The ICU staff was so used to his presence that they ignored him completely as they went about their various duties, but the moment he tried to sneak into Wilson's room one of the nurses stopped him.
"He's in a coma; he won't care!" he protested, but the nurse just gave him a thin-lipped smile as she guided him back into the corridor. So he lurked around until Dr Liu appeared. She was carrying a whole bundle of files and looking distinctly harassed. He blocked her way into Wilson's room, draping himself across half the width of the corridor by leaning against the wall with one hand.
"What's his prothrombin time?" he asked.
"Sorry, I can't tell you," she said.
He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow intimidatingly. "We can do this my way: you give me the information I want, with no one the wiser. Or we do it your way: I go to Dr Cuddy and ask her to give me the information, which she undoubtedly will. She'll have to phone you to get it – in between juggling the OT schedule for the transplant, booking the necessary surgical staff, getting the transplant signed off by a shrink, obtaining the transplant committee's okay, arranging for leave, etc., etc." He churned out the words, rotating his free hand in illustration and ending somewhat breathlessly. Then he nodded towards Wilson's still form. "He's beyond caring, and she is more bothered about getting everything organised before the procedure than about patient confidentiality."
The click-clack of approaching heels served to underscore his point. Lisa came round the corner, trailed by a young PA who was trying keep up with her and take notes at the same time.
"Morning, Dr Liu," she said. "What's the latest news on Dr Wilson?"
Liu handed her a file from her pile. Lisa passed it straight to Pete without opening it. He paused long enough to give Liu a tongue-in-cheek grin before he took out the most recent test results, only listening with half an ear to Lisa's conversation with Liu.
"The transplant committee is meeting at ten; I've got my physical at eleven. Psych is sending someone down to talk to me this afternoon. So, we should be all set by tomorrow."
Pete held up his hand. "We should get this show on the road this evening at the latest," he said.
Lisa peered at the file.
"He's developing intracranial hypertension and the saline isn't helping," Pete said, not waiting for her to interpret the data herself. "He needs a transplant ASAP." Addressing Liu he said, "Cool him down to bridge the time till the transplant."
"Hypothermia has been shown to be adverse towards liver regeneration," Liu objected.
"If he's dead before we can transplant, liver regeneration will be a hypothetical issue," he pointed out.
"Good thing I didn't eat any breakfast," Lisa said. She turned to her assistant. "Roger, move the OT reservation to this afternoon at 4 p.m. and call in the surgical teams. Oh, and move my psych appointment forward – we can do it before the transplant committee meets. No, wait, ask all the department heads to come to an emergency meeting at ten."
"Ten is when the transplant committee meets," the PA said. "Both Pearson and Takai are on the committee, so if you want them at the department head meeting …."
"Right," Lisa said. "Make it eleven and move my physical forward to ten instead. Schedule the psych evaluation for eleven-thirty – no, that's cutting it too tight, make that eleven-forty-five. Then contact PPTH and ask them to send Doctors Chase and Taub over as soon as possible. On second thought, I'd better do that myself. Their dean is a stickler for protocol, and he won't like being told what to do by a PA," she added with a sigh. "Text me in half an hour to remind me to get it done."
"Do it now," Pete ordered, thinking about Chase. The earlier in the day they got hold of him, the likelier he was to be sober.
He turned to Liu, who still hadn't budged. "Hypothermia," he repeated slowly, as though speaking to a child. "95°F to start off with. Now!"
Liu snatched the file from him and stomped off. He was about to follow her to make sure she followed his instructions when Lisa grabbed his arm.
"I need you to pick up Rachel," she said.
"Me and your sister," he said, pointing demonstratively from himself to her, "in one room? Not a good plan."
"She isn't at Julia's place. She's staying with Lucas, but I said I'd pick her up on Sunday." He must have looked blank. "Lucas Douglas, the PI?" she elaborated.
"Ah, the weasel," he said.
She rolled her eyes. "The 'weasel' used to be your friend and you still do business with him." She snatched her PA's pen, grabbed Pete's hand, and wrote something on the back of it. "That's the address; it's in Trenton."
"Why don't you just leave her there for the week?" he suggested. "Or tell your sister to get her and keep her?" Lisa would be hospitalised for the entire coming week; having Rachel at home wouldn't make matters easier.
"No," Lisa said decisively. "I want to talk to her myself before the operation and explain what's going to happen, and I want her close enough that she can visit me every day if she wants to. She can stay at my neighbour's, and I have a student who does the school run three days a week. She can do it every day for the next few weeks."
This was the sort of superfluous sentimental crap that ended up complicating everyone's lives: he very much doubted that Rachel would benefit from seeing her mother in the state she'd be in after the liver transplant, while he'd be much better employed keeping an eye on Liu and her pals than playing shuttle bus.
He was about to say so when Lisa, who must have divined his intentions, said, "Bring me my daughter or you won't get my liver!"
She was half joking, but he could see that she was serious about wanting to see Rachel. He supposed he could tell her she was being an idiot, but he was up against the full evolutionary force of maternal protectiveness, a force that had preserved the species for millions of years, so he might as well shelve his logic and save his breath.
"Okay," he said, not even trying to hide his reluctance.
She nodded her satisfaction before returning to dean-atrix mode. "Take my car, not Wilson's; it's easier to get the wheelchair inside," she instructed. "Roger will bring you the keys. Don't forget to take her booster seat from Lucas's car, and …"
"Relax, Lisa," Pete drawled. "I'm capable of transporting your crippled cutie from Trenton to Philly without losing bits and pieces of her paraphernalia." To Lisa's PA he said, "When you bring the car keys, get me a sandwich and coffee, black and sweet. And a candy bar."
The PA looked at him doubtfully, then at Lisa. She seemed exasperated, but she said, "Take money from my purse when you get the keys, and get him what he wants from the cafeteria. Trust me, it's quicker than arguing with him. Oh, and 'sandwich' means something with lots of meat and nothing green in it."
Pete cast a quick look into Wilson's room, where a bunch of nurses were stacking ice packs around Wilson under Liu's aegis. She looked up and gave him a scowl, which he answered with a broad wink. He was beginning to like this place.
The same couldn't be said for Douglas's place: whitewashed wooden planks, grey shingles on the roof, green shutters (seriously?), flower boxes outside the windows. A few junipers and a hydrangea bush were in bloom along the front of the house. Three steps led up to a small front patio with an ornamental white chair on it. More flowers trailed out of a tin bucket that was perched on the chair. There were general signs of family habitation on the grass in front of the house: a glittery pink ball sporting some sort of Disney princess, a tipped-over ride-on car, a chewed-up tennis ball. A tall tree loomed up behind the house, indicating that there was a yard of some size back there. Incongruously, an ice-cream van was parked in front of the garage.
He parked Lisa's car behind the ice-cream van, completely blocking the sidewalk as a result, and got out, wondering whether Lisa had bothered to call Douglas to say that he was coming. That question, however, was answered almost immediately. The front door opened before he had as much as a chance to walk up the patio steps, and a silhouette appeared in the doorway.
"Hey, Pete," Rachel's voice bawled from behind the figure in the door.
"Hey," Douglas said. "I'll just bring Rachel's stuff out." He reached behind the door. "Rachel, make room, so I can get at your things."
"I wanna say hello to Pete!"
"I'll take you next." Douglas, having disentangled bags and wheelchair, came down the steps. With a sudden rush and a cacophony of barking two golden retrievers burst through the door and came bounding after their master.
"Oh, no," Douglas said. "Trevor, Judy! Go back inside!"
The dogs ignored him completely, frolicking around the car and jumping up at Douglas. Rachel, who had wheeled herself to the edge of the steps, joined Douglas in yelling at the dogs before shouting, "Pete, come and get me!"
Pete opened the hatchback for Douglas, and then walked slowly over to the patio, buying time. He might be able to carry Rachel down the steps, but there was a good chance they'd both end up sprawled on the ground at Douglas's feet.
"Pe-ete!" Rachel called again.
"Hang on, Rachel, I'm getting you," Douglas, who was probably aware of Pete's dilemma, called.
Pete put his foot on the bottom step of the patio and grinned up at Rachel. "Really cool kids drive their wheelchairs down steps," he said.
Douglas's head lifted in alarm. "House!" he admonished from the back of the car.
A woman had appeared behind Rachel, a toddler perched on her hip. She was about twenty-five, blonde and short and pretty in a nondescript sort of way. Her feet were bare, there were food stains on her T-shirt, and her jeans were practical rather than tight-fitting. "Oh, I thought Lisa was coming," she said, looking enquiringly at Pete.
"Change of plans," Douglas said, his head popping out from behind the car. "Lisa was kept back at the hospital." Looking embarrassed, he pushed past Pete, taking the steps in one leap. "C'mere, Rachel, let's get you down there."
Pete noted that Douglas hadn't introduced him.
Apparently his wife had noticed too. "Hi, I'm Cheryl," she said, ignoring Douglas and wiping the hand that wasn't supporting the toddler on her jeans before holding it out to Pete. "Don't worry, it's clean. It's just water."
Pete took the hand. The shake was surprisingly firm, the grey eyes that gazed down at him clear and open. "Pete," he said. "Friend of Lisa's."
"Nice to meet you," Cheryl said. She eyed her husband, who had plucked Rachel from the wheelchair and was trying to get past her. "What's the hurry, Lucas? Rachel's gonna think we didn't enjoy having her if you rush her out like that. I didn't realise she was leaving already, and I wanted to say goodbye. So did the girls, didn't you, Marcia?"
The toddler grabbed a lock of her mother's hair and tugged at it.
"I wanna say goodbye to Lucy and Marcia," Rachel proclaimed. "And to the dogs."
Douglas looked distinctly discomfited. "Sure," he said. "There's no hurry. It's just that your mom wants you back home, because …" He looked at Pete for help. Pete looked back expressionlessly. He was merely the chauffeur, not the bearer of ill tidings.
Cheryl said, "Why don't you come inside and have something to drink while Rachel says her goodbyes?"
Two toddlers, two dogs, Rachel, and Lucas Douglas's ball-and-chain? Hell would freeze over before he submitted himself to that voluntarily.
Next to him Douglas shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, honey, I don't think Hou … Pete wants to stay. He probably wants to get back to the hospital. Told you about Wilson, didn't I?"
Interesting – Douglas wanted him gone. Or he wanted Rachel gone. The question was why?
Pete flashed a smile full of false sincerity at Cheryl. "Sure, something cold would be lovely."
But now Cheryl was looking at him suspiciously. "What did he call you?"
"Pete," Douglas said quickly.
"Peg-legged Pete the Pirate," Rachel chanted. "He's got a peg leg, Cheryl."
Cheryl drew herself up to her full five foot four; since she was on the patio while he was three steps below her, she was at an advantage. Her eyes were narrowed balefully, the hand that wasn't supporting the toddler was on her hip, and her chin jutted out. "You're Greg House, aren't you?"
"I cannot tell a lie," he murmured, pretty sure where this was going.
Cheryl didn't disappoint. She turned on Douglas. "Lucas, I can't believe you let him come here to your house, near your children! I don't want him here!" The toddler started crying. "Shush, it's okay, sweetie. Mommy isn't yelling at you. She's yelling at the bad man."
Despite Cheryl's attribution muddle everyone got that she meant him, because now everyone was staring at him, even the dogs.
"What's wrong with Pete?" Rachel asked.
"Sweetie, he ran his car into your house and nearly killed you," Cheryl said, leaning down to Rachel.
"No, he didn't," Rachel said indignantly. "That was Hurricane Irene!" It seemed that nearly being killed by a hurricane was way cooler than being the victim of a crazed drug addict.
"That's not what I heard," Cheryl said.
"Rachel wasn't in the house," Pete said tiredly.
Cheryl was not pacified. "You think that's an excuse?" she said, her voice rising dangerously.
"It was an 'accident'," Douglas said with a significant glance in Rachel's direction.
"It was domestic abuse," Cheryl insisted. "You're not doing Rachel or your girls a favour by glossing over misogynist violence just so you can avoid a scene. You're teaching them that guys can walk all over them as long as they can find a convenient excuse …"
"Okay, okay," Douglas said, throwing up his hands. "He's leaving, okay?"
He gave Pete a pseudo-apologetic look as he brought Rachel down. Pete considered letting Douglas do all the lifting by himself, but Cheryl glowering from the patio put a damper on the atmosphere, so lingering seemed undesirable. Doing his best to ignore her, he grabbed the wheelchair from the patio, folded it, and placed it in the trunk of the car.
When everything was packed Cheryl came over to the car, giving Pete a wide berth, and gave Rachel a hug. By this time a second child was clinging to her leg. There was a general round of slobbery kisses and hugs and it-was-lovely-having-you's before Cheryl grabbed the brats and stalked away, shooting Douglas another deadly glare while ignoring Pete completely.
"Geez, sorry about that," Douglas said insincerely. "I must've mentioned you. … I mean, you driving into Lisa's house caused a huge uproar. … I'm always shooting off my mouth."
Pete put the car into reverse gear and accelerated so fast that he would have driven over Douglas's foot if the man's reflexes had not been excellent. He jumped back, the look of effete amiability finally dropping off his countenance, and uttered a string of expletives that would have made a sailor blush. Pete wondered whether he could egg Rachel into repeating them to Lisa.
"Oops," Rachel said. "You're a really bad driver, Pete. First you smashed your car into our house, and just now you nearly drove over Lucas." She examined him skeptically. "You're not drunk again, are you? 'Cause you shouldn't drive when you're drunk."
"Worried about driving with me?" he asked.
"No, just saying." Rachel seemed insulted at the insinuation that she might be afraid of driving with him. "I'm not afraid; the car's got air bags in front and at the sides."
"You should be worried," Pete said. He could sense Rachel staring at him, but he kept his eyes trained on the road. "You heard Cheryl: I'm not safe."
"Oh, that – that was ages ago. Nana goes on and on about it, like she does about the Holocaust and the Germans killing my great-great-granddad, but Mom says we've got to be nice to the Germans again, because it was all so long ago and they're sorry about it."
So he was history. It could be worse, he supposed.
Rachel's mind had turned to more pressing issues. "Do you think Mom'll let me have a dog?"
Concentrating on getting his bearings, he didn't answer.
She sighed. "I guess not."
"You're going about this the wrong way. You should be thinking, 'What should I do to make her get me a dog?' instead of leaving it to chance."
"And what do I have to do to make her get me a dog?" Rachel promptly asked.
"I dunno. But you've got good cards at the moment. Play them right, and you could end up with one."
Rachel gave him a nasty look. "You're no use."
Old and useless. By the end of this car trip he'd be looking for his self-esteem with a magnifying glass. That was, if this car trip ever came to an end: they were passing through an idyllic landscape with fields and groves of trees on either side of the highway, a landscape that he couldn't remember passing through on the way down. He'd passed through densely populated urban areas all the way from Philadelphia to Trenton.
"Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," he muttered.
"Kansas? Where are we going?" Rachel asked.
"To the hospital," he said.
"What are you doing now?"
He pulled up at the curb. "I'm programming the Satnav." He should have done that before leaving Douglas's place, but it would have ruined his dramatic exit. "South 9th Street," he muttered, tapping the screen of the Satnav with a vengeance. "Come on, you lame thing!"
"You are going the wrong way," an impersonal female voice informed him. (Funny, he'd figured as much.) "Turn around when possible."
"Lucas says Satnav is for women and wimps," Rachel said.
Mentally amending 'magnifying glass' to 'microscope', he spun the car around 180 degrees, causing an oncoming sedan to brake and swerve, and accelerated back the way they'd come.