-10-

"Afterburn"

A bit of sparkle, a wisp of smoke, then...nothing. Garrett stares at the seat the Doctor vacated moments ago. The Afterburn is strong: a potent mix of ash, plasticine and some indefinable scent that is the Doctor's own. His smell is not unpleasant; it reminds Garrett of tobacco, 100 proof scotch, wood oil and motor exhaust. Very male, very old world.

The Afterburn reveals much about Garrett's clients; it is like being given a brief glimpse into their souls. Garrett wishes he could bottle their scents and stow them in a wall safe somewhere, to breathe in when he is feeling stressed or burned out or just plain unhappy. He would share them with Marcia, show her his work is not all numbers and subterfuge; that there is something inherently human in all of this.

Sarno, the old womanizer, would just love for Marcia to try a getaway (after taking a good long look the photo of a bikini clad Marcia on Garrett's desk, Sarno is somewhat smitten); so would Irie, but there is little chance of that happening.

Someday Garrett will convince Marcia to join him over there, show her the sights. They could take a little vacation, hop the tram to the Wylekirk, a more provocative 'adult' resort in Nova City. The resort is a complex of black and red buildings, tucked away deep in the northwestern hills. Those clients more inclined toward misadventure generally land there. The activities offered are not for the squeamish or for those looking for good clean fun (although there is a smattering of that in Nova City, as well).

The Wylekirk caters to the impulsive, the uninhibited who take their fetishes seriously. The amenities include a leather room and a unisex clothing optional spa; areas with such names as Bondage Dujour, and The Marquis' Lair then there is Targus, the three hundred pound masseuse with the oh, so gentle touch...

Pleasant Hills was designed as Nova's polar opposite, a town for those who prefer the straight and narrow over the wildly excessive. Knowing what he does about Doctor House and the more questionable aspects of his past, Garrett fully expected him to touch down in Nova City. But Pleasant Hills was the place that attracted his essence and drew him in.

Garrett shakes his head, runs one hand over the still warm seat. The getaway process never fails to surprise and amaze him. It is anything but predictable.

Now he leans forward, reaches into a slot behind the vacant chair and ejects a silver disc the size of a quarter. It lands on the flat of his palm. Blank, smooth, deceptively innocuous, it reveals nothing until...he slides it into opening on the side of rectangular device (which Garrett has dubbed Scavenger) in his other hand; the disk connects with a satisfying click. Scavenger hums.

Inside the disk are remnants of Afterburn left behind by the Doctor when he vacated the premises. The essence of that Afterburn will be used by Scavenger to synch with Dr. House and enable Garrett to hone in and even get some idea of his charge's mood. These readings plus reports from Sarno are crucial if this particular project is to go as planned.

Scavenger is as trusty and true as a box of wires, chips and metal can be. It will never let Dr. House out of its sight.

The town is a dismal place. Not that it's a slum; far from it. Everything is clean and bright and as white as snowcaps on Mount Kilimanjaro. It's all so damn quiet. The tires of the occasional passing car whisper as they roll along the perfectly smooth roads.

Somewhere down another street (in another land), bells of the ice cream truck tinkle.

The sky has cleared and is now as blue as a Mediterranean sea. The air has turned crisp and autumn-like. No telling what the climate will be like in an hour, however long an hour might be here. Time seems stuck at about three o' clock. He flips his wrist over to check his watch, but his watch has been replaced by a silver ID bracelet.

"Greg" The letters are fancy, calligraphic, etched into the silver by an expert hand. He jangles the bracelet experimentally; it sounds like those ice cream truck bells, which makes him yearn to see the driver of that truck one more time, scrutinize his features. Ice Cream Man looked like Wilson and the thought of that familiar face makes House ache all over again.

He has wandered into the heart of town. Rows of shops line streets bereft of passersby. The town is a drowsy haven. It makes him think of hammocks and beer and bonfires and apples. He loves it; he hates that he loves it.

Here is a library, a pharmacy, grocery, a newsstand that probably doesn't even stock Playboy, much less Hustler. Two women brush by him; they are clad in summer dresses and sun hats, seemingly unconcerned that it is goddamn, friggin' autumn.

He must have said it aloud, since they are looking at him now. They are twins, which makes him entertain thoughts of becoming the meat part of a sister sandwich. But no...their scarlet lips twitch at him in disapproval.

Raising a brow, he thinks, Fashion police are gonna git ya.

They switch round as one and begin to saunter away.

Idiots. Bitches. Ho's.

Their shoulder bags bounce against their hips, flat heels scrit-ching against the sidewalk. They smell like the air, all roses and sunshine and-

His leg doesn't hurt.

The realization hits him the minute the church bell chimes the hour.

No matter how medicated he is, the leg always has a way of making its discomfort the star of the show. Now nothing hurts. The leg is just peachy, like the Pleasant Hills Dry Cleaner, like the Food Mart and the Five and Dime.

Garrett took away your meds...he knew. He knew.

A chill shimmies its way up his spine. He wraps his fingers tighter around his cane and thinks of Sarno. The thought comes to him unbidden, like a bird lighting on his shoulder.

Sarno. The name is a breeze riffling his hair, tickling his ear.

Cupping a hand over his eyes, he squints against the sun's glare. The municipal buildings should be around here somewhere: town hall, courthouse...police...jail. Something tells him he might find them just around the corner. Something tells him...

Sarno will be there.

His feet move of their own volition, leading him where he needs to go.

This is not a vacation, he thinks, marching around the block, his steps more assured then they have been since his leg turned traitorous. If this were a real vacation, he reasons to the air, he would be sitting in some exotic bar, tossing back a cool one. A nubile waitress with breasts like ripe casabas and skin like butterscotch cream would agree to be his slave for the night (with the right combination of currency and charm as persuasion).

This homage to the land of the Donna Reed and Father Knows Best is not a place he would find desirous on the best of days.

"This is a mistake," he says, blinking his eyes open. His head snaps up as if he has been deep in a dream. Before him stands a two story brick structure. Twin columns flank the steel and glass entranceway. The legend, Pleasant Hills Town Hall is carved into the stone above the door.

"A mistake, " he mutters as his feet bring him down the cobblestone path toward the entrance. The lawn on either side of him is green and lush enough to make a Home and Garden enthusiast swell with pride.

Sarno is waiting.

Yes, that particular tune has been playing in his head since he moved his butt off the bench and headed downtown.

Hearing voices, are you, old man?

"A mistake," he grumbles in response as he wrenches open the door and steps inside.

His surroundings attempt to distract him from his burgeoning anger, his mounting confusion and, most of all, his disappointment. A town map crafted out of mosaic tiles greets him as he turns the corner. Every two story Colonial, retail store, nursing home, hospital and miles and miles of rolling green hills has been masterfully rendered. Look too close and nothing makes sense. But take a step back and it all falls into place.

Just like a lot of things...

His tension eases as he runs his fingers over the design. The tiles are like jelly, shuddering at his touch. An odd buzzing rises from the floor, like an electric current is zipping around under his Nikes.

"Can I help you, sir?"

With a jolt, House turns to meet the walrus mustachioed smile of security.

"I'm Ralph." The wide mustache twitches. "Are you the doctor?"

"How long did it take to do this?" House taps the tip of the cane against the wall map. This time the walls of the Town Hall tremble, like the forewarning of an apocalyptic event.

"A very loo-oong, time." Ralph chuckles, waggling a gentle, scolding finger in House's face. "That's why we nev-ah, ev-ah touch."

"There should be a sign."

"Adults should know better and children should be told." Crossing his arms across his rotund form, Ralph bounces on his boot heels. "Are you the doctor?"

"You look like Captain Kangaroo."

"You shouldn't make me ask you again, sir."

"I am a doctor."

"Good." Ralph offers a decisive nod. "Sarno's waiting." He lets out a booming laugh, sounding like Santa on the road to hell.

House can't help but wince.

"Come with me." Ralph beckons, then winks and leads the way.