Part Thirteen

Early Morning Phone Calls

After Cuddy left, House went back to his suite. Cuddy’s rejection had hurt him deeply, so he tried the traditional male remedy for emotional pain – alcohol. Alan Andersen used the suite for corporate events and hospitality, so it was well stocked with a variety of wines and spirits. House found a bottle of very expensive 20-year-old single malt whisky. There was only an inch or two left in the bottle. He poured himself a glass. It was a bit too peaty for his taste, but it would have to do. He poured himself another.

After several drinks, House needed to talk to someone. His usual choice for the role of confidant, Wilson, was obviously out of the question. He decided to call Rosemary Lum instead. He listened to the phone ring several times. When he reached voice mail, he hung up and redialled. Finally, after his fourth try, he got her in person. He didn’t bother to say hello.

“I think you should reconsider your wedding,” he said seriously.

“Dr. House, is that you?”

“Henry says he loves you, but you can’t know for sure. Maybe he’s lying.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning here. Unless you have something work-related to say, I’m going to hang up now.”

“Even if he does love you,” House said, ”that doesn’t mean he won’t hurt you. He’ll break your heart. People are fickle. He’ll have sex with your best friend, or he’ll run off to Barbados with your personal trainer.”

“I don’t have a personal trainer,“ Lum said. “Good-bye.”

He heard Lum call him a nasty name in gutter Cantonese just before she hung up.

House put down the phone and picked up the nearly empty bottle of whisky and upturned it to get the last few drops. Then he went to the refrigerator for the half bottle of Dom Perignon he’d noticed earlier. To hell with the rules about never mixing grain and grape, House was a born rule-breaker. He’d drink himself into oblivion with style.

--

Wilson received the phone call at three thirty. It was one of the emergency room doctors, who had recognized Wilson’s ex-wife from her driver’s license photo.

“There was internal bleeding,” the doctor said, “and the surgeons had to remove her spleen, but she’s stable for now. Technically, I shouldn’t be calling you,” he said, “ but I thought you’d want to know. She’s in post-op, but it’s touch and go. I’ve seen people in head-on collisions in better shape.”

“Is there anyone with her?” Wilson asked.

“Just the police. The husband’s been arrested and we don’t know how to contact the family. Maybe you know how to get in touch with her next of kin?”

“She doesn’t have any family,” Wilson lied.

Julie had spent much of her life trying to escape her family; Wilson wasn’t going to give them power over her when she was at her most vulnerable.

“I’m coming to the hospital. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Wilson phoned Marta, Emily’s nanny, to see if she could babysit, but there was no answer. He left her a voice mail, asking her to phone him at the hospital as soon as she woke up. Wilson pulled on some clothes and then went to get Emily. She was in her pyjamas, and he didn’t bother getting her dressed. He picked her up gently, took her to the car, and buckled her in. Her eyelids fluttered as he covered her, using his coat as a blanket.

By the time he reached the hospital, Emily was awake. It was dark, and she had no idea where they were. The last thing she remembered was her cozy bed and now she was in a strange place she didn’t recognize. She was frightened and confused.

Wilson parked his car in the staff parking lot. He turned around and smiled reassuringly at Emily.

“Hi, Emily,” he said. “I’m sorry I had to wake you up so early.”

“It’s still dark out.”

“Yes, it’s still night-time,” Wilson said, stepping out of the car and going to the rear door of the car to unbuckle his stepdaughter.

“Where are we?”

“We’re at the hospital,” Wilson said. “It looks different in the dark, doesn’t it? See, there’s the door that opens by itself. Do you recognize where we are, now?”

Emily nodded.

“I have to go to the hospital because a friend of mine is very sick,” Wilson said, picking Emily up and carrying her towards the lighted entrance. Now that Emily was no longer afraid, she was falling back to sleep. Her voice was slurred and her eyes were half-shut.

“Are you going to make her better?”

“The other doctors are looking after her,” Wilson said.

He headed up to post-op stopping at the nurses’ station to ask for her room number.

“She’s in the second room on the left, Dr. Wilson, but you don’t want to take your little girl in there. It’s pretty ugly. You don’t want her to see that. She shouldn’t be here at all.”

“I couldn’t find a sitter,” Wilson said. “Could you watch Emily for a bit for me, while I see Julie?”

“I’ve got patients to look after. I’m not a babysitter,” she said.

Wilson shifted Emily from one shoulder to another. “She’s asleep,” he said. “She won’t be any trouble and I won’t be long. I just want Julie to know that someone who cares about her is here. Please.”

The nurse relented. Before she could change her mind again, Wilson set Emily down in one of the chairs at the nurse’s station and headed for Julie’s room.

--

Wilson’s colleague had listed her injuries. In addition to her ruptured spleen, she had suffered a broken cheekbone, broken jaw, broken nose, fractured skull, broken wrist, broken arm, and several broken and cracked ribs. Even though he knew exactly what to expect, Wilson was still taken aback. Julie was unrecognizable; her face was swollen and discoloured and her beautiful red hair was gone; they’d had to shave her to treat her head injuries.

“Julie,” he said. “It’s James. I’m here. “

Wilson held her bruised hand as gently as if it were a newly-hatched bird. He wanted her to feel the warmth of human contact, but he didn’t want to cause her any more pain.

“I let you down. You said you were afraid; you said Carl had been violent before. I didn’t listen. I knew that you were desperate and unhappy, but I didn’t do anything to help you.

I haven’t been a good friend to you, and I know that I wasn’t a good husband. I’ve never been what you needed me to be. I’m so sorry, Julie. You deserve so much better.

Julie, honey, I’m going to try to make it up to you. I’m going to listen to you. Please, Julie, just get better, and I promise that I’ll help you get the kind of life you want.”

--

Wilson heard footsteps and turned around. A police officer entered the room.

“Dr. Wilson? I’m Detective Karen Little. I’m going to need to ask you a few questions.”

“Right now? My stepdaughter is waiting for me at the nurse’s station. I can’t leave her long.”

“That’s fine. Go get your stepdaughter and then we’ll talk. You’re a doctor here, right? A departmental head. So we’ll go talk in your office, if that’s okay.”

“Fine.” Wilson turned back to his ex-wife. “Good-bye, Julie. I’ll be back soon.”

He and the police officer headed toward the nurse’s station.

“You were talking to her. Do you think she can hear you?”

“I know she can’t. She’s under anaesthesia. But there were some things I had to say to her, and I might not get another chance.”

“So I guess it’s more for your benefit than for her.”

“I guess so,” Wilson admitted. They’d reached the nurse’s station. Emily opened her eyes briefly as Wilson picked her up.

“Is it morning yet?”

“Almost,” he said.

--

Wilson put Emily down on the office couch. He winced as he got up. Either Emily was getting too heavy to be carried, or Wilson was getting too old. Wilson didn’t want Emily to overhear their conversation, so he and the detective talked on the balcony.

Det. Little had seen the photograph that Carl Bensonhurst had received, and realized immediately that it must have been taken from this balcony. She noticed the low wall that separated it from the balcony of another office. She decided not to mention the photograph immediately. She’d wait to see whether Wilson would bring it up himself.

While she asked the usual questions about his relationship to the victim and her husband, Det. Little was assessing Wilson. He was nervous in the presence of a police officer, which was common enough, but he confined his answers strictly to what was asked and did not elaborate. This was unusual among civilians, and especially among the nervous ones. It argued that he must have prior experience dealing with the police, and had learned to be cautious.

She asked if he could give her the names and addresses of Julie’s family, so that they could be informed. Wilson said that he had never met any family, and did not know whether Julie had any relatives. This was so implausible (since he and Julie had been married for several years and surely Julie must have talked about her past) that it drew Little’s attention. Wilson was almost certainly lying, but she could not tell. His voice and demeanour did not change and he did not hesitate. The lie itself was probably unimportant – Little had no reason to believe that Julie’s family had anything to do with her assault – but it was interesting that this apparently law-abiding citizen was such a skilled liar.

“What are you going to charge him with?” Wilson asked.

“That’s not up to us. It’s up to the D.A.’s office. Probably aggravated assault.”

“It should be attempted murder,” Wilson said. “The emergency room doctor told me that she fractured her skull falling to the floor. She would have been unconscious at that point, but he kept on. He kicked her until he ruptured her spleen and broke her ribs, while she was lying there unconscious and unable to defend herself. She nearly died. She could still die.”

Wilson’s voice broke, and he started to cry. Det. Little was used to the emotional responses of witnesses and victims. There were times when an emotional reaction had been useful to her - when it had brought to light information that would otherwise have been buried - but most of the time it was an inconvenience. She did not think that offering people comfort was part of her job.

“So you said your relationship with Julie Bensonhurst was ‘cordial’ and “civilized’ after your divorce, and that you would occasionally run into each other at movies and plays.”

“Yes, we had similar interests,” Wilson said. He had turned away from Det. Little and was looking out over the city. He kept his voice steady.

“Would you call yourself her friend?”

“Yes, I suppose. Anyway, I wished her well. I wanted her to be happy.”

“Were you anything more than friends?”

“No, of course not.”

Det. Little took a piece of paper from her jacket pocket. She unfolded a photocopy of the photograph that had triggered Carl Bensonhurst’s violent attack on his wife and showed it to Wilson. Dawn was still some time away, although the sky had begun to lighten. It took a minute for Wilson to make out the photograph, and to register what it depicted.

“That’s Julie and me in my office, yesterday afternoon. She was upset because a close friend of hers had recently died, and she missed her. How did you get this picture? We were the only two people there.”

“This is a photocopy of a digital photograph someone sent Carl Bensonhurst by e-mail. He got this photo, had a couple of drinks, and then beat up and nearly killed his wife. Because of this photo, he says.”

Wilson looked pale and sick.

“Were you and Mrs. Bensonhurst having an affair? Because if you were, you’d better tell me now. It’s all going to come out in the investigation.”

Wilson shook his head.

“We’re interested in whoever took this photo and sent it to Bensonhurst. Do you know who that person is?”

Wilson shook his head again, still unable to speak.

“Someone who would want to hurt Julie or hurt you? An unhappy patient, maybe, or the husband or wife of someone who had died while you were treating them?”

“I’m an oncologist,” Wilson said, after a pause to compose himself. “A certain percentage of my patients are going to die. I try to give them the best possible chance, but that’s all I can do.

My patients are amazing, especially the children. A lot of the treatments are painful and unpleasant, but they don’t blame me. Even when I can’t help them anymore - all I can do is make the end a little more comfortable - they still don’t blame me.”

“What about Julie’s enemies?”

“I don’t know. We’ve been divorced a long time, and I don’t know her social circle anymore. Recently, I’d been seeing more of her, because she was unhappy with Bensonhurst and she needed someone to talk to, but I really don’t know a lot about her current friends and enemies. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“I’ll probably be phoning you later to ask you to sign a statement. Will that be okay with you?”

“Yes, of course.”

--

As soon as the detective left, Wilson sank down to the floor. He was shaking, shocked by the realization that he was responsible for Julie’s condition. House had been right when he’d accused Wilson of being more interested in playing the part of the white knight than in Julie’s welfare. All along, he’d never taken Julie entirely seriously; he’d thought that she was exaggerating her situation to gain his sympathy and his attention. He’d been flattered that she was still attracted to him, and he’d never considered that spending time with Julie might make her brutal husband angry and put her in danger. He’d been selfish and thoughtless.

The light of dawn had woken Emily. Wilson looked up, tears streaming down his face, and saw her watching him through the glass of the balcony door. Wilson knew that she needed a strong, confident father figure, not someone weak and emotional, but he couldn’t stop crying. The glass door was heavy, and Emily really had to tug before she could open it. She sat down next to Wilson.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Mommy will be back soon.”