PATIENT - Chapter 22: Too Late
Title: PATIENT
Author: zeppomarx
Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority’s Exigencies and zeppomarx’s A Gentle Knock at the Door.
Summary: House’s minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of A Gentle Knock at the Door. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep’s intense and angsty The Contract, and Priority’s sequel Exigencies.
Thanks: To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to A Gentle Knock on the Door, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.
Warnings, etc.: Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.
Disclaimers: You know the drill. Don’t own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.
THIS CHAPTER: What was it? What was the answer? House knew it, but he just couldn’t get at it. The sooner he got the answer, the sooner treatment could start and the sooner they could all be done with Michael Tritter, once and for all.
Start the story here:
Chapter 1
_____________________________________
Chapter 22: Too Late
Waking up after a few hours’ sleep, House glared impatiently at the whiteboard. He was close; he could feel it. Years of understanding his own mental processes gave him almost a sixth sense when he was nearing a viable diagnosis. He recognized the symptoms: his gut was telling him that his mind had already figured it out. But how to get the information from those dark recesses in his brain to a place where he could access it?
Hoisting himself up into a sitting position, his left foot met resistance-Chase’s head. Throughout the night, he’d pushed his team to find the answer, and now Chase had fallen asleep face-first onto the end of House’s bed. As House’s foot met his head, a startled Chase jerked upright, looked befuddled for a moment and then nose-dived back into the mattress.
What was it? What was the answer? House knew it, but he just couldn’t get at it. The sooner he got the answer, the sooner treatment could start and the sooner they could all be done with Michael Tritter, once and for all.
“Anything new?” he asked brusquely, noticing Devi awake on the other side of the room.
Devi, who sat in the corner surrounded by journals, looked over at him, not quite meeting his eyes and hating herself for it. “He’s presenting with a couple more symptoms,” she said, discouraged, “but we still haven’t come up with it.”
“Okay, then,” said House, sounding more like himself. “Let’s start fresh. Erase the whole board, and put everything up again in a different order.” Anything to shake things up and maybe-maybe-give him the clue he needed to jar the answer into place.
Shoving herself off the sofa with the palms of her hands, Devi stood up and trudged to the whiteboard, giving House and his hospital bed a wide berth. Her brain was tired, and so was her body, after days of fruitless searching and nights when all she could dream about was Michael Tritter and his increasing paranoia and threats against House. This last week had been nightmarish; she hoped never to experience anything quite this awful ever again. If anything, though, her respect for House had increased-how he could get back to diagnosing the bastard after everything that had happened was beyond her.
Wiping the board clean, she looked to House before writing anything. Chase had decided to rejoin the living, and was rubbing his sleep-puffed eyes.
“Just spit them out,” said House, meaning the symptoms. “Let’s look at everything. If we have to, we’ll re-do all the tests, retake the patient history, reexamine the reports from all the other clinics and doctors he’s seen… let’s ask the questions we haven’t asked before. Somewhere in all of this, people, is the answer, and we’re going to find it. Go.”
Diarrhea
Weight loss
Arrhythmia
Abdominal cramps
Fever
Joint pain
Nausea
Fatigue
Weakness
Anemia
Seizure
Cough
Enlarged lymph nodes
Nystagmus
“Anything new?” asked House, looking from Chase to Devi and back again. When he got no response, he huffed in frustration. “Okay, let’s try again. I want a new patient history. Chase, this time I want you to interview the patient-maybe you’ll pick up on something Raja missed. I want details. Follow up on everything, ask every conceivable question. If he’s having digestive issues, then maybe he’s got more digestive symptoms… ones we haven’t thought to ask about. Find out what he’s not telling us.”
He turned to Devi. “Raja, I want you to go through all the tests that have been done, both here and elsewhere, and collate the material in a chart, detailing when the test was done, who did it and what the results were. Give me a timeline of the progression of the illness.”
She nodded, returning to the sofa and grabbing the pile of folders from where they had begun to spill off onto the floor.
“Oh, and get Foreman in here. We’ve got a couple of neurological symptoms and I need him here to analyze them.”
“Uhhh,” said Devi, feeling stupid for a moment. “I thought that now you were back on the case that… he was, well… only supposed to be here… Dr. Cuddy’s memo said he was only allowed here on Tuesdays and Thursdays… when you’re out.”
“I don’t give a flying crap about what Cuddy’s memo said,” replied House forcefully. “Foreman’s a neurologist, we’ve got neurological symptoms, and we can’t overlook anything at this point. I’ll deal with Cuddy-you call Foreman and drag him away from his action film festival or his hooker, and get his ass in here.”
While Devi stared in disbelief at the fierceness of House’s response, Chase felt a slow smile creep over his face, seeing once again a glimmer of the outrageous man he once knew.
* * * *
With Cuddy’s permission, House was allowed to leave his hospital room and return to his office to work. He and the team went over everything again and again and again, working until after midnight that night, and up early the next morning. House drove them hard, talking it through until what little voice he had gave out, pushing until even Devi snapped back at him. But he was determined to find that answer.
“Okay, where are we?” he asked for the umpteenth time.
“Nowhere,” said Chase. “Redid everything.”
“Got a few new clues from the patient history, but nothing definitive,” said Devi.
“I’m waiting on the final results of the nerve conduction study,” said Foreman, sounding more subdued than usual. He’d screwed up so many times in the past few days, he was unsure if his being there was actually helpful or not. He spoke quietly and moved gently around House, but to his surprise, House behaved unselfconsciously around him, as if nothing had happened between them.
Finally, House huffed in frustration, the long hours and taxing mental work adding considerably to his pain level. But somehow, despite his fatigue, his emotions had settled, his anger diffused once Rainie had hit on a plan of action, and once Tritter had been arrested. Now, he just needed to finish this off, and then rest, sleep, at home for a few days-oh, well, home was out-he shoved the problem of where to live out of his head-but he wasn’t going to give his body the satisfaction of giving in just yet. If there was one thing he had learned during those long years of torture, it’s that he was capable of handling much more than he would ever have dreamed. So a little exhaustion and discomfort were not going to deter him. But a really hot bath and some more sleep would feel awfully good right now.
He shook his head. “Take a break. We’re not getting anywhere. Go have lunch, step outside and clear the cobwebs out of your brains. We’ll meet back here at 3.”
Pushing off from the head of the table, he allowed his wheelchair to roll backward a few feet before he gripped the big wheels and turned himself around and rolled back into the sanctuary of his office, shoving the door shut as he passed by. Foreman followed him for a few steps, his fear of leaving House alone apparent on his face.
“I think it’s okay,” said Devi, not quite sure why she believed it but knowing that she did.
Chase nodded his agreement. “I think he just needed an outlet for all his anger. Work provides it.”
Foreman shrugged his agreement, stopping in his tracks and then pivoting back toward the others.
Once inside his office, House shut his eyes for a moment before reaching for the phone and pressing Wilson’s extension. Wilson answered a little too rapidly, as if anticipating another crisis-which, given the last few days, was not all that unreasonable.
“House! What is it?”
“Lunch, I hope,” came the reply.
House heard Wilson sigh with relief.
“Sure. Be right there.”
Unable to get enough perspective to see through Wilson’s eyes, House could only marvel at the man’s ongoing care and patience. He knew that underneath that oh-so pleasant exterior, Wilson harbored a manipulative and sometimes even cruel streak, which had made him an interesting companion. But Wilson had sublimated those traits in order to take care of House. That kind of care was so far removed from anything House imagined himself capable of that he found Wilson’s behavior a wonder, never realizing that he himself was doing much the same kind of thing now for Rainie… and never really considering how Wilson felt about the sacrifice he, House, had made to ensure Wilson’s safety.
For House, his willingness to abide by Thompson’s insane contract only made mathematical sense-his life in forfeit for seven others. But the idea of spending every waking hour focused on the health and wellbeing of another… House couldn’t fathom it. It made him uncomfortable, and was one of the things he’d considered when he’d taken the Dilaudid-that if he were gone, perhaps Wilson might be able to pick up the pieces of his own life and move on.
* * * *
Devi pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes as she flipped through her file on Tritter’s case, fat with test results and all those “C.Y.A.” notations Chase had insisted upon. Her brain was so tired, she couldn’t think anymore; her eyes were red and itchy with exhaustion-the words had begun to blur on the page.
House watched her closely, as if trying to reach into her mind for the answer. Twice he caught her nodding off, her head slowly drooping forward before she snapped it back up and tried again.
“That’s enough,” he finally said. “Go home, eat a good dinner, drink something that burns your throat on the way down, fuck someone, sleep as long as you can, and then we’ll go at it again tomorrow. We’re not getting anywhere like this.”
Chase and Foreman practically jumped up, eager to leave as quickly as possible before House changed his mind. Devi took a little longer, gathering her notes and beginning to stuff them into the oversized bag she had hung on the coat tree by the door.
“Nope,” said House, reaching out his hand. “Leave that here. I want you to turn your mind off-go watch TV, play a game. Do something different. Sometimes the answers come only when we step completely away from the problem.”
Nodding in slow motion, Devi reluctantly put the folder back down on the conference room table and stumbled out of the room. Once he was sure she was gone, House picked up the folder and slipped it into his backpack before wheeling himself back to his hospital room.
An hour later, he convinced an orderly to bring a piano to the room. After he ate, he played the piano for 45 minutes, then went down the hall to check on Rainie, who seemed to be involved in some complex project with Evan that she didn’t feel like sharing. Returning to his own room, he dozed on the sofa, the television flickering mutely across the room. After a couple of hours, he awoke, slightly refreshed, and pulled out Devi’s folder.
The first thing to catch his eye was a green Post-It note, stuck to one of the pages. “T: ‘How do you think I’m doing? You people are purposely messing around with me, withholding treatment and making me worse. And it’s all the fault of that drug-addicted junkie you work for! It’s just as I suspected-he’s trying to get even with me. I won’t let him get away with it. I’ll make sure of it!’”
Frowning, he began going through the folder, from back to front-the oldest notations to the most recent-looking for Devi’s handwritten notes recording her conversations with Tritter. A bitter smile crept onto his face. Another symptom, one no one had thought to mention, perhaps out of some misguided attempt to keep from upsetting him. It had been there all along, and it explained a great deal.
* * * *
Rainie and Evan spent a few hours with FBI Agent Joe Roberts, turning over their interview notes and answering Roberts’ questions about the people who had run afoul of Michael Tritter over the years. And now, Rainie felt safe enough to explain in detail just exactly what had happened in the duplex, giving a much more complete statement than she had before. Evan held her as she talked; they both cried. A lot. But once she had finished with her statement, Rainie found she did, indeed, feel better.
Although her injuries kept her in a lot of pain and the drugs clouded her mind somewhat, Rainie noticed that trying to focus her mind on a project made the pain recede and kept the depression at bay. So when Roberts left the room, Rainie spoke again to Evan about the two projects she had in mind. After hearing her out the day before, Evan had quietly assented to help in both endeavors. One he’d been expecting: She asked him to help her recruit the people Tritter had persecuted into testifying against him in court. The other came as a surprise, and it was going to take fast work and a lot of money. Fortunately, thanks to the settlements from the state and Thompson’s estate, Rainie had almost unlimited funds, and Evan agreed to take a few days off to supervise the project.
After Evan left the room, all of Rainie’s energy seemed to go with him. She was suddenly drained, nearly unable to keep her head up. She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, turned her head and went immediately to sleep.
* * * *
Michael Tritter couldn’t stay awake. Once again, his eyes drifted shut and he began to dream, dream about House-House as he was after Tritter knew him, broken and battered, but somehow never defeated.
Feeling as if he’d slept for hours, Tritter awoke and grimaced at the bedside clock, startled to discover that he’d nodded off for only a few minutes. In his mind, as if branded there, he saw House’s damaged face.
Something about the eyes haunted him. Deep blue eyes, formerly full of contempt, now filled with pain and anguish. As much as Tritter had wanted to see House brought to his knees, something about those eyes made him think that not even that bastard had deserved what had happened to him… and perhaps-Tritter hated to admit it, especially given his own upcoming arraignment-House hadn’t even deserved what Tritter had done to him eight years ago.
He thought back to when he’d seen that House on the nightly news, and how he’d had to look away, how some miniscule, buried part of him winced to see that spirit broken, even while the rest of him exulted.
* * * *
Early the next morning, feeling slightly more rested, House wheeled himself up to the whiteboard in the conference room. Grabbing a marker, he added two symptoms, his shaky handwriting standing out in stark contrast to Devi’s firm script. Too bad everyone’s emotions had gotten tangled up in the diagnosis or they might have gotten this close to finding the answer sooner. Maybe they could have figured it out before all the damage was done.
Getting himself a cup of coffee and balancing it precariously on the arm of the chair, he rolled up to the table, pulling a journal from his backpack. A few minutes later, satisfied, he inched over to the laptop and double-checked his findings online.
Just as he finished, Devi walked in, looking much better than she had the night before. She noticed his now-empty cup, and without saying anything, removed it from the table, refilled it from the carafe and returned it to him. He nodded his thanks.
Foreman was the next to arrive, carrying a full box of donuts, followed by Chase, who had bagels. Once they were all settled, contentedly munching on the circular breakfast treat of their choice, House drew their attention to the whiteboard.
“New symptoms, people,” he said, waving his arm in that direction. “Actually, old ones-we just never realized they were symptoms. Increasing irritability and paranoia, possible dementia. What does that tell us? Foreman, this is your jurisdiction, I believe.”
Self-consciously, Foreman reexamined the words on the board, trying to fit them together. “Might be celiac sprue,” he offered. “We should do a liver enzyme test and check his alkaline phosphatase level.”
“Okay. Go. Do. Report back.”
Positive he was headed in the right direction, finally, House went back to his office, closing the door behind him and turning off the lights. Levering himself from the wheelchair to the much-more-comfortable Eames chair and ottoman, he turned on the CD player to his right and closed his eyes as he melted into Bach.
* * * *
“Oh, my God!” yelled Johnnie Russo over the sound of hammering and drilling. “Is that blood?!”
“Yeah, I guess,” said his boss, a tall, muscular, dark-haired man named Anthony DiPalma, who shrugged his shoulders, as if finding blood smeared on the walls was an everyday occurrence. “Just scrub some bleach on it, make sure it’s all gone, wait till it dries, then repaint over it. And keep moving. We don’t got much time to finish this job… and they’re payin’ us enough dough to send your kids to camp this summer. Hell, probably enough to send `em to college.”
* * * *
Exhausted, House slept in his chair from four o’clock until 8:30, when he finally wheeled himself back to his room, where he found Wilson and Rainie quietly sharing a meal. Wilson sat on the bedside chair, chewing, an empty plate balanced precariously on his lap. “Sorry-forgot to set the DVR I brought from home, so you didn’t get General Hospital,” he said, swallowing the last bite of the grilled chicken sandwich he’d picked up downstairs. “Oh, and you missed out-the cafeteria grill just closed.” Then, with a smug grin, he added, “Sometimes bad things happen when you wait too long.”
“Hmmmm,” said House, absently. “You may have something there.” All of a sudden, his eyes lit up, and a sly smile crossed his face. Wilson recognized the indicator-House had found the answer. Grabbing the wheels of the chair, House spun himself around. “Pay attention,” he said. “Fun’s about to start.” Digging around in his backpack, he pulled out his cell phone.
Chapter 23: Diagnosis...
Author: zeppomarx
Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority’s Exigencies and zeppomarx’s A Gentle Knock at the Door.
Summary: House’s minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of A Gentle Knock at the Door. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep’s intense and angsty The Contract, and Priority’s sequel Exigencies.
Thanks: To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to A Gentle Knock on the Door, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.
Warnings, etc.: Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.
Disclaimers: You know the drill. Don’t own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.
THIS CHAPTER: What was it? What was the answer? House knew it, but he just couldn’t get at it. The sooner he got the answer, the sooner treatment could start and the sooner they could all be done with Michael Tritter, once and for all.
Start the story here:
Chapter 1
_____________________________________
Chapter 22: Too Late
Waking up after a few hours’ sleep, House glared impatiently at the whiteboard. He was close; he could feel it. Years of understanding his own mental processes gave him almost a sixth sense when he was nearing a viable diagnosis. He recognized the symptoms: his gut was telling him that his mind had already figured it out. But how to get the information from those dark recesses in his brain to a place where he could access it?
Hoisting himself up into a sitting position, his left foot met resistance-Chase’s head. Throughout the night, he’d pushed his team to find the answer, and now Chase had fallen asleep face-first onto the end of House’s bed. As House’s foot met his head, a startled Chase jerked upright, looked befuddled for a moment and then nose-dived back into the mattress.
What was it? What was the answer? House knew it, but he just couldn’t get at it. The sooner he got the answer, the sooner treatment could start and the sooner they could all be done with Michael Tritter, once and for all.
“Anything new?” he asked brusquely, noticing Devi awake on the other side of the room.
Devi, who sat in the corner surrounded by journals, looked over at him, not quite meeting his eyes and hating herself for it. “He’s presenting with a couple more symptoms,” she said, discouraged, “but we still haven’t come up with it.”
“Okay, then,” said House, sounding more like himself. “Let’s start fresh. Erase the whole board, and put everything up again in a different order.” Anything to shake things up and maybe-maybe-give him the clue he needed to jar the answer into place.
Shoving herself off the sofa with the palms of her hands, Devi stood up and trudged to the whiteboard, giving House and his hospital bed a wide berth. Her brain was tired, and so was her body, after days of fruitless searching and nights when all she could dream about was Michael Tritter and his increasing paranoia and threats against House. This last week had been nightmarish; she hoped never to experience anything quite this awful ever again. If anything, though, her respect for House had increased-how he could get back to diagnosing the bastard after everything that had happened was beyond her.
Wiping the board clean, she looked to House before writing anything. Chase had decided to rejoin the living, and was rubbing his sleep-puffed eyes.
“Just spit them out,” said House, meaning the symptoms. “Let’s look at everything. If we have to, we’ll re-do all the tests, retake the patient history, reexamine the reports from all the other clinics and doctors he’s seen… let’s ask the questions we haven’t asked before. Somewhere in all of this, people, is the answer, and we’re going to find it. Go.”
Diarrhea
Weight loss
Arrhythmia
Abdominal cramps
Fever
Joint pain
Nausea
Fatigue
Weakness
Anemia
Seizure
Cough
Enlarged lymph nodes
Nystagmus
“Anything new?” asked House, looking from Chase to Devi and back again. When he got no response, he huffed in frustration. “Okay, let’s try again. I want a new patient history. Chase, this time I want you to interview the patient-maybe you’ll pick up on something Raja missed. I want details. Follow up on everything, ask every conceivable question. If he’s having digestive issues, then maybe he’s got more digestive symptoms… ones we haven’t thought to ask about. Find out what he’s not telling us.”
He turned to Devi. “Raja, I want you to go through all the tests that have been done, both here and elsewhere, and collate the material in a chart, detailing when the test was done, who did it and what the results were. Give me a timeline of the progression of the illness.”
She nodded, returning to the sofa and grabbing the pile of folders from where they had begun to spill off onto the floor.
“Oh, and get Foreman in here. We’ve got a couple of neurological symptoms and I need him here to analyze them.”
“Uhhh,” said Devi, feeling stupid for a moment. “I thought that now you were back on the case that… he was, well… only supposed to be here… Dr. Cuddy’s memo said he was only allowed here on Tuesdays and Thursdays… when you’re out.”
“I don’t give a flying crap about what Cuddy’s memo said,” replied House forcefully. “Foreman’s a neurologist, we’ve got neurological symptoms, and we can’t overlook anything at this point. I’ll deal with Cuddy-you call Foreman and drag him away from his action film festival or his hooker, and get his ass in here.”
While Devi stared in disbelief at the fierceness of House’s response, Chase felt a slow smile creep over his face, seeing once again a glimmer of the outrageous man he once knew.
* * * *
With Cuddy’s permission, House was allowed to leave his hospital room and return to his office to work. He and the team went over everything again and again and again, working until after midnight that night, and up early the next morning. House drove them hard, talking it through until what little voice he had gave out, pushing until even Devi snapped back at him. But he was determined to find that answer.
“Okay, where are we?” he asked for the umpteenth time.
“Nowhere,” said Chase. “Redid everything.”
“Got a few new clues from the patient history, but nothing definitive,” said Devi.
“I’m waiting on the final results of the nerve conduction study,” said Foreman, sounding more subdued than usual. He’d screwed up so many times in the past few days, he was unsure if his being there was actually helpful or not. He spoke quietly and moved gently around House, but to his surprise, House behaved unselfconsciously around him, as if nothing had happened between them.
Finally, House huffed in frustration, the long hours and taxing mental work adding considerably to his pain level. But somehow, despite his fatigue, his emotions had settled, his anger diffused once Rainie had hit on a plan of action, and once Tritter had been arrested. Now, he just needed to finish this off, and then rest, sleep, at home for a few days-oh, well, home was out-he shoved the problem of where to live out of his head-but he wasn’t going to give his body the satisfaction of giving in just yet. If there was one thing he had learned during those long years of torture, it’s that he was capable of handling much more than he would ever have dreamed. So a little exhaustion and discomfort were not going to deter him. But a really hot bath and some more sleep would feel awfully good right now.
He shook his head. “Take a break. We’re not getting anywhere. Go have lunch, step outside and clear the cobwebs out of your brains. We’ll meet back here at 3.”
Pushing off from the head of the table, he allowed his wheelchair to roll backward a few feet before he gripped the big wheels and turned himself around and rolled back into the sanctuary of his office, shoving the door shut as he passed by. Foreman followed him for a few steps, his fear of leaving House alone apparent on his face.
“I think it’s okay,” said Devi, not quite sure why she believed it but knowing that she did.
Chase nodded his agreement. “I think he just needed an outlet for all his anger. Work provides it.”
Foreman shrugged his agreement, stopping in his tracks and then pivoting back toward the others.
Once inside his office, House shut his eyes for a moment before reaching for the phone and pressing Wilson’s extension. Wilson answered a little too rapidly, as if anticipating another crisis-which, given the last few days, was not all that unreasonable.
“House! What is it?”
“Lunch, I hope,” came the reply.
House heard Wilson sigh with relief.
“Sure. Be right there.”
Unable to get enough perspective to see through Wilson’s eyes, House could only marvel at the man’s ongoing care and patience. He knew that underneath that oh-so pleasant exterior, Wilson harbored a manipulative and sometimes even cruel streak, which had made him an interesting companion. But Wilson had sublimated those traits in order to take care of House. That kind of care was so far removed from anything House imagined himself capable of that he found Wilson’s behavior a wonder, never realizing that he himself was doing much the same kind of thing now for Rainie… and never really considering how Wilson felt about the sacrifice he, House, had made to ensure Wilson’s safety.
For House, his willingness to abide by Thompson’s insane contract only made mathematical sense-his life in forfeit for seven others. But the idea of spending every waking hour focused on the health and wellbeing of another… House couldn’t fathom it. It made him uncomfortable, and was one of the things he’d considered when he’d taken the Dilaudid-that if he were gone, perhaps Wilson might be able to pick up the pieces of his own life and move on.
* * * *
Devi pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes as she flipped through her file on Tritter’s case, fat with test results and all those “C.Y.A.” notations Chase had insisted upon. Her brain was so tired, she couldn’t think anymore; her eyes were red and itchy with exhaustion-the words had begun to blur on the page.
House watched her closely, as if trying to reach into her mind for the answer. Twice he caught her nodding off, her head slowly drooping forward before she snapped it back up and tried again.
“That’s enough,” he finally said. “Go home, eat a good dinner, drink something that burns your throat on the way down, fuck someone, sleep as long as you can, and then we’ll go at it again tomorrow. We’re not getting anywhere like this.”
Chase and Foreman practically jumped up, eager to leave as quickly as possible before House changed his mind. Devi took a little longer, gathering her notes and beginning to stuff them into the oversized bag she had hung on the coat tree by the door.
“Nope,” said House, reaching out his hand. “Leave that here. I want you to turn your mind off-go watch TV, play a game. Do something different. Sometimes the answers come only when we step completely away from the problem.”
Nodding in slow motion, Devi reluctantly put the folder back down on the conference room table and stumbled out of the room. Once he was sure she was gone, House picked up the folder and slipped it into his backpack before wheeling himself back to his hospital room.
An hour later, he convinced an orderly to bring a piano to the room. After he ate, he played the piano for 45 minutes, then went down the hall to check on Rainie, who seemed to be involved in some complex project with Evan that she didn’t feel like sharing. Returning to his own room, he dozed on the sofa, the television flickering mutely across the room. After a couple of hours, he awoke, slightly refreshed, and pulled out Devi’s folder.
The first thing to catch his eye was a green Post-It note, stuck to one of the pages. “T: ‘How do you think I’m doing? You people are purposely messing around with me, withholding treatment and making me worse. And it’s all the fault of that drug-addicted junkie you work for! It’s just as I suspected-he’s trying to get even with me. I won’t let him get away with it. I’ll make sure of it!’”
Frowning, he began going through the folder, from back to front-the oldest notations to the most recent-looking for Devi’s handwritten notes recording her conversations with Tritter. A bitter smile crept onto his face. Another symptom, one no one had thought to mention, perhaps out of some misguided attempt to keep from upsetting him. It had been there all along, and it explained a great deal.
* * * *
Rainie and Evan spent a few hours with FBI Agent Joe Roberts, turning over their interview notes and answering Roberts’ questions about the people who had run afoul of Michael Tritter over the years. And now, Rainie felt safe enough to explain in detail just exactly what had happened in the duplex, giving a much more complete statement than she had before. Evan held her as she talked; they both cried. A lot. But once she had finished with her statement, Rainie found she did, indeed, feel better.
Although her injuries kept her in a lot of pain and the drugs clouded her mind somewhat, Rainie noticed that trying to focus her mind on a project made the pain recede and kept the depression at bay. So when Roberts left the room, Rainie spoke again to Evan about the two projects she had in mind. After hearing her out the day before, Evan had quietly assented to help in both endeavors. One he’d been expecting: She asked him to help her recruit the people Tritter had persecuted into testifying against him in court. The other came as a surprise, and it was going to take fast work and a lot of money. Fortunately, thanks to the settlements from the state and Thompson’s estate, Rainie had almost unlimited funds, and Evan agreed to take a few days off to supervise the project.
After Evan left the room, all of Rainie’s energy seemed to go with him. She was suddenly drained, nearly unable to keep her head up. She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, turned her head and went immediately to sleep.
* * * *
Michael Tritter couldn’t stay awake. Once again, his eyes drifted shut and he began to dream, dream about House-House as he was after Tritter knew him, broken and battered, but somehow never defeated.
Feeling as if he’d slept for hours, Tritter awoke and grimaced at the bedside clock, startled to discover that he’d nodded off for only a few minutes. In his mind, as if branded there, he saw House’s damaged face.
Something about the eyes haunted him. Deep blue eyes, formerly full of contempt, now filled with pain and anguish. As much as Tritter had wanted to see House brought to his knees, something about those eyes made him think that not even that bastard had deserved what had happened to him… and perhaps-Tritter hated to admit it, especially given his own upcoming arraignment-House hadn’t even deserved what Tritter had done to him eight years ago.
He thought back to when he’d seen that House on the nightly news, and how he’d had to look away, how some miniscule, buried part of him winced to see that spirit broken, even while the rest of him exulted.
* * * *
Early the next morning, feeling slightly more rested, House wheeled himself up to the whiteboard in the conference room. Grabbing a marker, he added two symptoms, his shaky handwriting standing out in stark contrast to Devi’s firm script. Too bad everyone’s emotions had gotten tangled up in the diagnosis or they might have gotten this close to finding the answer sooner. Maybe they could have figured it out before all the damage was done.
Getting himself a cup of coffee and balancing it precariously on the arm of the chair, he rolled up to the table, pulling a journal from his backpack. A few minutes later, satisfied, he inched over to the laptop and double-checked his findings online.
Just as he finished, Devi walked in, looking much better than she had the night before. She noticed his now-empty cup, and without saying anything, removed it from the table, refilled it from the carafe and returned it to him. He nodded his thanks.
Foreman was the next to arrive, carrying a full box of donuts, followed by Chase, who had bagels. Once they were all settled, contentedly munching on the circular breakfast treat of their choice, House drew their attention to the whiteboard.
“New symptoms, people,” he said, waving his arm in that direction. “Actually, old ones-we just never realized they were symptoms. Increasing irritability and paranoia, possible dementia. What does that tell us? Foreman, this is your jurisdiction, I believe.”
Self-consciously, Foreman reexamined the words on the board, trying to fit them together. “Might be celiac sprue,” he offered. “We should do a liver enzyme test and check his alkaline phosphatase level.”
“Okay. Go. Do. Report back.”
Positive he was headed in the right direction, finally, House went back to his office, closing the door behind him and turning off the lights. Levering himself from the wheelchair to the much-more-comfortable Eames chair and ottoman, he turned on the CD player to his right and closed his eyes as he melted into Bach.
* * * *
“Oh, my God!” yelled Johnnie Russo over the sound of hammering and drilling. “Is that blood?!”
“Yeah, I guess,” said his boss, a tall, muscular, dark-haired man named Anthony DiPalma, who shrugged his shoulders, as if finding blood smeared on the walls was an everyday occurrence. “Just scrub some bleach on it, make sure it’s all gone, wait till it dries, then repaint over it. And keep moving. We don’t got much time to finish this job… and they’re payin’ us enough dough to send your kids to camp this summer. Hell, probably enough to send `em to college.”
* * * *
Exhausted, House slept in his chair from four o’clock until 8:30, when he finally wheeled himself back to his room, where he found Wilson and Rainie quietly sharing a meal. Wilson sat on the bedside chair, chewing, an empty plate balanced precariously on his lap. “Sorry-forgot to set the DVR I brought from home, so you didn’t get General Hospital,” he said, swallowing the last bite of the grilled chicken sandwich he’d picked up downstairs. “Oh, and you missed out-the cafeteria grill just closed.” Then, with a smug grin, he added, “Sometimes bad things happen when you wait too long.”
“Hmmmm,” said House, absently. “You may have something there.” All of a sudden, his eyes lit up, and a sly smile crossed his face. Wilson recognized the indicator-House had found the answer. Grabbing the wheels of the chair, House spun himself around. “Pay attention,” he said. “Fun’s about to start.” Digging around in his backpack, he pulled out his cell phone.
Chapter 23: Diagnosis...