sick_wilson | Welcome to Wherever You Are (7/11)

Cross-posted to

house_wilson.
TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:

nightdog_writes
PAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: "R"
WARNINGS: Yes, for scenes of graphic violence that may be distressing for some readers.
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 awesome First Readers.

Chapter Seven

"Put the phone down, Dr. Wilson," Tooey said. He kept the muzzle of his handgun pressed to Wilson's temple.

"Ah," Wilson said, in a tiny, strangled voice. "I ... ah --" Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Not fair! some small outraged part of his mind was screaming. I got this far! I was so close! It's not fucking fair!

Tooey's voice was gentle but firm. "Put the phone down," he repeated. "I really am sorry, but you would've ruined a lot of other people's very important plans if you'd made that call." A faint note of rueful amusement crept into his tone. "How was I to know you'd be so goddamned determined, New Guy?"

"Fuck you," Wilson whispered bitterly. "Fuck you, you lying son of a bitch."

Tooey sighed and started to say something, but there was suddenly a storm of activity in the hallway outside -- the sound of booted feet stampeding to a stop by the door, urgent voices shouting, fists pounding on the locked door. Tooey cursed softly.

"Shit. They're here already." The pistol barrel pressed harder, forcing Wilson to turn his head. "Face the door," Tooey said. Wilson hesitated.

"Face the fucking door!" Tooey snarled. A strong hand on Wilson's shoulder spun him around. The satphone dropped to the floor with a muffled thump.

"Don't turn around until I tell you to," Tooey muttered.

Wilson stared at the office door. There was an odd, shifting sound behind him, as of wooden shelves and old gears pivoting creakily into place.

The door burst open. Uniformed men -- camp guards -- spilled into the office.

"Get him!" someone yelled, and Wilson grunted as he was tackled by multiple assailants and borne heavily to the floor. He gasped for breath, the wind knocked out of him, as guards pinned his arms and legs to the plush carpet and knelt on his chest and ribs for good measure.

"Did he call out?" someone else was asking frantically. "Did he call?"

Call out? Wilson thought muzzily. I didn't say anything ... It took him a moment to realize that whoever was speaking was talking about the fallen satphone.

"Can't tell," one of the men said. "Looks like he didn't know enough to trigger the log, so I can't tell if he got through to anyone or not."

"God damn it," the first voice swore, and Wilson finally recognized it as the Warden's. "Get him up."

Wilson was hauled to his feet, and stood dazed as his hands were cuffed behind his back and fetters locked around his ankles.

The Warden's angry face was very close to his own.

"Did you call anyone?" the Warden demanded.

"No," Wilson stammered. "I -- no, no."

"Are you telling the truth? Or are you lying the same way your bitch of a boss perjured herself on the stand?"

"No!" Wilson tried to back up, but there were too many guards holding him in place. "No, it's the truth!"

The office had finally quieted down; the Warden stepped back and tugged at the lapels of his suit.

"Well. We'll find out then, won't we?" He shot his cuffs, the sleeves of his finely-tailored suit settling over his dress shirt, and ran his hands through his hair.

"I'd hoped you'd have a longer stay with us, Dr. Wilson," he said, emphasizing the title mockingly. "But it seems you're something of a security risk. We'll determine if you're telling the truth. After that you'll be punished for this blatant escape attempt. I will have order in this camp. I sentence you to ... ten days in the box."

Wilson's knees threatened to collapse as he looked desperately around the room.

Tooey was nowhere in sight.

The cellar was soundproofed.

Wilson could tell this from the acoustic tiles lining the ceiling and walls. What he could see of the ceiling and walls, anyway. Parts of the cellar were pretty dark. He flexed his fingers and tried not to think about what was about to happen to him. Maybe he would have felt more confident if they hadn't taken his clothes, left him bare-assed and shivering as they'd tied him to this cold steel chair.

Or maybe he was just cold. It could be that, seeing as how he was naked, his wrists and elbows bound tightly behind and to the chairback, his ankles and knees secured to the chair legs.

It could definitely be that. Or something else. Maybe --

Wilson swallowed and forced himself to choke down his rising panic. He'd been sitting here, terrified out of his fucking mind, for a good half-hour already. At least it felt like a half-hour. Maybe it had only been fifteen minutes. Ten.

Five.

He started as one of the guards emerged into the light.

"Blindfold him," he said.

House sat at his hotel room's small writing desk and looked out at the brilliant, sparkling lights of the Vegas Strip.

It's like the end scene from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, he thought dully. The mother ship sweeps down, the lost are found, the missing ones return. Only it doesn't work that way in real life.

He'd been working on a list. It was pitifully short.

Check Vegas hotel room.
Hack credit cards -- usage?
Re-check cellphone logs.
Hack email accounts.
Talk to Winston Sen again?

That was it.

He pushed himself up from the uncomfortable hotel chair and its less-than-adequate padding.

Tomorrow, although it was already tomorrow.

Tomorrow he'd think about how he was losing Wilson.

Wilson gasped as the bucketful of cold water drenched him from head to toe. He spluttered, trying to catch his breath before the shock hit, because the water increased the strength of the electric current, and he didn't know where it would come from because of the goddamn blindfold, and --

There was a snap! as the guard touched the second electrode to his left nipple, and the charge connected through the first one already clipped to his penis, and the shockwave slammed through his body, arching his spine like a taut bow as he rode the lightning.

Wilson's head snapped back and he screamed.

From somewhere far away he could hear the guard asking the same questions he'd been asking all night.

"Did you make a call? Who did you talk to? What did you say?"

"No calls!" Wilson wailed. "God, I've told you, no calls -- he stopped me before I could get through!" He wrenched at his restraints but the ropes held him tight.

"You're lying," the guard said. "Lying. There was no one else there. Now who did you talk to?"

"No one," Wilson panted. "You've got to believe me. I didn't --"

His plea was cut short as the guard laid the electrode against his testicles and left it there.

Wilson's mouth opened very wide, but no sound came out. His body seemed to fold in on itself as he convulsed.

"Ah," he said. "Ah." He went limp suddenly, like a rag doll that had lost its stuffing.

Wilson had passed out.

House fed another quarter into the voracious machine and yanked down the one-armed bandit's lever. Lights flashed, reels spun and clicked to a stop one at a time.

A cherry. A cherry.

A lemon.

He'd lost again. He reached grimly into the tall plastic cup beside him and picked out another coin.

House had been playing the slots for an hour -- it was an activity that required no thought and took his mind off the fact that every time he had closed his eyes in his hotel bed, he'd kept seeing one thing.

Wilson's wallet.

He'd gone through it, of course -- held it in his hands, the brown leather worn soft and rubbed glossy-smooth by years of riding in Wilson's back pocket. House couldn't count how many times he'd watched Wilson fish it out, flip it open, pay for House's lunch, newspapers, magazines, pizza delivery ...

Hardly ever anything for himself.

He had laid it open on the desk, emptied it of cash and change (sixty-nine dollars, four of those in quarters and dimes, and fourteen cents).

House had already fed the quarters to the slot machine and used one of the twenties to buy more.

He'd pulled out the credit cards, inspected them front and back. Check card. Frequent-flyer card. Library card. Tattered restaurant receipts, notes scribbled in Wilson's atrocious left-handed scrawl on tiny bits of paper. Triple-A auto club card. Hospital insurance. Video store card.

An old snapshot, its colors washed out with age. Three boys, two side by side with their arms around each other's shoulders, with a much younger boy in front of them. All three had the facial structure, the distinctive high cheekbones marking them as Wilsons. One of the older boy's hands was resting protectively on the child's head, and the toddler was grinning, obviously delighted at having his picture taken with his big brothers.

House turned the photo over -- on the back, in a graceful blue ballpoint script, My three beautiful boys May 1979.

He slid the photo back into the wallet, carefully tucking it back behind the furthermost back flap where he'd found it, and left everything else out on the desk. He fanned out the pieces of plastic, lining them up like Tarot cards.

There were two cards missing -- Wilson's driver's license and hospital photo i.d. And that made absolutely no sense at all.

Damn it, none of this made any sense.

If Wilson had truly walked away from Winston Sen's car to start a new life, he would've already had fake identification prepared. He would've left everything behind -- his credit cards, his old i.d. He would have arranged for someone to pick him up, take him to the airport.

Except he wouldn't. He wouldn't have left his wallet behind -- he would have made it look like an attack, a robbery -- the leather billfold would've been found in the dirt, stripped of cash and cards.

And there were no credit cards missing -- House knew what Wilson carried at all times, knew the numbers and expiration dates of his Visa, his MasterCard, his gold American Express.

Besides, the whole idea was absurd. Wilson planning his own disappearance? Hell, the man couldn't make an egg disappear in a henhouse. He wouldn't have walked away in the middle of the friggin' desert. He wouldn't have wanted to ruin those good French shoes of his.

There were no shades of grey when a person wanted to disappear -- it was black or white, everything or nothing.

He realized he'd been staring at the slot machine for a while now. He jacked in another quarter and pulled the lever.

Wilson would turn up. He'd reappear just as mysteriously as he'd disappeared, and he'd yell at House for spending all his money, and he'd do that angsty Wilson thing where he pinched the bridge of his nose and looked like a wounded puppy, and then House would be forgiven and everything would be all right.

Because it had to be. Because the alternative -- the point of conclusion that was creeping up inexorably, that the police weren't asking the right questions because they already knew the answers, was ... crazy.

He'd go through his list -- check e-mails, bank balances, look for large withdrawals. Just in case.

The reels spun. Cherry. Strawberry. Lemon.

He'd lost again.

"No -- calls," Wilson wheezed, trying desperately to catch his breath. "God, can you please stop -- ahhh!"

He doubled over as he was punched hard in the gut again. His tormentors had decided to change tactics. They'd untied the restraints, pulled him out of the chair and pushed him back against one of the wooden support beams holding up the cellar's ceiling. His wrists had been cuffed together behind the post, and they'd begun a brutal, methodic alternation of beating and Tasering.

They'd left the blindfold on so he couldn't tell which was coming or where the pain would come next.

Through it all, they'd kept getting in his face, screaming at him.

"Who did you call? What did you say? Tell us!"

"No calls," Wilson repeated. He dragged in a deep, sobbing breath. "I didn't get a call out, just like I didn't get a call when you fucking baboons kidnapped me!"

His head rocked sideways as one of the guards backhanded him across the face. Wilson tasted the bitter copper of blood on his lips.

"Pull his arms up behind him," someone ordered, and Wilson felt strong hands wrap around his cuffed wrists and force them higher up the beam. Soon he was doubled over again, grunting as the strain on his shoulders increased. He cried out; it felt like hot coals were being inserted into his shoulder sockets, rammed in with searing pokers. If they raised his arms much further they were going to dislocate his shoulders.

Of course, that was probably the idea.

He kicked out, trying to hurt at least one of his tormentors, and was Tasered again for his troubles.

Wilson hung helplessly as his handcuff chain was tied to the post and another loop of rope was passed around his chest. He was forced mostly upright, as far as he could go. He moaned as the pressure increased exponentially on his tortured shoulders and the rope was yanked tight, securing him in this exquisitely agonizing position.

He stood there, gasping as the blazing pain spread throughout his body. He whimpered as he felt the electrode clip shut on his penis again.

Hot breath on his face, so close he could smell onions and garlic.

"Now," the guard said. "No more lies."

His voice was very calm.

"Who did you call?"

Winston Sen's voice was groggy, fuzzy with sleep. "Dr. ... House? What time is it? Oh, shit -- this is about Dr. Wilson, isn't it? Something happened to him --"

"Will you please shut up?" House snapped. "I need to ask you some questions."

There was a pause on the other end.

"At three in the morning?"

"The car."

"What?"

"The car. Tell me about the car. Why that one? What's the rental company? Where was it towed?"

Sen groaned. "Christ. The stories Jim told me about you -- I didn't believe them."

House gripped the phone tighter. "Wilson told you stories? About me?" An odd, unfamiliar feeling rose in his chest. He pushed it back down.

Winston Sen chuckled.

"Besides his conference presentation? You were the only other thing Jim talked about. Now, about the car ..."

A half hour later House hung up the phone and looked at the notes he'd taken. He now knew the name of the rental company and of the angry employee who'd called Sen. He knew they should have the original police report; maybe he could take a look at the impounded car and talk to the officers who'd found it.

He knew Wilson told stories about him.

The funny feeling rose again in his chest. It was an unusual feeling.

He wasn't sure what it was.

Wilson knelt on the cellar floor. It was concrete, roughly-poured cement that had been smoothed out in a slapdash manner, hard and cold under his knees.

He stared at it, his mind and body numb.

The guards had tortured him for over an hour, shocking and beating him as he writhed and struggled in his bonds, tearing at his own shoulder muscles until he'd almost wrenched them from the sockets. Every time he'd passed out they'd revived him with a bucket of cold water and continued the interrogation.

At last they'd let him down, simply unsnapping the cuffs and pulling away the rope so that he'd crashed heavily forward onto his face, his arms so sore he was unable to break his fall.

He'd lain there helpless, as they'd tied his hands behind his back and removed the blindfold.

They'd forced him onto his knees. They'd told him they were going to hang him.

They'd shown him the noose.

The rope is thick, rough and fuzzy with loose hemp sticking out from the braids. The noose is a large loop, tied back on itself in a simple running slipknot.

No gallows, no chair or box to stand on. They're going to haul him up and watch as his face turns blue and his legs kick while he slowly strangles to death.

Wilson takes a deep breath; he launches himself hard to the right and is rewarded with the sight of one of the guards knocked onto his butt. He struggles, trying to get his feet under him, but it's awkward with his hands tied and he's already weak from the beatings --

He's slammed back down onto his knees and held in place as a guard forces the noose over his head and snugs it around his neck. A large hand fists his hair, yanks his head back.

"Who did you talk to?"

Tears are leaking from Wilson's eyes. He wishes he could stop them but he can't.

"Go to hell," he grinds out. "All of you."

He's backhanded again, and then the rope is drawing taut and before he can say anything else, he's up. And then his feet are off the floor, and it's only a couple of inches but it might as well be a couple of miles for all the good it will do him.

The rope is rough enough so that it's taking it's own time in slipping, tightening around his neck, and shit it hurts like fucking hell. Already he can't breathe -- black dots and white comets are shooting across his field of vision, but he can still see the guards watching, their arms casually folded.

And then the noose does slip, and now he really is strangling. His lungs are burning and his ears are roaring as carbon dioxide levels build rapidly in his bloodstream. He's sliding into general hypoxia; his starving brain has already begun sending frantic signals to breathe.

He pulls desperately at his restraints, but the ropes remain tight around his wrists. His feet kick helplessly, driven by panicked animal impulse to find solid ground.

His vision's fading, growing darker. From somewhere down below he feels his bladder let go. His struggles grow weaker; reflexive shivers run through his body.

He's dropped, and lands on the concrete with a loud thump.

Wilson lay on his side, motionless, as the guards' hands loosened the noose just enough for him to draw in a breath. His bruised trachea was on fire; it hurt like hell to breathe and he coughed uncontrollably, sucking in great whooping gasps of air. One of the guards bent close.

"We can do this all night, Prisoner. Maybe one time we won't take you down quickly enough. Why don't you just tell us who you called?"

"He didn't call anyone."

Wilson blinked, trying to focus. Trying to understand that he was still alive.

The guard twisted around and looked up at the new arrival.

"What?"

"He didn't call anyone," the man repeated. "We got the satphone guy out here and he dumped the memory a couple hours ago -- no calls went out besides the ones already on record." He shrugged. "Warden wants him in the box. Now."

"Oh." The guard turned back to Wilson and the rest of the guards. "You heard the man. Get the prisoner up and let's take him outside."

He sounded disappointed.

Wilson didn't seem to be able to make his legs work, so the guards dragged him across the camp clearing.

He had no idea what time it was or how long he'd been in the cellar. He jounced between the two men holding him up, his toes leaving a sinuous double track in the dirt. Strange black things wove along the ground, seeming to stalk back and forth, advancing and retreating. It took him a few minutes to realize they were shadows, cast by the spotlights mounted on the guard towers.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that Wilson had had dinner in the mess tent, had sneaked into the Warden's office, had held the precious satellite phone in his hands.

Had been captured and tortured because Tooey betrayed him.

He was pulled to a stop; they were standing in front of the metal lid of the hot box. The guard on duty stepped forward and unlocked it, then grunted as he forced the sheet metal up and open.

A black pit yawned in front of Wilson's feet. A miasmic stink assailed his nostrils as his hands were untied.

There was no sign of the cell's previous occupant.

"See you in ten days," Wilson's guard taunted, and shoved him in.

~ Chapter Eight

Welcome to Wherever You Are (7/11)

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