This was originally one longer chapter. But I split it up into two separate slices just for clarity's sake. Second part of what would have been one chatper along with Chapter 2. Wilson makes his way to Princeton but someone's on his trail.

Disclaimer: I don't own them. A shame, as then I could buy some new jeans.

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He'd bolted from that diner so hard that the last half hour had been a blur. A rush. One long stream of flitting colours bathed in an orange sunrise.

He had followed the noise of the traffic, hoping the harsh thrums of auto mobile engines would lead him to the Interstate where thousands of vehicles would be heading towards his destination. Hopefully he could hitch a ride. Even in these dark and weary times, a little piece of him hoped that someone would take pity for a lonely stranger on the road, maybe take him further North, even if only a few miles. He just wanted to keep moving. Keep moving North, keep moving and keep hoping, keep moving away from where he had been.

Because he couldn't go back there again. Never.

S- Front Street, a great hulking sign blared out in front of him in enormous white lettering. The sun was rising above his right shoulder meaning he was travelling North. Sort of. If only he could go a little faster and get to the next rest stop or get to the main road.

He was running hard, knees jabbing upwards into the air, his arms cutting through sticky, morning atmosphere, his body running on a combination of sheer adrenaline and pure desperation. Taking a look back he could see no one was following him. Only himself and a young woman walking a dog dared to venture out on such a morning but his mind urged him on through the grim pain in his over-worked legs, though the heavy, crackling breaths that pressured his chest, through pain of stinging beads of sweat that seared into his eyes.

Because he much prefer this pain then the pain of going back there again.

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"Come on man. Would you not do that in the car?" Saltzman reached over and flicked the lit cigarette from Reed's lips, sending it toppling out the window.

"That was my last one."

"Forever, I hope. I don't wanna walk around with a partner who smells like a friggin' ashtray." Saltzman flicked a button on the steering wheel and the windows of the car slid closed.

Reed cupped an espresso from the cup holder in between the seats, taking a long sip of the delicious, sweet caffeine. Just the sort of kick he needed this morning. He glanced at Saltzman's stern, drooping face, wondering if that's what twenty years in the force does to you or whether there were other contributing factors. Reed could only pray that in twenty five years time his cheeks were still firmly on the upper half of his face. "So how far is this place?"

"Not far. 'Bout a half hour."

"I thought you weren't allowed to go to these places."

"We got special dispensation. It is for a federal investigation after all." Saltzman sped up a little, overtaking a luxurious looking R.V on the outside lane. "I called Williams before. Said he'd call ahead for us. We should be allowed in."

Reed paused before pulling a mirror from his inside pocket, and carefully adjusting the strands of rogue hair that his gel had skimmed over. "I hope we don't die."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Saltzman flicked a look of disbelief, his sagging eyelids masking his exasperation at his partner's inappropriate comment.

"People in there have killed other people. That's why they are there." Reed wasn't finished with his do just yet. He produced a comb from the opposite pocket and began running it through the crown of his thick, jet black hair.

"No. They're there for their own safety and ours. Not all of them are murders." Saltzman stuttered, searching for the right word to describe the inhabitants of Brookheads. "They are...unfortunate."

"Since when did you get all soft and sympathetic?"

"I...you know...just shut up all right. We're not too far away anyway. You just sit there..." Saltzman slapped a hand through the younger man's hair, "...and fucking play with your damn hair or whatever the hell you're doing."

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South Front Street had morphed into North Front Street by the time his body had gone numb, the pain now radiating through every limb, tendon and muscle in his entire body. North Front Street then morphed into Race Street. By that time he was ready to fall to his knees and heave all of his innards, outwards.

He leaned heavily against the wall, a river of sweat cascading down his back, his already unkempt and unwashed hair now smelling acrid and rancid from his exertions. A gulp of air followed by another helped the pain in his burning lungs recede but only slightly. His back was now spasming outrageously along with his calves and knotted muscle lined up across his shoulders. He took the bottom of his coat and ran it across his forehead, pulling away a pool of sweat and a patch of grubby dirt. Using his sleeve, he wiped the rest of his face, bringing away days of dust and dirt.

He began to stagger his way along to where North Front Street and Race Street merged. He could hear the Interstate traffic whizzing by above his head, cutting through the other thumping noise of his own blood pumping in his ears.

At first, he thought it was a mirage, a devilish, sickening trick of the mind, but the more he wandered towards the smell of fresh toast and grease, the clearer it became. Another diner, this time with streams of cars parked outside, all the owners inside munching on their own fuel for the day. The first car he spotted was a red Buick, parked up to the left side of the parking lot, encircled by a dangerous looking Hummer and a sleek blue Chevrolet. The engine was running and a bouffant headed driver sat behind the wheel, her head bowed downwards as she fiddled with something beneath the line of the dashboard.

Wilson headed towards the Buick, straightening up his hair and taking one last swipe of his face to try and look presentable. The woman was still looking down at the floor as he approached the window. He inhaled a deep breath before taking the plunge and gently knocking a finger on the window.

The woman jolted in her seat, her head slowly tilting upwards to reveal a crumpled, crinkling old face. A pair of thick-set glasses hung upon a slim, pointed nose, though they seemed to be doing little for her sight as she squinted through the lenses. The car window scrolled down slowly and the wizened old face poked into the fresh air. "What?"

He needed a lie, a plot line, a story. Something that was better then 'Hi, I've just escaped from an asylum. I need you to take me over the border.' "Hi...um." The woman stared at him expectantly, pushing her glasses back from the tip of her nose. "I was wondering if...um I could...maybe hitch a ride." He clenched his teeth awaiting either a quick rebuff or a piercing scream for attention.

But he got neither. Instead the woman inspected him from head to toe. "You got any cards on ya?"

"That's the thing. I was out with a few guys last night. I got mugged or something. Took my wallet, everything. That's why I need to get home." He inwardly cringed. He was lying, lying to an old woman, taking advantage of her seemingly generous nature. He'd stooped low before but this was a new level of low.

"Well son, I dunno where you wanna go. Stanhope's where I'm going, so if you wanting to go South then I can't help you."

"No, no, no. I'm going to Princeton. I live in Princeton."

The woman groaned. "I dunno. I don't really give strangers rides."

"Please. I'm begging you. I'll give you all the money I've got for your trouble. I just need to get to Princeton."

"All right. Get in. But don't get any crap on my seats. This thing has just been re-upholstered." She reached over to the passenger and yanked up the stiff lock on the door.

Wilson literally dived into the car, his body desperate for respite from the pain that radiated throughout his body. Loudly, he sighed as he pulled the seatbelt over his chest and clicked it into place.

"You look like you could use a drink." A rummage in the glove compartment produced a warm bottle of whisky. The woman winked, tossing the bottle into Wilson's lap. "Nothing like a bit of a kick in the morning."

"I'm fine thank you." He tucked the bottle in-between two newspapers on the dashboard. "Do you have any water?"

"Water? Hell, no." The Buick kicked into life with a cough and a splutter. "I got soda in the back seat."

"Great. Thanks." He pulled a cool can of Diet Coke from a plastic bag that lay on the floor behind the driver's seat. The fizzy liquid did more than enough to quench his thirst and it didn't take long for the warm spectre of sleep to whisk him away into unconsciousness.

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Saltzman had expected the place to be a little more cold and clinical, a little more whitewashed, a little more bleached out but the towering, grey, Gothic building was far more like his original assumption of what an asylum would look like. Two armed officers stood at either side of a blackened entrance, their heads not even glancing to see the two men approach from the left hand side of the parking lot.

Reed yanked a leaf from a withering tree that stood nearby, crumpling the crisping foliage between his fingers. "So where's our meeting party?"

"Are you expecting a red carpet affair?" Saltzman flashed his badge at the guarding officers. A gruff grunt and an officer shot out an arm to push the door ajar.

"The reception's on the left." The chunky officer nodded to the inside.

Both men slipped through the door, slowly treading their feet gently across the floor, eager not to break the nervous silence. The foyer was cavernous, the décor mismatched and worn. Red and white floor tiling were combined with mint green painted walls. Battered wooden chairs lined the walls on either side of the door. To the right were a set of double doors, the handle padlocked, the glass masked with mesh. The reception the officer had referred was to the left. Two lonely looking nurses, one male and one female, sat behind a dusty brown desk, both of them chewing languidly on the end of their respective pencils.

Reed leaned into Saltzman's shoulder and whispered. "What's the point in having a reception if there are never any visitors?"

"Do you ever stop asking stupid questions?" Saltzman shrugged Reed from his shoulder and padded towards the reception, his badge at the ready in his hand. "Good morning."

A fuzzy shock of red hair rose upwards to reveal and young, freckled face. A pair of glazed blue saucers eyed Saltzman up with contempt. "Yeah?"

"I'm Agent Saltzman. This is my colleague Agent Reed. We have an appointment with a..." He searched through his notes for the name he needed. "Doctor Holt."

"Doctor Holt is on a break."

Saltzman sighed. He'd already had his idiocy fill for today. He was in no mood for any more. "Listen son, don't fuck me around. We wanna see Doctor Holt now. If not, then I'll arrest for you obstructing a Federal Investigation. And I know a boy like you would be very popular in prison."

Intimidation never failed to get results. Doctor Holt was out from her office in seconds, shaking hands and doling out smiles, apologising profusely for her subordinates' behaviour before escorting both Reed and Saltzman into her office.

She carefully took a seat behind a hard, walnut desk, the top adorned with pens and folders scattered around in a random fashion. "I'm sorry about the mess gentlemen. As you know already, we've had a busy couple of days."

"It's no problem." Reed flashed a flirtational smile and rested himself on a cream sofa that sat up against the wall.

"I assume our boss told you why we're here?" Saltzman pulled a chair from the opposite wall and took a seat.

"Yes, yes he did. You want some information on the patients who escaped." Doctor Holt reached into a drawer to her left. "I got my assistant to pull up their files for you. I didn't have time to get them photocopied so there is only one copy of each. Sorry." Three blue files landed on the desk with a mute thud. "Three males. Two Caucasian. One African-American. Feel free to take a look."

"Well the man we are looking for is a Caucasian male so we can discount one already."

Holt slipped a large file from the desk and dumped it onto the floor, leaving one bulging file and another, much slimmer, file next to it. "There you go gentlemen."

Saltzman reached over and grasped both files, tossing the larger one to Reed, pride stopping him from admitting that he had forgot to bring his reading glasses.

"Sean?"

"Mmm?"

"How tall is this guy we are looking for?" Reed balanced the file on his knee. A few rogue slips of paper swam down onto the carpet.

"Taller than average. Why?"

"This guy's a fucking midget. Unless you mean taller than your average Oompa Loompa." Reed slammed the file shut and collecting the scraps in his fingers. "Our man is definitely not five three."

Saltzman flipped open the file on his lap. Only three pages were tucked within it. Most of them containing patient details and a medication log. "I think this could be our guy."

"Really?"

"Caucasian male, six foot tall, forty two years old, average build." He fluttered the page between his fingers. "Get your notes out."

Reed fumbled for his notebook.

"Brown eyes, brown hair. Didn't the girl say he was local?"

"Yeah."

"Well this guy's from North East New Jersey. Local enough." Saltzman held the file photograph in the air. "This guy. What's his story?"

Holt reached over, pulling the file and photograph from Saltzman's grasp. He managed to note the faint glimmer of surprise on her face as she absorbed the information. She peeled her way through the lean information. "James Wilson came here about five months ago. He was a model patient, one of the quietest patients we had. That's why his file is so empty."

Reed hesitating a scratch into his hair. "But I thought these guys were all maniacs."

"Agent Reed, these people are not maniacs. They have an affliction that makes them violent and unpredictable. On occasions, dangerous."

"So maniacs?"

Saltzman swung a palm into Reed's stomach. "Will you shut the hell up?"

"Thank you Agent Saltzman. Agent Reed, the reason they are here is for their own safety and for the safety of the public. They are not bad people, nor are they killers. They are victims of this terrible situation, just like you and I. So I wouldn't mind if you would keep your obnoxious point of view to yourself." Holt clasped her hands together, pausing herself in order to regain her composure. "Now where were we?"

"This guy." Saltzman prodded the picture.

"Ah yes. He was quiet. Oddly quiet compared to most of the patients."

"What do you mean 'oddly'?"

"Most patients we have have a file filled with reports of violent behaviour on the wing. James was not one of our new patients by a long shot, but he still had one of the cleanest records. He had only three reports and even those were in self defence from other patients. Our average patient has one or two a week. James had three in five months."

"Did he have any visitors?"

Holt shook her head. "We don't allow visitors. Too risky. We have emergency contact details but apart from that we have nothing."

"Can we have those emergency contacts?"

"I would usually ask for a warrant but I know this is a matter of public safety." Holt whisked the back page from the file. "I'll get this copied for you. Do you need anything else?"

Reed raised a cautious finger. "Do you have his last known address?"

"I'll get that copied for you too." Holt slid the page back into the file and tottered towards the door.

Saltzman turned himself, craning his neck to get the good doctor's attention. "One last question. Why was he put here in the first place?"

Holt cleared her throat, curling a tight grip around the file. "He stabbed a man to death."

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The security on the border was surprisingly loose. Wilson had expected a line of officers, armed to gills with automatic weapons, but instead there was only a handful of them, every single one of them less intimidating and more portly than the officers he had seen elsewhere.

Norah (Wilson had learned her name during one of her rants about the sky high price of coffee) had elbowed him hard in the side when they approached the security barriers. At first he hadn't twitched, it was only we she poked a bony elbow right into his ribs that his body jerked up in the passenger seat.

"Son. You gotta keep your head now. They'll recognise me but they might not know you. And you aint got any cards." She pointed profusely to the foot well. "Try and stick your head down there. I'll try and distract them with my lovely beehive." She gave a flirty, somewhat unsettling wink and adjusted her hair with her free hand.

Wilson slipped his feet back, bent over and slid his head between his knees. "Is that good enough?" He placed his hands onto the floor to balance his weight, his temperamental back was not having an enjoyable time in this position at all.

"Stick it down further. Can't be too careful." She forced the window down with a few stiff turns of the handle and fetched her cards from the dashboard. They pulled up to security booth three. An overweight man stuck a chubby head from a hole in a grubby, white cube of plastic. A squeal escaped Norah's lips as she turned her back to block anyone getting a view through the driver's window. "Tony! Fancy seeing you here."

"You're back again? Jeez Norah, can't you stay in one place more than five minutes?" Tony chuckled, sending a gentle ripple through his considerable double chin.

"Ah well. Girl's gotta keep on her feet. Don't wanna be one of those old dears who sits alone playing Scrabble." Norah handed over a flimsy blue card bound together with two other slips of paper.

"I play Scrabble on my own."

"That's because you're a lonely man. You're wasted here sitting in that damn booth. You need to get out more."

Tony cast a glance over the card, not even bothering to unfurl the paper. "I don't even know why I bother checking these. And hey, you sound like my mom. A beer and a good game of Scrabble and I'm a happy man. Who needs to go out?" He placed the items back into Norah's grasp and pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Get yourself moving. I don't need another person reminding me I'm a lonely bastard."

"You'll always have me."

"And for that I'm grateful. Now come on, I got all these other folks to check."

Norah began to wind the window back up. "I'll see you soon."

"No doubt I will."

The red and white striped barrier lifted as soon as she hitched the gear stick back into drive. Leaving the cards in a disparate collage on the dashboard, she sped off onto the eerily quiet section of the Interstate.

"Okay son. You can come back up now." She patted Wilson on the back.

Wilson slowly rose from his cramped position, his back now sore all the way from the arch to his shoulders. He should have got someone to look at that years ago.

"Now you can't tell anybody about that. I can't have folks after me for letting some guy through without his cards. You never met me, and if you did my name was Bob okay?"

Wilson nodded, a hand circling around the bottom of his back in a feeble attempt to massage away the pulse of pain.

"You seem a bit quiet son. Everything okay?"

How desperately he wanted to spill it all, everything, every last detail, onto this poor, unsuspecting elderly, woman with a haircut straight from the sixties, but for once his head ruled his heart. He shook a weak hand through his hair and crinkled his nose up. "Yeah. Just a rough night that's all."

"I bet it was." She switched on the air conditioning, sending a warm breeze flitting through the front of the car. "Don't worry 'bout it. We aint too far from Princeton now. Won't be too long."

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Like hell he was going to stay after lunch. He had no case, his ducklings were off doing pointless tests and even more pointless Clinic Duty to satisfy Cuddy's whims, so all he could really do all morning was to mull over what on earth Granite Boy meant by telling him that he wasn't of any use.

Granite Boy had already insinuated that he knew of Wilson's whereabouts so obviously Wilson isn't where he was supposed to be. Not that House knew much of Wilson's whereabouts in the first place. 'Somewhere West of Philadelphia' was about as concise an answer he was ever given from some plummy, uptight nurse on the phone

Could he come and visit? No. Could he be told where Wilson was? No.

No visitors. No phone calls. No nothing.

But at least then he was dealing with concretes. He knew Wilson was somewhere. Somebody knew the 'somewhere' where Wilson was. That knowledge was vague but it was knowledge all the same. That knowledge was now gone, ripped apart and turned on its head. Too many questions. Too little information.

House revved the engine on his motorbike a little louder than usual, before speeding from the parking lot.

Now the main question on his mind was where the fuck Wilson was now.