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sick_wilson2007-07-03 05:37 pm
nightdog-barks.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2007-07-03 05:37 pm
Welcome to Wherever You Are (6/11)
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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: "R"
WARNINGS: None.
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: *smiles* There's a special treat at the end of this chapter -- a DVD bonus from the wonderfuldeelaundry, who has written a small vignette into this ficverse.
BETA: My awesome First Readers. Especial thanks toblackmare_9 for editorial suggestions.
Chapter Six
Someone was smoking a cigarette.
Wilson opened his eyes, and the guard who'd been about kick his bedframe put his foot back down. His companion was already unlocking Wilson's ankle cuff, freeing him from the restraining shackle.
"Doc says you're excused from work crew one more day," the first guard said. He took a lazy puff on his half-smoked cigarette and stubbed it out under his boot. "Still gotta get up though." The two guards snapped sarcastic, mocking salutes and sauntered away. Wilson leaned over the side of the cot and stared at the crushed cigarette butt, still faintly smoldering in the dirt.
Forget about having to take a piss in the middle of the night, he thought. What if they dropped a cigarette on my cot? Chained to the damn bed, I'd never stand a chance.
He swung his legs to the floor and stood, a little unsteadily. He remembered his resolve of the night before and nodded to himself.
Have to get out of here. Have to escape.
Breakfast was the same as yesterday's, and Wilson strongly suspected it would be the same tomorrow and the day after that.
He'd kept his head down in the showers; the cold water sluicing over his burned skin had made him hiss softly in pain. He had a few small blisters on his chest, and his face felt sore and tender. He didn't bother shaving.
He had looked at the ground all the way to the mess tent; he was partly hoping not to witness any more beatings, but more than that he wanted to keep himself from becoming the target of a random attack.
The now-familiar shock of fiery red hair was nowhere in sight, and Wilson felt his throat close a little in something very much like disappointment.
It didn't help the dry, barely palatable scrambled eggs go down any easier.
House was tired, and his leg ached. He desperately wanted a Vicodin, but the last time he'd taken one in front of a police detective, things hadn't turned out so well.
He satisfied himself with glaring alternately at Cuddy and Detective Broom of the Las Vegas Police Department.
"So as I said, Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House -- there's really nothing the Las Vegas Police can do at this point. This is out of our jurisdiction."
House snorted. It was his patented "I told you so" snort, reserved for hapless medical students, deluded fellows, and Deans of Medicine who had insisted on doing the sensible thing first.
"We're already here, House," Cuddy had said as their connecting flight from Denver had landed at McCarran International. "We might as well see them first."
"No, what we should do is pick up the car, get a map, and go directly to Hellebore. That's where Wilson disappeared, that's where it all went down." He'd paused, realizing he was talking like a character in a badly-written episode of some cheesy cop show.
"We're talking to the Vegas police first," Cuddy had said flatly, and that had been that.
"You're perfectly welcome to file a missing persons report," Detective Broom was saying, and House snapped his attention back to the present.
The detective was a tall guy, with the lean build and lithe muscles of a long-distance runner or a dancer. House could tell he was trying to let Cuddy down gently.
"Do you know how many adults are reported missing in Las Vegas alone -- every day? Five to seven. Over two hundred a month. And the vast majority of those people turn up safe and sound within forty-eight to seventy-two hours."
He leaned forward; the casters on the detective's office chair protested with a whining squeak.
"You folks do realize a lot of people who disappear disappear for a reason. Was Dr. Wilson depressed? Having trouble at work? In an abusive relationship?"
Cuddy and House were both silent, and Detective Broom's green eyes narrowed.
"I'll be happy to call the Hellebore County Sheriff's Department, tell them you'll be coming by. But the question you need to ask yourselves is -- does Dr. Wilson want to be found?"
House picked at his lunch. The classic super-cheap Vegas prime rib plate was tempting, but the meat, roasted to a perfect medium-rare, tasted like ashes in his mouth. Across the table, Cuddy moved pieces of lettuce and grilled chicken around the teak salad bowl.
At last she put her fork down and dabbed at her mouth with the white linen napkin. She'd eaten none of her salad.
"What if he's right?" she said.
"He's not right," House rumbled.
"But what if he is?" she persisted. "Those questions --"
"Don't apply to Wilson."
Cuddy took a sip of water and looked away, and House was quietly grateful that she hadn't asked if he'd known the answers to the detective's questions.
Lunch was a bologna sandwich, a bag of stale potato chips, four dry, wrinkled baby carrots, and another green apple.
Wilson ate slowly, making it last. It was something to do.
No one else in the mess hall spoke to or even looked at him, and after a while Wilson rested his head in his hands.
He wished Tooey were here.
The interview with the Hellebore County officer was a virtual replay of Las Vegas, except that the detective's name was Samuelsson.
It had been a longer drive out here than either of them had expected -- mile upon mile of scrubby, arid land with hardly a tree in sight to break the monotony.
House's general feeling of unease had not been assuaged by the small, weather-beaten signs he'd spotted just outside the town -- The Kiwanis Club of Hellebore Welcomes You! -- The Lions Club -- The Elks -- Eat at Joe's!
They'd all been bullet-riddled, liberally peppered with buckshot. Except for one small white sign which had read REPENT AND BE WASHED IN THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB!
Despite the signs, the main street of the town had been mostly deserted. It seemed the good citizens of Hellebore all had business elsewhere.
House had slammed the car door as he'd gotten out, and the sound had echoed in the warm, still air.
"Where's Gary Cooper when you need him?" he muttered.
And now this new detective -- Samuelsson -- was giving them the same story as Detective Broom.
"We're really doing all we can, Doctors," he said soothingly.
Samuelsson was a wiry guy, with pale hair so blond it was almost white. His eyes were that shade of blue that hinted of Nordic climes and Viking ancestors.
House wondered idly how badly the detective sunburned every year in the Nevada summer.
"There were no signs of a struggle, no indication of violence of any kind. Dr. Sen's rental contract and Dr. Wilson's wallet were both in the glove compartment." His level gaze was sincere and full of sympathy. "I'm afraid we have to consider the possibility that Dr. Wilson simply parked on the side of the road and ... walked away." The detective pushed his chair back, a clear indication that he, at least, believed the meeting to be over.
House didn't move. "What about Wilson's cell phone?"
The detective blinked and looked nonplussed for just a moment.
"Ah," he said. "We haven't ... located that particular item yet." Recovering quickly, he opened one of the desk drawers and reached inside. "You might like to have this, though." And he slid a thin brown object across the desk towards House, who stared at it as if it were a coiled rattlesnake.
Wilson's wallet.
"Now if there's nothing else, I'll escort you folks out."
House willed his hand not to tremble as he picked up the wallet.
Outside, the sun was beating down and shimmering heatwaves were rising off the tarmac. Detective Samuelsson's dark sunglasses hid his expression as he handed his business card to Cuddy.
"Once again, Doctors, I assure you we're doing everything we can. It's just that with no new leads, there's not a lot for us to go on."
Something small and black skittered by House's cane. He looked down just as Samuelsson's shoe crushed whatever had been there. There was a horribly crunchy, squishy sound.
"Scorpion," the detective said. "They're everywhere."
Samuelsson watched as the two doctors drove away, then turned to the uniformed officer who'd come up to stand beside him.
"Last we'll see of them," he said.
"Good," said Officer Tritter.
House sat in his darkened hotel room, sipping room service scotch as he waited for Cuddy to get ready for dinner.
It had been a long, silent drive back to Vegas, through the same ugly scrubland and the same ugly brush and the same ugly non-trees.
There was something badly wrong here, he knew it, but so far everywhere he'd turned had been a stone wall. They were going in circles, every exit out of the maze blocked.
He took another sip and ran a callused hand over his face.
What if he couldn't solve this puzzle?
What if the police were right, and there was nothing here to solve?
Wilson was shocked to discover that dinner was a ham sandwich.
He wished Tooey were here so they could speculate on whether the ham came from the same unappetizing pig as the breakfast bacon.
Wilson ate quietly, trying not to think about what might've happened to Tooey. Maybe he'd gone out on a work crew, said something or looked at a guard the wrong way. Maybe he'd bumped into a camp guard and been beaten to death behind some anonymous tent. Maybe he'd -- stop it, Wilson's mind ordered. Don't dwell on what might've or might not have happened to someone you've only known for a couple of days. Think about getting out of here.
That was it. He'd think about escaping this hellhole.
He tried to concentrate. It was proving more difficult of late. After all he'd been through, all the craziness, the pain -- Stop. You can't afford this pity.
Obviously he couldn't go through the wire. Trucks going in and out were all thoroughly searched. This wasn't some World War II movie where he could tunnel his way out with a spoon, and unless he sprouted wings he sure couldn't fly away.
So he had to get a message out. Except they'd taken his cellphone, and even if he still had it it wouldn't do any good because this was a dead zone and the only means of communication to the outside world were --
The satphones.
What had Tooey said? There were at least three of them -- in the infirmary, the guards' barracks, and ... the Warden's office.
The barracks were obviously off-limits.
The others ... he'd take a look. It couldn't hurt to see how close he might be able to get to one. Could it? Besides, it would fill the time until lights-out, when he'd be chained to his bed again.
So -- okay then. He'd try this thing, just to see. That's all.
He heard a small sound and looked down, startled. It was as if his ham sandwich had --
The sound came again, and he realized it was himself, a short, hysterical laugh trying to bubble up from his throat.
He shoved his half-empty dinner tray away and walked quickly out of the mess tent.
The first phone was a complete strikeout.
Pretending to loiter idly by the tent entrance, he could see the doctor inside, chatting with a nurse and two guards.
It didn't look like any of them were going anywhere, so he ambled away, heading slowly towards the Warden's office in the one substantial building in the camp.
As he walked, he became aware of a tiny, frantic voice in his head. It sounded remarkably like Tooey.
Or House.
What the fuck are you doing, you moron? Don't you remember what happened in there? These people are crazy! Turn around! Go back to your tent! Don't take stupid chances!
He squashed the voice back down. Just a look, he told himself. Just a quick look and then I'll leave. That's all.
Wilson's palms were clammy, and he was breathing in short, sharp gasps.
Oh God. I'm inside. I'm really inside. Oh, shit.
In the end, it had been remarkably easy to get in. He'd simply walked around to the back of the building, pulled open a non-descript, industrial-grey door, and stepped inside.
Perhaps the person supposed to be guarding the door had taken a break at that particular moment. Perhaps an alarm was supposed to go off, but the wires had gotten corroded in this desert heat.
Perhaps they'd just never considered that a prisoner might actually try this.
Wilson stood for a moment, trying to get his nerves under control. The hallways were deserted, and there were even helpful signs on the walls saying "Warden's Office ---->"
He made his way through the hall, flinching at every small noise and ducking behind doors and down cross hallways when he thought someone might be coming. He hesitated for a long moment outside the Warden's office door, screwing up the courage to turn the doorknob. Finally he grasped the cool brass handle and squeezed his eyes shut.
Here goes nothin'.
The office was empty.
Everything was as he'd remembered it -- the desk, its surface polished to a gleaming shine, the bookshelves, even the gold-framed diploma.
And behind the desk, something he hadn't been able to see before. Because first the Warden was sitting there and then the guards were holding you down and -- stop that. Not helping. He made the little voice go away quickly because he didn't want to think about that right now, no.
There, resting on a long, waist-high cabinet, was a black plastic suitcase. Raised silver lettering on the pebbled hardshell identified it as Globalstar.
Wilson made a tiny whining sound. It was here. It was really here.
His hands shook as he raised the lid. Nestled inside were an AC charger, a cigarette-plug charger, and a few spare lithium batteries. And nestled beside those was the satellite phone itself, a bulky thing much larger than a usual cellphone.
He lifted it out carefully, almost reverently.
It was heavy, with a stubby, ungainly antenna. A tiny green light on the phone's front indicated it was charged and ready to go.
"Oh, God," Wilson whispered. "Oh, thank you."
There was a roaring in his ears and he couldn't seem to stop trembling. His fingers felt clumsy and frozen, and he fumbled twice before managing to push the "on" button.
The viewscreen lit up. He licked his parched lips, suddenly afraid of punching in the wrong number. What if 911 didn't work on this phone? Worse, what if the Tritters had their claws into that system too? What if --
SHUT UP AND DIAL THE FUCKING PHONE! his brain screamed at him.
Wilson took a deep breath. He'd call House. His fingers moved to punch in the Plainsboro area code, 609, and --
Something cold and hard pressed against his left temple. Wilson froze.
"I am so, so sorry, Dr. Wilson," said a familiar voice. A very familiar voice. "But I can't let you do this."
Tooey.
~ Chapter Seven
NOTES:
Statistics on missing persons in the Las Vegas area may be found here, under the "Annual Report".
The Globalstar satellite phone is here.
Click here for the DVD bonus, I Am Happy to See You: An Interlude. Please be forewarned this bonus is rated NC-17.
house_wilson.TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writesPAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: "R"
WARNINGS: None.
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: *smiles* There's a special treat at the end of this chapter -- a DVD bonus from the wonderful
deelaundry, who has written a small vignette into this ficverse. BETA: My awesome First Readers. Especial thanks to
blackmare_9 for editorial suggestions.Chapter Six
Someone was smoking a cigarette.
Wilson opened his eyes, and the guard who'd been about kick his bedframe put his foot back down. His companion was already unlocking Wilson's ankle cuff, freeing him from the restraining shackle.
"Doc says you're excused from work crew one more day," the first guard said. He took a lazy puff on his half-smoked cigarette and stubbed it out under his boot. "Still gotta get up though." The two guards snapped sarcastic, mocking salutes and sauntered away. Wilson leaned over the side of the cot and stared at the crushed cigarette butt, still faintly smoldering in the dirt.
Forget about having to take a piss in the middle of the night, he thought. What if they dropped a cigarette on my cot? Chained to the damn bed, I'd never stand a chance.
He swung his legs to the floor and stood, a little unsteadily. He remembered his resolve of the night before and nodded to himself.
Have to get out of here. Have to escape.
Breakfast was the same as yesterday's, and Wilson strongly suspected it would be the same tomorrow and the day after that.
He'd kept his head down in the showers; the cold water sluicing over his burned skin had made him hiss softly in pain. He had a few small blisters on his chest, and his face felt sore and tender. He didn't bother shaving.
He had looked at the ground all the way to the mess tent; he was partly hoping not to witness any more beatings, but more than that he wanted to keep himself from becoming the target of a random attack.
The now-familiar shock of fiery red hair was nowhere in sight, and Wilson felt his throat close a little in something very much like disappointment.
It didn't help the dry, barely palatable scrambled eggs go down any easier.
House was tired, and his leg ached. He desperately wanted a Vicodin, but the last time he'd taken one in front of a police detective, things hadn't turned out so well.
He satisfied himself with glaring alternately at Cuddy and Detective Broom of the Las Vegas Police Department.
"So as I said, Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House -- there's really nothing the Las Vegas Police can do at this point. This is out of our jurisdiction."
House snorted. It was his patented "I told you so" snort, reserved for hapless medical students, deluded fellows, and Deans of Medicine who had insisted on doing the sensible thing first.
"We're already here, House," Cuddy had said as their connecting flight from Denver had landed at McCarran International. "We might as well see them first."
"No, what we should do is pick up the car, get a map, and go directly to Hellebore. That's where Wilson disappeared, that's where it all went down." He'd paused, realizing he was talking like a character in a badly-written episode of some cheesy cop show.
"We're talking to the Vegas police first," Cuddy had said flatly, and that had been that.
"You're perfectly welcome to file a missing persons report," Detective Broom was saying, and House snapped his attention back to the present.
The detective was a tall guy, with the lean build and lithe muscles of a long-distance runner or a dancer. House could tell he was trying to let Cuddy down gently.
"Do you know how many adults are reported missing in Las Vegas alone -- every day? Five to seven. Over two hundred a month. And the vast majority of those people turn up safe and sound within forty-eight to seventy-two hours."
He leaned forward; the casters on the detective's office chair protested with a whining squeak.
"You folks do realize a lot of people who disappear disappear for a reason. Was Dr. Wilson depressed? Having trouble at work? In an abusive relationship?"
Cuddy and House were both silent, and Detective Broom's green eyes narrowed.
"I'll be happy to call the Hellebore County Sheriff's Department, tell them you'll be coming by. But the question you need to ask yourselves is -- does Dr. Wilson want to be found?"
House picked at his lunch. The classic super-cheap Vegas prime rib plate was tempting, but the meat, roasted to a perfect medium-rare, tasted like ashes in his mouth. Across the table, Cuddy moved pieces of lettuce and grilled chicken around the teak salad bowl.
At last she put her fork down and dabbed at her mouth with the white linen napkin. She'd eaten none of her salad.
"What if he's right?" she said.
"He's not right," House rumbled.
"But what if he is?" she persisted. "Those questions --"
"Don't apply to Wilson."
Cuddy took a sip of water and looked away, and House was quietly grateful that she hadn't asked if he'd known the answers to the detective's questions.
Lunch was a bologna sandwich, a bag of stale potato chips, four dry, wrinkled baby carrots, and another green apple.
Wilson ate slowly, making it last. It was something to do.
No one else in the mess hall spoke to or even looked at him, and after a while Wilson rested his head in his hands.
He wished Tooey were here.
The interview with the Hellebore County officer was a virtual replay of Las Vegas, except that the detective's name was Samuelsson.
It had been a longer drive out here than either of them had expected -- mile upon mile of scrubby, arid land with hardly a tree in sight to break the monotony.
House's general feeling of unease had not been assuaged by the small, weather-beaten signs he'd spotted just outside the town -- The Kiwanis Club of Hellebore Welcomes You! -- The Lions Club -- The Elks -- Eat at Joe's!
They'd all been bullet-riddled, liberally peppered with buckshot. Except for one small white sign which had read REPENT AND BE WASHED IN THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB!
Despite the signs, the main street of the town had been mostly deserted. It seemed the good citizens of Hellebore all had business elsewhere.
House had slammed the car door as he'd gotten out, and the sound had echoed in the warm, still air.
"Where's Gary Cooper when you need him?" he muttered.
And now this new detective -- Samuelsson -- was giving them the same story as Detective Broom.
"We're really doing all we can, Doctors," he said soothingly.
Samuelsson was a wiry guy, with pale hair so blond it was almost white. His eyes were that shade of blue that hinted of Nordic climes and Viking ancestors.
House wondered idly how badly the detective sunburned every year in the Nevada summer.
"There were no signs of a struggle, no indication of violence of any kind. Dr. Sen's rental contract and Dr. Wilson's wallet were both in the glove compartment." His level gaze was sincere and full of sympathy. "I'm afraid we have to consider the possibility that Dr. Wilson simply parked on the side of the road and ... walked away." The detective pushed his chair back, a clear indication that he, at least, believed the meeting to be over.
House didn't move. "What about Wilson's cell phone?"
The detective blinked and looked nonplussed for just a moment.
"Ah," he said. "We haven't ... located that particular item yet." Recovering quickly, he opened one of the desk drawers and reached inside. "You might like to have this, though." And he slid a thin brown object across the desk towards House, who stared at it as if it were a coiled rattlesnake.
Wilson's wallet.
"Now if there's nothing else, I'll escort you folks out."
House willed his hand not to tremble as he picked up the wallet.
Outside, the sun was beating down and shimmering heatwaves were rising off the tarmac. Detective Samuelsson's dark sunglasses hid his expression as he handed his business card to Cuddy.
"Once again, Doctors, I assure you we're doing everything we can. It's just that with no new leads, there's not a lot for us to go on."
Something small and black skittered by House's cane. He looked down just as Samuelsson's shoe crushed whatever had been there. There was a horribly crunchy, squishy sound.
"Scorpion," the detective said. "They're everywhere."
Samuelsson watched as the two doctors drove away, then turned to the uniformed officer who'd come up to stand beside him.
"Last we'll see of them," he said.
"Good," said Officer Tritter.
House sat in his darkened hotel room, sipping room service scotch as he waited for Cuddy to get ready for dinner.
It had been a long, silent drive back to Vegas, through the same ugly scrubland and the same ugly brush and the same ugly non-trees.
There was something badly wrong here, he knew it, but so far everywhere he'd turned had been a stone wall. They were going in circles, every exit out of the maze blocked.
He took another sip and ran a callused hand over his face.
What if he couldn't solve this puzzle?
What if the police were right, and there was nothing here to solve?
Wilson was shocked to discover that dinner was a ham sandwich.
He wished Tooey were here so they could speculate on whether the ham came from the same unappetizing pig as the breakfast bacon.
Wilson ate quietly, trying not to think about what might've happened to Tooey. Maybe he'd gone out on a work crew, said something or looked at a guard the wrong way. Maybe he'd bumped into a camp guard and been beaten to death behind some anonymous tent. Maybe he'd -- stop it, Wilson's mind ordered. Don't dwell on what might've or might not have happened to someone you've only known for a couple of days. Think about getting out of here.
That was it. He'd think about escaping this hellhole.
He tried to concentrate. It was proving more difficult of late. After all he'd been through, all the craziness, the pain -- Stop. You can't afford this pity.
Obviously he couldn't go through the wire. Trucks going in and out were all thoroughly searched. This wasn't some World War II movie where he could tunnel his way out with a spoon, and unless he sprouted wings he sure couldn't fly away.
So he had to get a message out. Except they'd taken his cellphone, and even if he still had it it wouldn't do any good because this was a dead zone and the only means of communication to the outside world were --
The satphones.
What had Tooey said? There were at least three of them -- in the infirmary, the guards' barracks, and ... the Warden's office.
The barracks were obviously off-limits.
The others ... he'd take a look. It couldn't hurt to see how close he might be able to get to one. Could it? Besides, it would fill the time until lights-out, when he'd be chained to his bed again.
So -- okay then. He'd try this thing, just to see. That's all.
He heard a small sound and looked down, startled. It was as if his ham sandwich had --
The sound came again, and he realized it was himself, a short, hysterical laugh trying to bubble up from his throat.
He shoved his half-empty dinner tray away and walked quickly out of the mess tent.
The first phone was a complete strikeout.
Pretending to loiter idly by the tent entrance, he could see the doctor inside, chatting with a nurse and two guards.
It didn't look like any of them were going anywhere, so he ambled away, heading slowly towards the Warden's office in the one substantial building in the camp.
As he walked, he became aware of a tiny, frantic voice in his head. It sounded remarkably like Tooey.
Or House.
What the fuck are you doing, you moron? Don't you remember what happened in there? These people are crazy! Turn around! Go back to your tent! Don't take stupid chances!
He squashed the voice back down. Just a look, he told himself. Just a quick look and then I'll leave. That's all.
Wilson's palms were clammy, and he was breathing in short, sharp gasps.
Oh God. I'm inside. I'm really inside. Oh, shit.
In the end, it had been remarkably easy to get in. He'd simply walked around to the back of the building, pulled open a non-descript, industrial-grey door, and stepped inside.
Perhaps the person supposed to be guarding the door had taken a break at that particular moment. Perhaps an alarm was supposed to go off, but the wires had gotten corroded in this desert heat.
Perhaps they'd just never considered that a prisoner might actually try this.
Wilson stood for a moment, trying to get his nerves under control. The hallways were deserted, and there were even helpful signs on the walls saying "Warden's Office ---->"
He made his way through the hall, flinching at every small noise and ducking behind doors and down cross hallways when he thought someone might be coming. He hesitated for a long moment outside the Warden's office door, screwing up the courage to turn the doorknob. Finally he grasped the cool brass handle and squeezed his eyes shut.
Here goes nothin'.
The office was empty.
Everything was as he'd remembered it -- the desk, its surface polished to a gleaming shine, the bookshelves, even the gold-framed diploma.
And behind the desk, something he hadn't been able to see before. Because first the Warden was sitting there and then the guards were holding you down and -- stop that. Not helping. He made the little voice go away quickly because he didn't want to think about that right now, no.
There, resting on a long, waist-high cabinet, was a black plastic suitcase. Raised silver lettering on the pebbled hardshell identified it as Globalstar.
Wilson made a tiny whining sound. It was here. It was really here.
His hands shook as he raised the lid. Nestled inside were an AC charger, a cigarette-plug charger, and a few spare lithium batteries. And nestled beside those was the satellite phone itself, a bulky thing much larger than a usual cellphone.
He lifted it out carefully, almost reverently.
It was heavy, with a stubby, ungainly antenna. A tiny green light on the phone's front indicated it was charged and ready to go.
"Oh, God," Wilson whispered. "Oh, thank you."
There was a roaring in his ears and he couldn't seem to stop trembling. His fingers felt clumsy and frozen, and he fumbled twice before managing to push the "on" button.
The viewscreen lit up. He licked his parched lips, suddenly afraid of punching in the wrong number. What if 911 didn't work on this phone? Worse, what if the Tritters had their claws into that system too? What if --
SHUT UP AND DIAL THE FUCKING PHONE! his brain screamed at him.
Wilson took a deep breath. He'd call House. His fingers moved to punch in the Plainsboro area code, 609, and --
Something cold and hard pressed against his left temple. Wilson froze.
"I am so, so sorry, Dr. Wilson," said a familiar voice. A very familiar voice. "But I can't let you do this."
Tooey.
~ Chapter Seven
NOTES:
Statistics on missing persons in the Las Vegas area may be found here, under the "Annual Report".
The Globalstar satellite phone is here.
Click here for the DVD bonus, I Am Happy to See You: An Interlude. Please be forewarned this bonus is rated NC-17.
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