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The Writing on the Wall - Part Eleven
by Evilida
"Dr. Wilson's voice sounds a bit strange," said Tritter, listening to the tape for the third time.
"What do you mean, strange?" asked Roy.
"Tense, strained, uncomfortable."
"Nerves," said Roy. "He's afraid of me. He's so soft sometimes; it makes me sick to think he's my brother."
"Do you think that you can get him to give you the key to this storage locker?"
"Not without making him suspicious. What am I going to say, "Oh, Jimmy, before I go on the run from the law, could you please lend me the key to your storage locker? I need to borrow a couple of old kitchen chairs'?"
Tritter looked at the ex-convict sternly, letting him know that he did not appreciate sarcasm or attempts at humour.
"I know the storage facility Dr. House was talking about," he said, "but we'll need to find out which locker belongs to your brother."
"I can do that," Roy said. "No problem. Give me a fifty to bribe the counter guy."
"You can break into the locker tomorrow night."
"That's a problem. I'm not doing anything like that. I've given you the info to get Jimmy and that's as far as I'm going. You want to get into that locker, you do it yourself. Get a warrant or whatever."
"I won't be able to get a warrant," Tritter said. "This wire wasn't strictly official. Even if I could use the tape, Wilson doesn't actually confess to anything illegal."
"Blackmail," said Roy helpfully. "He says he blackmailed Cuddy into hiring him."
"He's just bragging at that point. Dr. Cuddy didn't even promote your brother to head of oncology; her predecessor did that. I checked his employment records when I was investigating House. Where I think we've got him is his relationships with female patients. We find one photo or one letter from one of his patients and Dr. Wilson loses his license."
"Tantalizing, isn't it, knowing that there's all that nice evidence sitting there in that locker, and no legal way to get at it?"
The desk clerk spotted Wilson in the lobby. The hotel's only permanent resident was carrying a large cardboard box and walking swiftly and soundlessly towards the elevators.
"Dr. Wilson," he called.
Wilson turned around but didn't come toward him, so that the desk clerk was forced to call to him across the lobby.
"That friend of yours, the tall man with a limp, is waiting in your room. I said that he should wait in the lobby, but he said you wouldn't mind."
"The tall man with a limp," said Wilson abstractedly, "It sounds like a description from an Alfred Hitchcock movie, doesn't it? Thanks for letting me know, Jeremy."
"No problem, sir. Do you need any help with that box?"
"No, it's quite light, thanks," Wilson said, shifting the box awkwardly to press the elevator button. "Good night."
House heard Wilson in the hallway and opened the door for him.
"Thanks," Wilson said. He put the cardboard box on the floor and opened it. Hector was sleeping in the box. Wilson put his hand on the dog's chest to make sure that he was breathing steadily.
"I had to give him a mild sedative so he wouldn't make any noise and I could get him past the desk clerk. Jeremy's nosy and he's got excellent hearing. "
"What about the reputable kennel?"
"The brochure they gave Bonnie was grossly misleading. Acres of woodland, it said, but it didn't say that they keep the dog's inside their cages most of the day. When they let them out, they keep them in this fenced enclosure with a concrete floor. The dogs can smell the woods and see the woods, but they never get to be in them. The owner and I had words."
"I can't look after him this time," House said. "Steve McQueen is still on the loose, and I don't think he and Hector would get along."
"That's okay; you're more a rat person than a dog person anyway."
"You know I didn't really hurt Hector when he stayed with me. I trained him to limp like that."
"I knew that. Bonnie was going to take Hector to some expensive doggie physiotherapist and bill you, so I had to tell her. I'm going to phone Bonnie and ask her if I can stay at her place while I look after Hector and the orchids. It'll be nice staying in a real home for a while."
"So are you finally serious about getting your own place?" House asked.
"Still thinking about it," Wilson said, picking up the sleeping dog. He lay down on his bed with the sleeping Hector on his chest. "There are just so many decisions to make, and realtors have so much energy and they're so pushy. I'm really tired, House; can whatever you have to say wait until tomorrow?"
"Probably," House said. "But we're both here now."
"And I'll be just as tired tomorrow," Wilson said.
It had been a long day and he just couldn't keep up his guard any longer; for a moment, he lost the struggle to act as if he were normal and everything was under control. He looked vulnerable and exhausted and desperate. House turned away and walked over to the window and shut the curtains, pretending with unaccustomed tact that he hadn't noticed. When he turned around, Wilson was sitting up with his back against the headboard with Hector still asleep beside him. His face was expressionless.
"You know that "uncontrollable rage" thing that Roy does is hooey. He knows exactly what he's doing. He was angry at Tritter today, but he didn't attack him. Tritter's a policeman so he's been trained how to fight and he's got a gun. Instead, he went all the way across town to your hotel room and scared you instead."
"You were scared too."
"Not as scared as you," House said. "That guy whose jaw he broke - I bet he was a little guy. Probably just sitting in a bar, having a friendly discussion about football, when Roy attacked him. Not such a feat, beating up a guy who's smaller than you and unprepared. "
"Maybe there's a kind of choice of victim at the beginning," Wilson agreed, "but once he's actually started in on someone, choice is gone. He's not like a rational human being anymore; he so deep into this animal rage, he wouldn't recognize his own name. I've only seen him like that two or three times, but it's not something I'll ever forget."
"You act as if it's up to you to keep him happy all the time, so he won't get angry and hurt someone."
"Of course I don't want people to be hurt!"
"You're deliberately pretending not to get my point," House said with elaborate patience, "so I'll speak to you in terms that even an administrator could understand. Roy is an independent human being. When he decided to push your father through a plate glass window, when he decided to trash my apartment, when he decided to skip out on his parole, he was responsible, not you. Roy did those things, and you aren't going to be able protect him from the consequences anymore."
"Yes, but if I have the ability to limit or prevent the harm that Roy does to others and to himself, isn't it my duty to do that? I've had this argument before. One of my roommates in college was a liberal arts major and a serious pothead. He'd wake me up at three in the morning and we'd have conversations just like this. It's better when you're eighteen and half-stoned from second-hand smoke."
"I've got some bad news, Wilson. Our plan isn't going to work."
"What do you mean, House?" Wilson asked. "Sure it will work. The police will catch Tritter breaking into my storage locker. He'll get kicked off the force and maybe go to jail, and Roy will go off to Arizona or wherever and we'll never see either of them again. "
"That part will work. It's the part afterwards, when Tritter starts talking and wants to make a deal were things start to go wrong. He's going to know that Roy tricked him, and he's going to guess who helped Roy get away and start a new life. Once he gives his friends on the force our names, the first thing the cops will do is look at our bank records. I don't know about you, but I didn't have a secret untraceable account in the Cayman Islands or fifty thousand dollars in cash tucked away in my cookie jar."
"I didn't think of that," Wilson admitted.
"Yeah, crime is way trickier than oncology. You've got to convince Roy to turn himself in."
Wilson began to protest, but House ignored him.
"Either Roy turns himself in for his parole violation, or you and I get arrested for helping him get away. There aren't any other options. I don't know about you, but I don't want to spend the next year or two locked up in a cell with some tattooed biker who calls me baby. Maybe I'd get lucky though; maybe I'd get put in the same cell as Tritter."
"I'm not turning my brother in to the police," Wilson repeated mechanically.
"I'm not asking you to," House said. "If it comes to it, I'll turn him in. I would love to see that bastard dragged back to prison where he belongs."
"Don't call the police," Wilson said. "I'll talk to him."
House was headed for the door, when Wilson's voice stopped him.
"He's still going to need the money though - for lawyers and to set himself up once he gets out of prison."
"He can have the money," House agreed, although he hated the idea of giving a cent to Roy.
It was too hot to sleep in Roy's stuffy apartment, but for once he didn't mind. He was occupied making plans for his glorious future. Roy greedily pictured a plasma t.v., a condo with a pool, and a new car. He'd have all the luxuries that Jimmy had - all the consumer items that he took from the places he burgled but couldn't afford to keep for himself. The hundred thousand dollars was only the starting point. Once Jimmy had paid him off the first time, he'd have to keep on paying. He'd bleed him slowly. House was a different story, of course. He only agreed to pay out his share for Jimmy's sake and Roy probably wouldn't get another dime out of him. Jimmy was going to be fun though.
Tritter was going to be fun too. Wouldn't it be great if he were sent to Rahway? Roy knew people who still owed him favours and could make Tritter's experience there very intense. Despite the heat, pleasant thoughts had almost lulled Roy to sleep when his cellphone went off. Roy waited for whoever was calling him to give up, but his caller was persistent. Swearing, Roy got out of bed and answered his cellphone. It was Jimmy, who had finally talked Roy into giving him his cellphone number, wanting to arrange a meeting for the next day. Roy agreed to a time and place. He opened a window, went back to bed, and fell asleep to the sounds of traffic.
Roy and Jimmy Wilson were sitting on a bench in a park near the hospital. Wilson was wearing his white coat, and his face was grave, as if were delivering bad news to a patient. Runners passing the two men avoided looking at them, sensing that something deeply private was going on.
Wilson had prepared himself for Roy's anger, but not for this stunned disbelief. It was as if something had gone haywire with his brother's emotional circuitry and all he could express was surprise.
"You want me to turn myself in," Roy repeated.
"It will be better for you that way. If you don't, House will turn you in."
"You're not going to try to stop him."
"No, I'm not."
"You're choosing House over me."
"Yes. You're both making me choose and I choose House."
"You could pretend you never saw me. I could just drive away and start a new life without any of your money. There would be nothing to connect us."
"That's not true. Tritter would connect us."
Roy was genuinely hurt by his little brother's betrayal. He had never thought that Jimmy was capable of turning on him. Jimmy had always idolized him and had been the last remaining link to Roy's family and his childhood. Sadly, Roy had been too hardened by the life he had chosen to be able to recognize his feelings of pain and loss. After the initial shock, Roy experienced his emotion as anger, which was more familiar and easier to deal with.
"I could strangle you right now," Roy said, finally reacting in the way Wilson expected. "I could kill you and then go up to your friend House's office and beat him to death with his own cane."
Wilson wondered whether Roy's rage was something separate from himself. Could he summon it when needed and dismiss when it was no longer necessary? He felt curious rather than frightened. He realized that he didn't care whether Roy attacked him as long as he didn't hurt anyone else.
"You could strangle me," Wilson said calmly, "but there are a lot of witnesses here. You wouldn't make it as far as House's office, though. He gave hospital security your photograph. It's your decision."
Jimmy deliberately looked away, giving his brother time to choose.
"What about Tritter?" Roy asked.
"That can go ahead."
"I want to be there; I want to see him get arrested. After that, I'll give myself up."
Wilson nodded and shook his brother's hand.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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