"GUESSWORK"
- Chapter Twelve -
"Whither Thou Goest …"
Wilson wasn't tired anymore.
Somewhere between Princeton and here on the interstate in Maryland, his fatigue had left him, and he'd found a second wind. In an abstract portion of his mind he wondered if he was still as good at guesswork as he used to be. Somewhere also in that devious corner of his brain, there was a goofy, optimistic sense of adventure percolating and expanding and rotating and popping in his synapses … like kids popping bubblegum. It germinated and genuflected and played around with the muscles in his cheeks. After a short time, it poked out from the inside of him and was born as a tentative smile that quirked the corners of his mouth in a display of private, embarrassed foolishness.
Wilson was not a man given to fits of Gilbert and Sullivan. Usually. He tended to be serious, contemplative, analytical and studious. Mostly. But he did have his moments. Ten-plus years of associating with the mercurial and multi-layered personality of Gregory House had done some pretty strange things to his own perceptions of himself, most of them positive. Some of them mind-boggling.
Wilson's hands rested lightly on the mahogany inlay of the Escalade's sculptured steering wheel, and he found himself doing very little steering. The car practically drove itself. It floated silently over the smooth concrete surface of Route 95, cutting a swath through the rainy mixture that left an almost fur-like layer of tiny water droplets on the windshield. The big SUV's heated seat kept his butt warm. The climate-control kept the rest of him toasty, and the extraordinary Bose sound system piped in symphonic music from its satellite radio. Intricate works by Mozart that went well with the silly smile on his face.
James Wilson was finding himself in a reflective mood; just a little worried, just a little apprehensive and just a little obsessive-compulsive.
And a lot curious!
He had a general idea where the crazy fool on the motorcycle was headed, and a certainty of knowing Gregg as well as he did, why he was headed there. What he wasn't entirely sure about was House's state of mind right now, or exactly what it was that had triggered his decision to sneak out like a thief in the night. More accurately, why had House left without telling him, his best friend? What the hell was up with that? House's mouth usually flapped like a duck's ass when he and Wilson were alone together. Even while he was in rehab they'd had plenty of chances for private conversation. But House had never mentioned a thing. In fact, he'd been more than a little taciturn the whole time.
Wilson couldn't help wondering if House had spent the entire time hatching a scheme in that convoluted brain of his. He'd probably known from the onset that the non-narcotic meds he must learn to deal with could not begin to control his leg pain … so he'd set aside part of that formidable mind to seek an alternative. If that was true, House had had good reason to avoid himself and Cuddy and the kids when they were present for meetings.
Wilson's smile faded as he thought about it further. House wasn't a man given to compromise. He knew what he would face in the future if he attempted to remain clean and sober. He had probably balanced the idea of a healthy liver and functioning kidneys against a lifetime of debilitating pain … and found the compromise wanting. If his internal organs failed within another few years, but he was basically able to remain on his feet without resorting to crutches or a wheelchair … then he would accept his own early demise as an equitable trade.
Even the shadow of such a thought at the outside of Wilson's perception gave him cold chills down his spine. It was not good enough. His fear of facing a future without Gregg House … teasing and poking and prodding around in his business … was far beyond his ken. Not having that compelling presence at his side was a thing he did not know if he could ever learn to live without …
Wilson knew only too well how helpless he was when it came to the alleviation of House's pain. He was as powerless over that as Gregg was over the drugs. ("Cunning, baffling and powerful," so said the recovering addicts.) His pain was permanent. It was there to stay, tolerable or not. Gregg would never be "well", and people as a rule, did not understand that. They expected to hear the words "getting better" … which would never come.
It had always been an ache in Wilson's soul to know he could not run interference for his friend everywhere he went. He knew Gregg did not want or expect his hovering, or his protection. Nevertheless, he'd always found himself unable to control the instinct to be there when he was needed … even when he was not needed. It was who he was.
For the most part, House ignored his mothering, sarcastically calling him: "The Secret Service Guy in the Black Helicopter". Wilson figured that that description was about as close as any to the way he felt about it. The way they both felt about it … for widely divergent reasons.
Wilson sighed and returned his focus to the road once more. He'd been noodling around in another world; letting his speculative thoughts float off in fantasy imaginings of tiny Nano robots and miraculous cures for intractable pain.
But Cinderella worlds were of no use to the real one, and miracle cures were for chick flicks and children's fantasies. There was no happily-ever-aftering except in Camelot, and no miracles for Gregory House that didn't have their roots in fantasy, and exact a very high price … from both of them.
He waited until he was a little south of Baltimore before pulling off the road to refill the Escalade's gas tank. He looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly noon. He stood with the handle of the gas pump in his hand, staring blankly at the dollar signs flying by in a blur on the readout, mentally calculating how far behind House he might be, and at what location in the state the damned suicide machine was roaring along at that very moment …
When the pump finally shut off, he hung up the hose and stared at the total purchase with an open jaw. What a price to pay for luxury! The damned SUV had an unlimited capacity and a drinking problem that matched and surpassed, by comparison, that of any alcoholic Wilson had ever met.
He fished in his jeans pocket for his wallet, and walked with his head down through the frenzy of swirling flakes that were quickly escalating into full-fledged snow. He paid for the gas, along with a fistful of candy bars, an industrial-strength Pepsi, and two chicken salad sandwiches, then returned to the Escalade and folded himself back into the driver's seat.
Wilson pulled away from the gas pumps and parked on the other side of the lot to eat his sandwiches and drink the soda. He dumped the candy bars onto the passenger seat on top of the maps and his laptop in its leather case. As he did so, he contemplated composing an email to Cuddy, letting her know his whereabouts and his progress … or his lack thereof. Then he thought better of it. When he did email Cuddy, finally, it would be to let her know that he was still on the trail, but he could not bring himself to reveal any clue as to House's location; not after his friend had gone to such lengths to steal away unseen.
Wilson sighed and crumpled the sandwich wrappers in his fist. The Escalade's defroster and wipers quickly cleared the fog from the inside windshield and the mushy accumulation of snow from the outside. He was warm again and partially dried out from chasing through the swirl of heavy wet flakes. He pulled the shift lever into "drive" and left the parking lot. Quickly, he retraced his path back to the ramp leading to the interstate and rejoined southbound traffic. He grabbed a Fifth Avenue bar and ripped off the wrapper with his teeth. He munched on it absently while his thoughts returned to Gregory House like thumbtacks to a magnet …
He'd promised himself not to worry. House was a big boy, and could take care of himself. But he was also fresh out of rehab, physically weak, probably in a prodigious amount of pain and looking at the world through a foggy red haze. Anyone in that condition should not be on the highway, let alone unaccompanied, on a motorcycle, and in the snow!
Wilson frowned.
The car was still warm, cocooned around him in luxurious comfort. The satellite radio was still playing Mozart, with a little bit of Chopin thrown in, and he was still in pursuit of his foolish friend. But the adventurous mood in which he'd found himself earlier had departed like smoke on the wind. The burden of fatigue was settling back again between his shoulders, and he took note of a sympathetic twinge of pain near his right knee. He took his foot off the gas pedal and set the cruise control. He stretched his leg out and the ache receded. He was reminded of a man suffering labor pains along with his wife, and he rolled his eyes at the irony.
Gregory House, Wilson knew, could not be having an easy time of it. Gregg's colossal inborn stubbornness would, of course, keep him focused as keenly as possible on his mission. But the old cliché about the "spirit being willing, but the flesh being weak," overrode his insistence to himself that House was fully in charge of his own destiny.
Yeah … right!
Wilson glanced at his watch again. A little after 1:00 p.m. It was snowing more heavily now, with renewed enthusiasm. The sky to the east was black as coal, but the sun was trying to break through further south.
Maybe, with a little luck, House would be riding out of the storm and into the sun. Maybe by this evening he would have sense enough to get off the damn road and take himself in somewhere where it was warm and dry. Maybe he would do all these things that he needed to do in order to safeguard his unpredictable health.
In an ideal world, Gregory House would have the common sense to get everything right and look out for his own well being. Plus put a decent meal in his stomach and get a decent night's sleep.
"In an ideal world!" Even the words, spoken aloud, sounded false to his ears …
Wilson shook his head a tad and suppressed another frown.
Get real, Wilson!
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
55