a.m.
What the hell did he think he was going to find?
Had Gregg House left him a message? Inadvertently or otherwise?
Or had he just simply forgotten to turn off the damned cell phone?
Wilson was determined to find out.
Damn him! I'm gonna bust his ass so bad!!! … If I weren't worried so sick about him …0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
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