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sick_wilson2007-06-30 05:41 pm
nightdog-barks.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2007-06-30 05:41 pm
Welcome to Wherever You Are (3/11)
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house_wilson.
TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_writes
PAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: PG-13.
WARNINGS: No.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: None.
BETA: My First Readers.
Chapter Three
"I sense a great disturbance in the Force," House intoned.
His three fellows glanced up; House gazed back at them, unsmiling and serious.
Foreman started to lean back in his chair, shaking his head in amusement, but something in House's tone stopped him.
Chase raised an eyebrow and set aside the pencil he'd been twirling idly between two fingers.
Cameron rested her chin on one hand and waited.
The silence lengthened.
"Oooo-kay," Foreman said at last. "Are you going to tell us what that means or do we have to jump through hoops again like you've been making us do all week with this patient?"
House's face scrunched up as he pretended to look around the conference room.
"Nope, no circus tents around here." He sighed. "God, you guys are no fun." The patient's file lay open before House on the table; he slid it across to Chase. "Latest test results. Cameron solved the case."
"Oh!" Cameron sat up straighter in her chair, a pleased look on her face. Foreman rolled his eyes.
"And you called us in here on a weekend to tell us this?"
"Hey!" House protested. "I thought you guys would be interested -- I mean, this is such a rare occurrence." He kept talking, even as his fellows stood up and started gathering their things.
"This is like spotting an ivory-billed woodpecker! Seeing the Loch Ness Monster! Wait a minute! Where's everybody going?"
"Goodbye, House," Foreman called over his shoulder. "Have a good weekend -- if you can."
"Cold," House muttered. "So cold." He sat back and began to twirl his cane. "Remind me to fire you all later!" he called to their retreating backs.
God, he couldn't wait for Wilson to get back.
Wilson shifted on the cot and hissed in a breath as his back and shoulder muscles registered their objection. He lay still, trying to take in his surroundings. Seeing as how it was apparently nighttime, and dark, it wasn't easy.
The few things he could deduce were obvious: he was lying on his stomach, dressed only in a pair of shorts. An IV needle was taped to the back of his right hand and his wrists were bandaged. It felt like cool salve had been carefully spread over his injured back.
There was a ring of cool metal around his right ankle; he flexed his leg and heard the faint clink of a steel chain.
He was shackled to the bed.
"Oh, God," he whispered, and tried to push himself up. A shadow moved beside him.
"Hey, hey," a soft voice soothed. "It's okay."
Wilson's head was spinning.
"House?"
The voice chuckled. "No, just the camp doctor," it said. Wilson fell back onto his stomach.
"What ..." It was hard to think, to make his mouth form the right words.
"What am I doing?" the voice supplied, and Wilson managed to twist his head enough to see the voice's owner. It was a tall man, seated in a folding lawn chair by Wilson's cot.
"You've probably noticed the IV," the doctor said. "I'm giving you fluids for dehydration, some broad-spectrum antibiotics -- don't worry, I know you're allergic to penicillin," he reassured as Wilson started in alarm, "and just a bit of Toradol for the pain."
Wilson considered the doctor's words. These were all good things, and yet --
"Help me," he whispered, and sensed rather than saw the surprise on the other man's face.
"I am helping you," he replied. He leaned forward, obviously worried. "Are you experiencing mental confusion? Dizziness?"
"No," Wilson said, struggling to make the doctor understand. He was a fellow physician, he had to help him ...
"Need to get out," he ground out. "Don't belong here."
The doctor was silent.
"Arrested -- trumped-up charges. No phone call -- no lawyer. Sentenced -- without trial." The shadowy form next to him didn't move, and Wilson pressed on, his voice growing more desperate. He had to get through to this man ...
"Guards beat me -- some kind of crazy lessons!" His mouth was dry and he licked his lips. "Warden ... warden assaulted me." He stopped, praying the doctor would know what he was talking about so he wouldn't have to say the actual word.
There was a short silence, and then the doctor leaned back in his chair. The aluminum frame made a soft screeing sound.
"Well," he said at last. "I'm afraid I can't help you there."
Wilson's stomach clenched. It couldn't be.
"You see," the doctor continued, "The Warden is my brother. I'm Dr. William Tritter." He laid a large, cool hand on the back of Wilson's neck.
"Try and get some rest," he said. "I'll be back later to check on you."
House laid his cane beside on the piano bench and tried to decide what to play first. A thunderstorm had swept through Plainsboro last night, leaving a pleasant, almost fall-like crispness to this Sunday spring morning.
His fingers twitched. Perhaps a little Pachelbel? Nah, too cliched. Bach? More trouble than it was worth, and besides, he didn't feel particularly Baroque today. Maybe something Wilson would like ...
House sighed a little. He almost wished now he hadn't persuaded Wilson to stay in Vegas over the weekend, but it was clear he'd needed the break. He wondered for a moment what Wilson was doing right now -- probably swimming in the hotel pool, or playing golf, or hitting up one of the scantily-clad showgirls ... he eyed the cellphone, closed and silent on the piano top, and successfully resisted the urge to pick it up and hit the first number on speed dial. He'd sworn he was going to leave Wilson alone this time, let him get some real rest without fretting in his Wilsonian mother-hen way over whatever House might be doing. Or not doing, which was sometimes worse.
Oh well. Wilson's flight was tomorrow night, and he'd be back at work on Tuesday.
House grinned. Knowing Wilson, he'd want to tell him all about his boring oncology conference.
He wiggled his fingers, rested them for a moment on the keyboard, and began to play Oh, What A Beautiful Morning. Yep, this was something right up Wilson's alley, perfect for a vacation day in Vegas --
Oh, what a beautiful morning,
Oh, what a beautiful day.
I've got a beautiful feeling,
Everything's going my way.
Wilson made a slow, careful circuit of the camp.
It was quiet, with only a few other red-clad prisoners out and about -- he assumed the others were in the mess tent that served as a makeshift church.
The doctor had told him Sundays were a day of rest here before he'd released him from the infirmary.
There were no walls to this prison -- they didn't need any. The huge rolls of barbed wire he'd seen yesterday were deterrent enough. Their spurs and razor tips were a formidable barrier; there was no way a man could fight his way through the coiled, spiny thicket without being cut to pieces. Wilson stepped forward, trying to peer through the thick wire bundles. Maybe there was another way out, another road out there --
An automatic rifle barked and stuttered. The dry dirt in front of his feet exploded as bullets stitched an angry, volcanic line in the earth. Choking down a scream, Wilson scrambled to get back. His feet tangled, and he continued his frantic retreat on his ass, scooting like some kind of human crab, not stopping until he bumped into something hard and unyielding. He looked up.
Red. Another prisoner.
Wilson was vaguely aware of raucous laughter coming from the nearest guard tower.
"New here, aint'cha?" the prisoner said.
"You got too close to the dead line," the other prisoner explained. "You're lucky Moe's on duty in that tower today. He's the best shot in that group. Curly's killed guys with his warning shots."
The two men were walking together through the camp, Wilson trying to take in everything the inmate was telling him.
"Curly? Moe?" Wilson still felt a little dazed from the gunshots.
"What some of us call the guards. Terms of ... endearment."
"Oh. What's your name? I'm --"
"We don't have names here," the other man said quickly. "I'm 2254."
Wilson hesitated. "Do you mind if I call you Tooey?"
The prisoner snorted, and smiled just a little. He was a short guy, built like a fireplug, with a shock of red hair and a few stray freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks.
"Tooey," he agreed. "And I'll call you --" He looked Wilson up and down, taking in the red shorts and t-shirt that all the prisoners wore, the ugly pink flip-flops, Wilson's sunburnt, peeling skin.
"New Guy," he decided.
"But I don't understand," Wilson said. "What is this place? Why are there so few prisoners and so many guards? How can I get out?"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down," Tooey said. "One question at a time."
They were sitting on the ground, side by side, in the shade of the mess tent.
"In the eyes of the State of Nevada, this is a perfectly legitimate labor camp, part of the Nevada Department of Corrections. In reality, this is the Tritter family's little kingdom -- they're skimming profits, padding contracts, and using this as a private prison for anyone who crosses them." Tooey picked up a pebble and began tossing it in the air, catching and tossing, again and again.
"The Tritters built this place from the ground up, to their specifications. They're crazy on the subject of security -- that's why there's so many guards, so much firepower. The damn Warden's office is honeycombed with secret passages, just like some medieval castle."
Wilson watched as a pair of black-uniformed guards dragged an unconscious prisoner across the clearing.
"But where does the money come from? To buy the food? To pay the guards?"
Tooey snorted again, but this time it was without humor.
"Homeland Security," he said bitterly.
Wilson stared at him.
"Oh yes," Tooey growled. "Last year Nevada got a little over twenty million dollars. Vegas alone received well over seven mil. Where do you think that kind of money goes? Better training for the local police? More equipment? Better armor? More TSA screeners at your friendly neighborhood airport?" He shook his head. "The right hands in the right pockets, the right names whispered in the right ears, and the wrong people can build empires on that money."
The guards had stopped, seemingly in the middle of the camp clearing. They allowed their prisoner to slump to the ground, and Wilson narrowed his eyes as he saw one of the guards pull on a pair of thick leather gloves. The uniformed man crouched, working at something in the dirt.
"And as for the guards ..." Tooey was still talking. "The Tritters pay well. Supply a comprehensive benefit package. Hell, they even have a pension plan. You think Wal-Mart can do better?"
The guard was standing again -- he'd raised something out of the ground, something large and square ...
A door. A metal door.
Working together, the two guards hauled the prisoner up, grasping him under the shoulders and by the ankles. They heaved him forward. The man disappeared, and it took a moment for Wilson to realize they'd thrown the man into what must be a concealed pit of some kind.
"Plus, there's that whole dynamic of giving sadists and assholes guns and uniforms," Tooey said.
The metal door clanged shut. The first guard crouched again, presumably to lock it.
Tooey stopped talking and followed Wilson's gaze.
"Hotbox," he said softly. "You really don't want to end up there."
He tossed the pebble to the ground.
Wilson poked disconsolately at his lunch.
White bread. Bologna. A pale orange square of processed cheese. A green apple and a plastic bottle of water completed the tray. He looked up to see Tooey's amused expression.
"Just think," the other man deadpanned. "Today you got the good stuff."
Wilson arched one eyebrow at him.
"It's Sunday. You get two slices of bologna on Sundays."
He picked up his own sandwich and took an exaggerated bite.
"Mmmmmm," he said around the mouthful of bread, mystery meat, and cheese. "Bologna."
"So how'd you know all those facts and figures?" Wilson demanded. "The money from Homeland Security, the Tritters' activities?"
They were walking in the camp clearing again. The sun was at the height of its zenith, and both men were sweating. Wilson tried not to think about the prisoner in the hotbox.
"I was an accountant," Tooey said. "Back in the world."
"How'd you get here?"
Tooey shook his head. "Bad question," he muttered. "But I'll answer it anyway. I was cooking the books for the Tritters. Then they saw there was money to be made in the prison business. I'm no saint, but I knew this wasn't right. I threatened to go to the Feds, to the I.R.S. I wound up here."
Wilson's mouth was very dry.
"How long?"
"Year and a half." Tooey took a deep breath. "Hey, see that building?" Wilson looked around. He was pointing at the long, low barracks.
"Guards' quarters," Tooey said. "They get air conditioning."
The window units hummed in the dry, still air.
"So what tent are you in?"
They were sitting again, hiding from the sun. Wilson fished out the small scrap of paper the doctor had given him that morning.
"One."
"One?"
Tooey had twisted around and was staring at him, wide-eyed.
"Shit! What the hell did you -- no. No, I don't want to know. One. Jesus Christ."
"What?" Wilson was completely bewildered. "What are you talking about?"
"That's the VIP tent." Tooey's voice was caustic and grim. "Fewer prisoners. More guards. Last I heard, they chain you to your bed at night." His eyes were blue, Wilson noticed suddenly.
"Damn, New Guy. You must've really fucked up."
Dinner was the same as lunch.
The two men took one last walk around the camp. As far as Wilson could tell, the prisoner in the hotbox hadn't been released yet.
"So how do I get to use a phone here?" he asked.
Tooey shook his head. "No phones. This place is a dead zone -- no cellphone signal, and the Tritters said no landlines."
"How the hell do they communicate?"
"Satphones. Warden's office, infirmary, guards' barracks. Might be a couple of others somewhere -- I'm not sure. Relax. It's not like you'll be using one."
They walked some more.
"No, see -- I need to use one. This is all wrong. I shouldn't be here."
Tooey barked out a short, sharp laugh.
"New Guy, it's not like any of us should be here. Sure, I should probably be in a Federal pen for fraud, but not here."
"But --"
Tooey rounded on him. His eyes were very blue, and filled with despair.
"Haven't you been paying attention? You think you'll be here for thirty days? They'll let you out, and say 'Go forth, and sin no more?' That's the problem -- you think you're still in the United States, that someone here might be reasonable and actually listen to you."
He leaned forward, until he was right in Wilson's face.
"They told me I'd be here for thirty days. That they just wanted to scare me, so I wouldn't turn them in. That was over a year ago!" Tooey pulled away and swiped a hand across his face. "I had no wife, no kids. No real friends, just a job. The Tritters have a whole stableful of dirty cops in their pockets -- anybody who asked about me was told they were still investigating but there were no new leads. No new leads. Ever."
"Believe me, New Guy. You're here for the long haul."
And he turned on his heel and walked away, his flip-flops making soft flapping noises in the dirt.
One guard kept a watchful eye as another guard snapped shut the cuff around Wilson's left ankle. The other bracelet was already locked to the metal cot frame. Their prisoner secured, the two guards left.
Wilson looked around. I'm really a VIP here, he thought wryly. The other cots were all empty. He dropped his head back against the rough pillow for a moment.
"What if I need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night?" he asked. There was no answer, not that he had expected one.
He took the small green apple that he'd saved from dinner and bit into it with a moist crunch.
The flesh was sour on his tongue.
When he'd finished, he looked at the core for a moment, then carefully pried out two of the tiny brown seeds.
Leaning over the edge of the cot, Wilson used his left index finger to scoop out a shallow depression in the dry, packed earth.
He deposited the seeds in the hole, and covered it back up.
Lying back on the cot, he covered his eyes with his forearm and tried not to think. About anything.
He could hear the guards chatting quietly just outside. He wondered what House was doing. What Cuddy was doing. Back in the world.
The lights went out.
~ Chapter Four
NOTES:
The full lyrics to "Oh, What A Beautiful Morning" from the Rodgers & Hammerstein musical Oklahoma may be found here.
A fascinating article on Homeland Security money in Nevada is here.
house_wilson.TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writesPAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: PG-13.
WARNINGS: No.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: None.
BETA: My First Readers.
Chapter Three
"I sense a great disturbance in the Force," House intoned.
His three fellows glanced up; House gazed back at them, unsmiling and serious.
Foreman started to lean back in his chair, shaking his head in amusement, but something in House's tone stopped him.
Chase raised an eyebrow and set aside the pencil he'd been twirling idly between two fingers.
Cameron rested her chin on one hand and waited.
The silence lengthened.
"Oooo-kay," Foreman said at last. "Are you going to tell us what that means or do we have to jump through hoops again like you've been making us do all week with this patient?"
House's face scrunched up as he pretended to look around the conference room.
"Nope, no circus tents around here." He sighed. "God, you guys are no fun." The patient's file lay open before House on the table; he slid it across to Chase. "Latest test results. Cameron solved the case."
"Oh!" Cameron sat up straighter in her chair, a pleased look on her face. Foreman rolled his eyes.
"And you called us in here on a weekend to tell us this?"
"Hey!" House protested. "I thought you guys would be interested -- I mean, this is such a rare occurrence." He kept talking, even as his fellows stood up and started gathering their things.
"This is like spotting an ivory-billed woodpecker! Seeing the Loch Ness Monster! Wait a minute! Where's everybody going?"
"Goodbye, House," Foreman called over his shoulder. "Have a good weekend -- if you can."
"Cold," House muttered. "So cold." He sat back and began to twirl his cane. "Remind me to fire you all later!" he called to their retreating backs.
God, he couldn't wait for Wilson to get back.
Wilson shifted on the cot and hissed in a breath as his back and shoulder muscles registered their objection. He lay still, trying to take in his surroundings. Seeing as how it was apparently nighttime, and dark, it wasn't easy.
The few things he could deduce were obvious: he was lying on his stomach, dressed only in a pair of shorts. An IV needle was taped to the back of his right hand and his wrists were bandaged. It felt like cool salve had been carefully spread over his injured back.
There was a ring of cool metal around his right ankle; he flexed his leg and heard the faint clink of a steel chain.
He was shackled to the bed.
"Oh, God," he whispered, and tried to push himself up. A shadow moved beside him.
"Hey, hey," a soft voice soothed. "It's okay."
Wilson's head was spinning.
"House?"
The voice chuckled. "No, just the camp doctor," it said. Wilson fell back onto his stomach.
"What ..." It was hard to think, to make his mouth form the right words.
"What am I doing?" the voice supplied, and Wilson managed to twist his head enough to see the voice's owner. It was a tall man, seated in a folding lawn chair by Wilson's cot.
"You've probably noticed the IV," the doctor said. "I'm giving you fluids for dehydration, some broad-spectrum antibiotics -- don't worry, I know you're allergic to penicillin," he reassured as Wilson started in alarm, "and just a bit of Toradol for the pain."
Wilson considered the doctor's words. These were all good things, and yet --
"Help me," he whispered, and sensed rather than saw the surprise on the other man's face.
"I am helping you," he replied. He leaned forward, obviously worried. "Are you experiencing mental confusion? Dizziness?"
"No," Wilson said, struggling to make the doctor understand. He was a fellow physician, he had to help him ...
"Need to get out," he ground out. "Don't belong here."
The doctor was silent.
"Arrested -- trumped-up charges. No phone call -- no lawyer. Sentenced -- without trial." The shadowy form next to him didn't move, and Wilson pressed on, his voice growing more desperate. He had to get through to this man ...
"Guards beat me -- some kind of crazy lessons!" His mouth was dry and he licked his lips. "Warden ... warden assaulted me." He stopped, praying the doctor would know what he was talking about so he wouldn't have to say the actual word.
There was a short silence, and then the doctor leaned back in his chair. The aluminum frame made a soft screeing sound.
"Well," he said at last. "I'm afraid I can't help you there."
Wilson's stomach clenched. It couldn't be.
"You see," the doctor continued, "The Warden is my brother. I'm Dr. William Tritter." He laid a large, cool hand on the back of Wilson's neck.
"Try and get some rest," he said. "I'll be back later to check on you."
House laid his cane beside on the piano bench and tried to decide what to play first. A thunderstorm had swept through Plainsboro last night, leaving a pleasant, almost fall-like crispness to this Sunday spring morning.
His fingers twitched. Perhaps a little Pachelbel? Nah, too cliched. Bach? More trouble than it was worth, and besides, he didn't feel particularly Baroque today. Maybe something Wilson would like ...
House sighed a little. He almost wished now he hadn't persuaded Wilson to stay in Vegas over the weekend, but it was clear he'd needed the break. He wondered for a moment what Wilson was doing right now -- probably swimming in the hotel pool, or playing golf, or hitting up one of the scantily-clad showgirls ... he eyed the cellphone, closed and silent on the piano top, and successfully resisted the urge to pick it up and hit the first number on speed dial. He'd sworn he was going to leave Wilson alone this time, let him get some real rest without fretting in his Wilsonian mother-hen way over whatever House might be doing. Or not doing, which was sometimes worse.
Oh well. Wilson's flight was tomorrow night, and he'd be back at work on Tuesday.
House grinned. Knowing Wilson, he'd want to tell him all about his boring oncology conference.
He wiggled his fingers, rested them for a moment on the keyboard, and began to play Oh, What A Beautiful Morning. Yep, this was something right up Wilson's alley, perfect for a vacation day in Vegas --
Oh, what a beautiful morning,
Oh, what a beautiful day.
I've got a beautiful feeling,
Everything's going my way.
Wilson made a slow, careful circuit of the camp.
It was quiet, with only a few other red-clad prisoners out and about -- he assumed the others were in the mess tent that served as a makeshift church.
The doctor had told him Sundays were a day of rest here before he'd released him from the infirmary.
There were no walls to this prison -- they didn't need any. The huge rolls of barbed wire he'd seen yesterday were deterrent enough. Their spurs and razor tips were a formidable barrier; there was no way a man could fight his way through the coiled, spiny thicket without being cut to pieces. Wilson stepped forward, trying to peer through the thick wire bundles. Maybe there was another way out, another road out there --
An automatic rifle barked and stuttered. The dry dirt in front of his feet exploded as bullets stitched an angry, volcanic line in the earth. Choking down a scream, Wilson scrambled to get back. His feet tangled, and he continued his frantic retreat on his ass, scooting like some kind of human crab, not stopping until he bumped into something hard and unyielding. He looked up.
Red. Another prisoner.
Wilson was vaguely aware of raucous laughter coming from the nearest guard tower.
"New here, aint'cha?" the prisoner said.
"You got too close to the dead line," the other prisoner explained. "You're lucky Moe's on duty in that tower today. He's the best shot in that group. Curly's killed guys with his warning shots."
The two men were walking together through the camp, Wilson trying to take in everything the inmate was telling him.
"Curly? Moe?" Wilson still felt a little dazed from the gunshots.
"What some of us call the guards. Terms of ... endearment."
"Oh. What's your name? I'm --"
"We don't have names here," the other man said quickly. "I'm 2254."
Wilson hesitated. "Do you mind if I call you Tooey?"
The prisoner snorted, and smiled just a little. He was a short guy, built like a fireplug, with a shock of red hair and a few stray freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks.
"Tooey," he agreed. "And I'll call you --" He looked Wilson up and down, taking in the red shorts and t-shirt that all the prisoners wore, the ugly pink flip-flops, Wilson's sunburnt, peeling skin.
"New Guy," he decided.
"But I don't understand," Wilson said. "What is this place? Why are there so few prisoners and so many guards? How can I get out?"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down," Tooey said. "One question at a time."
They were sitting on the ground, side by side, in the shade of the mess tent.
"In the eyes of the State of Nevada, this is a perfectly legitimate labor camp, part of the Nevada Department of Corrections. In reality, this is the Tritter family's little kingdom -- they're skimming profits, padding contracts, and using this as a private prison for anyone who crosses them." Tooey picked up a pebble and began tossing it in the air, catching and tossing, again and again.
"The Tritters built this place from the ground up, to their specifications. They're crazy on the subject of security -- that's why there's so many guards, so much firepower. The damn Warden's office is honeycombed with secret passages, just like some medieval castle."
Wilson watched as a pair of black-uniformed guards dragged an unconscious prisoner across the clearing.
"But where does the money come from? To buy the food? To pay the guards?"
Tooey snorted again, but this time it was without humor.
"Homeland Security," he said bitterly.
Wilson stared at him.
"Oh yes," Tooey growled. "Last year Nevada got a little over twenty million dollars. Vegas alone received well over seven mil. Where do you think that kind of money goes? Better training for the local police? More equipment? Better armor? More TSA screeners at your friendly neighborhood airport?" He shook his head. "The right hands in the right pockets, the right names whispered in the right ears, and the wrong people can build empires on that money."
The guards had stopped, seemingly in the middle of the camp clearing. They allowed their prisoner to slump to the ground, and Wilson narrowed his eyes as he saw one of the guards pull on a pair of thick leather gloves. The uniformed man crouched, working at something in the dirt.
"And as for the guards ..." Tooey was still talking. "The Tritters pay well. Supply a comprehensive benefit package. Hell, they even have a pension plan. You think Wal-Mart can do better?"
The guard was standing again -- he'd raised something out of the ground, something large and square ...
A door. A metal door.
Working together, the two guards hauled the prisoner up, grasping him under the shoulders and by the ankles. They heaved him forward. The man disappeared, and it took a moment for Wilson to realize they'd thrown the man into what must be a concealed pit of some kind.
"Plus, there's that whole dynamic of giving sadists and assholes guns and uniforms," Tooey said.
The metal door clanged shut. The first guard crouched again, presumably to lock it.
Tooey stopped talking and followed Wilson's gaze.
"Hotbox," he said softly. "You really don't want to end up there."
He tossed the pebble to the ground.
Wilson poked disconsolately at his lunch.
White bread. Bologna. A pale orange square of processed cheese. A green apple and a plastic bottle of water completed the tray. He looked up to see Tooey's amused expression.
"Just think," the other man deadpanned. "Today you got the good stuff."
Wilson arched one eyebrow at him.
"It's Sunday. You get two slices of bologna on Sundays."
He picked up his own sandwich and took an exaggerated bite.
"Mmmmmm," he said around the mouthful of bread, mystery meat, and cheese. "Bologna."
"So how'd you know all those facts and figures?" Wilson demanded. "The money from Homeland Security, the Tritters' activities?"
They were walking in the camp clearing again. The sun was at the height of its zenith, and both men were sweating. Wilson tried not to think about the prisoner in the hotbox.
"I was an accountant," Tooey said. "Back in the world."
"How'd you get here?"
Tooey shook his head. "Bad question," he muttered. "But I'll answer it anyway. I was cooking the books for the Tritters. Then they saw there was money to be made in the prison business. I'm no saint, but I knew this wasn't right. I threatened to go to the Feds, to the I.R.S. I wound up here."
Wilson's mouth was very dry.
"How long?"
"Year and a half." Tooey took a deep breath. "Hey, see that building?" Wilson looked around. He was pointing at the long, low barracks.
"Guards' quarters," Tooey said. "They get air conditioning."
The window units hummed in the dry, still air.
"So what tent are you in?"
They were sitting again, hiding from the sun. Wilson fished out the small scrap of paper the doctor had given him that morning.
"One."
"One?"
Tooey had twisted around and was staring at him, wide-eyed.
"Shit! What the hell did you -- no. No, I don't want to know. One. Jesus Christ."
"What?" Wilson was completely bewildered. "What are you talking about?"
"That's the VIP tent." Tooey's voice was caustic and grim. "Fewer prisoners. More guards. Last I heard, they chain you to your bed at night." His eyes were blue, Wilson noticed suddenly.
"Damn, New Guy. You must've really fucked up."
Dinner was the same as lunch.
The two men took one last walk around the camp. As far as Wilson could tell, the prisoner in the hotbox hadn't been released yet.
"So how do I get to use a phone here?" he asked.
Tooey shook his head. "No phones. This place is a dead zone -- no cellphone signal, and the Tritters said no landlines."
"How the hell do they communicate?"
"Satphones. Warden's office, infirmary, guards' barracks. Might be a couple of others somewhere -- I'm not sure. Relax. It's not like you'll be using one."
They walked some more.
"No, see -- I need to use one. This is all wrong. I shouldn't be here."
Tooey barked out a short, sharp laugh.
"New Guy, it's not like any of us should be here. Sure, I should probably be in a Federal pen for fraud, but not here."
"But --"
Tooey rounded on him. His eyes were very blue, and filled with despair.
"Haven't you been paying attention? You think you'll be here for thirty days? They'll let you out, and say 'Go forth, and sin no more?' That's the problem -- you think you're still in the United States, that someone here might be reasonable and actually listen to you."
He leaned forward, until he was right in Wilson's face.
"They told me I'd be here for thirty days. That they just wanted to scare me, so I wouldn't turn them in. That was over a year ago!" Tooey pulled away and swiped a hand across his face. "I had no wife, no kids. No real friends, just a job. The Tritters have a whole stableful of dirty cops in their pockets -- anybody who asked about me was told they were still investigating but there were no new leads. No new leads. Ever."
"Believe me, New Guy. You're here for the long haul."
And he turned on his heel and walked away, his flip-flops making soft flapping noises in the dirt.
One guard kept a watchful eye as another guard snapped shut the cuff around Wilson's left ankle. The other bracelet was already locked to the metal cot frame. Their prisoner secured, the two guards left.
Wilson looked around. I'm really a VIP here, he thought wryly. The other cots were all empty. He dropped his head back against the rough pillow for a moment.
"What if I need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night?" he asked. There was no answer, not that he had expected one.
He took the small green apple that he'd saved from dinner and bit into it with a moist crunch.
The flesh was sour on his tongue.
When he'd finished, he looked at the core for a moment, then carefully pried out two of the tiny brown seeds.
Leaning over the edge of the cot, Wilson used his left index finger to scoop out a shallow depression in the dry, packed earth.
He deposited the seeds in the hole, and covered it back up.
Lying back on the cot, he covered his eyes with his forearm and tried not to think. About anything.
He could hear the guards chatting quietly just outside. He wondered what House was doing. What Cuddy was doing. Back in the world.
The lights went out.
~ Chapter Four
NOTES:
The full lyrics to "Oh, What A Beautiful Morning" from the Rodgers & Hammerstein musical Oklahoma may be found here.
A fascinating article on Homeland Security money in Nevada is here.