God and Bad Planning
Author: Martin Ross
Category: Crossover casefile
Rating: R for language
Summary: When a serial killer is loose and a curiously ill
Katrina survivor seems to be involved, Mulder and Scully
meet a formidable adversary — Dr. Gregory House.
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are the creation of Chris
Carter, Greg House the brainchild of Paul Attanasio, Bryan
Singer, David Shore, and Katie Jacobs.
E-mail: fwidsvnt@ilfb.org
New Orleans, La.
Sept. 5, 2005
4:37 p.m.
Rose Anne shook the plastic jug in frustration. A small
eddy of water glinted at the bottom, in the late afternoon
light seeping through the grimy attic window, and memory
stabbed at her heart.
She’d been listening to the local weather when the waters
hit — keeping up with the taxes on the house kept Rose
Anne tapped out, and even basic cable was beyond the meager
paycheck she brought home from the cannery. She’d kept to
herself, both at the plant and on the block, and no one had
called or stopped by to see to her welfare as Katrina
approached.
Rose Anne had stocked up on as much canned meat and snack
food as she could swing at the dollar store, and had filled
a milk jug with pure Jefferson Parish tap — not too much
Avian flowed in this neighborhood. She settled back and
waited for the storm to pass, anticipating at worst a few
days without power. The idea of leaving her late mother’s
home was inconceivable, the logistics of leaving town
impossible.
She’d grabbed as much as she could after the levee broke,
and Rose Anne had been living on store-brand pseudo-Spam,
ranch-flavored tortilla chips, and carefully rationed sips
from the jug. As darkness and fear and eventually despair
had set in over the last five days, Rose Anne had lost
track of the sips, and the water soon would be gone.
She’d heard periodic shots in the darkness, and before the
generic dollar store batteries had given out, Rose Anne had
listened in horror to accounts of the insanity and chaos at
the arena. Like Sodom and Gomorrah, or the End of Days.
Rose Anne had lived her entire life in the city, and she’d
learned to turn a blind eye to the revelry, the debauchery.
It wasn’t too tough — the French Quarter was more concept
than concrete reality in Rose Anne’s working class world.
This had been all too real — the wrath of the Lord come
right to her doorstep. His vengeance, the scouring of the
city from the Earth’s face?
“Ma’am?”
Rose Anne jumped at the disembodied voice, and the milk jug
sloshed across the rough wood of the attic floor. She
crawled to the window, and tears stung her eyes as she
regarded the military chopper hovering over the now flooded
street. She caught sight of the moon near the horizon – an
apparition in the waning daylit sky, a hazy scythe waiting
to claim the night. Rose Anne leaned back, gratefully.
“Ma’am, this is the U.S. Coast Guard.” The amplified voice
brought her back to the dusty attic. “We’re going to send a
man down to retrieve you. Just stay put — we’ll be back
around in a few minutes.”
Rose Anne nodded mutely, then slumped against a trunk full
of her mother’s old dresses. Her dry lips began to move in
prayer, as if they were acting autonomously…
Megalomart
Plainsboro, N.J.
Four months later
“Attention, Megalomart customers. Winter’s here, and
Megalomart has all your automotive winterization needs.
Sur-Grip radial snow tires are on special this week with a
$40 mail-in rebate, and a gallon of Arctic Fire antifreeze
is only $7.99… So make Megalomart your first stop today,
before winter stops you.”
The robotically nasal Eastern accent of the assistant
manager pricked at Rose Anne’s brain even as she silently
swept cookies, roasts, detergent, socks over the UPC
scanner and into the gaping maw of a red recyclable bag.
While few of her customers would’ve noticed – or indeed
might have bothered to – Rose Anne actually enjoyed the
comforting repetition and isolation of her new job. While
she interacted daily with hundreds of shoppers in the
center of a virtual retail circus, only a few acknowledged
the non-descript girl, and most of Rose Anne’s co-workers
were sympathetic toward the world-changing events that had
brought her to New Jersey but respectful of her politely
reticent nature.
Absently, by rote, Rose Anne spun the carousel another
turn, and carefully nestled a bag of hotdog buns into its
cocoon before spinning to a new bag.
“Thanks.”
She looked up, suppressing a gasp. The woman, in a
chartreuse jersey and stretch pants, was as broad as a bus,
but her beaming smile was as radiant as a Gulf sunrise.
“I’m sorry, ma’am?” Rose Anne stammered.
“The buns,” the customer explained, blushing slightly now.
“Most a’the times, you guys just toss ‘em in a bag and
squoosh ‘em good with a couple cans a’ beans. Thanks for
taking the time, sweetie.”
Rose Anne’s hand paused over the scanner, and a smile broke
through her customary reserve. The woman blinked at the
cashier’s transformation. “No problem, ma’am.”
“That’s a beautiful accent you got, honey,” the customer
cooed. “It’d figure you’d be from outta town, you not
squooshing my buns and all. You from the south, right?” The
large woman suddenly paused. “Ohmigod. You’re one of them,
ain’t you?”
Rose Anne’s smile vanished, and her gray eyes widened in
fear.
Tears filmed the shopper’s eyes. “Oh, sweetie, how awful.
It musta been awful.” Her plump fingers reached over the
scanner and seized Rose Anne’s. “That gawdammed Katrina.”
Rose Anne fliched imperceptibly at the blasphemy. “My
husband’s a trucker – he took a buncha food and shit down
there after it happened. You OK, baby?”
Rose Anne’s shoulders relaxed. The arrival of the Katrina
evacuees had made front-page local headlines for a week,
and a well-meaning TV reporter had shadowed several for two
more. Rose Anne had declined the exposure – the CNN
coverage of her rescue had been enough visibility – but the
media spotlight had spurred a flood of offers. Megalomart
had provided work for few hundred of the evacuees, and a
local developer known (very publicly) for his charitable
efforts offered up (very publicly) a bank of temporarily
rent-deferred apartments in a reasonably safe neighborhood
not too far from here.
“I’m just fine, ma’am,” Rose Anne murmured, gracefully
wriggling free. “Thank you so kindly for asking.”
“Hey, Sally Freakin’ Struthers.” Rose Anne and the woman
turned to a broad bald man in a leather jacket and a
grease-stained tee. “I got 20 minutes ‘til the freakin’
game starts. You wanna haul that gargantuan ass a’yours?”
The woman’s eyes dried instantly, and she thumped her chest
in a common New Jersey gesture. “Fuck you, Easy Rider.”
“Hey, you go fu— Jesus! Lady? Lady?”
Rose Anne’s face had grown even grayer as the pair
bickered. She’d grabbed at the card reader, and it had
uprooted as her body slid to the floor…
“Ohmigod!” the woman screamed, turning to the mob of
shoppers. “Somebody call 911, please, for Gawd’s sake!”
A petite redhead sprinted from the front of the store,
where she’d been chatting with the manager and a youngish
man in a black suit. “I’m a doctor!” the redhead announced,
nonetheless holding up what was clearly an FBI ID. The
biker nearly bolted instinctively, then placed himself in
check out of a second instinct that had evolved through
years of bar fights and drug scrapes. “Get an ambulance!”
the small woman barked at the manager, who broke out a cell
phone.
“Ohmigod,” the large woman whispered.
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital
Plainsboro, N.J.
9:23 a.m.
FBI Special Agent Dana Scully eyed the closed ICU door and
the doctors and nurses consulting inside. Her partner had
gone off in search of the hospital administrator, and she
waited tensely, as concerned about the health of the young
woman as the continuation of her investigation.
“Got change for a dollar?”
Scully glanced at the source of the query, a thin, unshaven
man in a wrinkled shirt, rumpled corduroy jacket, jeans,
and sneakers. He leaned on a cane, and his eyes were baggy,
protuberant, expectant, and, she thought, somewhat wild.
“No,” the agent said simply, turning away.
“C’mon,” the derelict sighed. “At least look. I don’t have
my morning coffee to wash down my drugs, I’m absolutely
useless for the rest of the day.”
“I’m positive I don’t have any change,” Scully said icily.
“You must be hellaciously anal retentive, or one heck of a
money manager.”
Scully whipped out her ID, and flipped it open in the man’s
face. “I’m extremely busy right now, sir. You’ll need to
cadge a cup from someone else, understand?”
“Well,” the man huffed, turning and hobbling off. “Somebody
woke up with Mr. Grumpypants this morning.”
Before Scully could squelch the response she had yet to
formulate, the ICU door whooshed open, and an amiable-
looking man in a lab coat approached.
“Agent? Dr. Patel. Your witness, suspect, what? Well, she’s
stabilized for the time being. But I’m going to ask you to
hold off for a little longer, at least until tomorrow.
We’re looking at, ah, some rather odd symptomology here,
and I need to call in a specialist.”
The last was spoken seemingly with some reluctance, but
Scully pressed on. “What happened to Ms. Boudeaux? I’m a
doctor, and from what I–”
“You called him yet?” Scully turned to see an attractive
woman in an expensive suit and heels clacking down the
hall, Mulder in tow. She extended an exquisitely manicured
hand. “Dr. Lisa Cuddy – head of medicine. As I explained to
your partner, we want to cooperate fully, but our patient’s
health is tantamount. I mean, she’s not going anyplace,
right?”
“Of course,” Scully nodded, waving off her impatient
partner with a look.
“Great.” Cuddy returned to the chafing physician beside
Scully. “So, did you talk to him yet?”
“Just about to.”
Cuddy’s brow arched. “Well, shoo. He doesn’t eat attendings
unless they provoke him. Ah, there he is. House?”
Scully followed her gaze, seeing only the derelict coffee
cadger. The man’s eyes popped, and he started to beat a
retreat.
“DR. House,” Cuddy repeated with a tone of mingled
authority and exasperation. The derelict’s shoulders
slumped, and he pivoted on his cane.
“Great,” Scully breathed as she hustled after Cuddy and
Mulder.
“It’s not my baby, Cuddy,” Dr. Gregory House stated. “Guys
in the pool think it’s the Prince of Darkness.”
“Dr. House,” Cuddy smiled sweetly. “These are Agents Mulder
and Scully with the FBI.”
House inspected Scully with a frown. “Ah, yes, the
Changeless Woman. If I accidentally slice off a pair of
testicles or sew a sponge in a patient today in my
stimulant-free condition, it’s on you. You two here about
my taxes? Cause I promise, I haven’t filed any in years.”
“House,” Cuddy sighed. “Rose Anne Boudeaux, 27, brought in
about two hours ago following what appears to be a cardiac
episode. There are some curious complications, and I need
you to consult with Patel.”
“Curious complications?” House waggled his brows. “Why,
Cuddy, you do know how to whet the appetite. Get Foreman.”
“I’ll take two days’ clinicals,” Cuddy offered, flatly.
House smiled wolfishly and glanced at the agents.
“What’s so interesting about Blanche DuBois, or whatever
her name is?” the doctor inquired. “Why’re Efrem Zimbalist
Jr. and Agent Hypothermia so interested?”
Mulder reached absently for Scully, then withdrew. Scully
inhaled slowly.
“Ms. Boudeaux may be an important witness in a series of
local crimes,” she murmured. “It’s essential that we talk
to her.”
House leaned in on his cane, now intrigued. “Local crimes.
What, slugging the parking meters? Check kiting? Rampant
buggery’s certainly out of the question.” His eyes grew
intent. “Only series of crimes playing here in town I know
of are the road show of Rent and the Ripper Murders.” House
leaned in further toward Scully. “The frat kid and the drug
dealer they found torn up last month. Lots of talk about a
serial killer, really exciting stuff. C’mon, Big Spender,
give. You two are straining at your leashes like Michael
Moore at a Bush fundraiser. That girl’s not just some
witness, is she?”
“We’re not at liberty to—” Scully said evenly.
“Quid pro quo, Agent,” House sang. He frowned. “Or is that
tempus fugit? Gee, all that Latin sounds pretty much the
same to me.”
“There is some evidence to indicate Ms. Boudeaux could be
materially involved in the murders,” Mulder provided,
waving off Scully’s objections.
“There you go,” House smiled beatifically. “That was so
tough? OK, lead me to the little homicidal maniac. First,
though, I need a cup of java.” The doctor reached into his
pockets and looked distressed. “Except I don’t seem to have
any change…”
Scully crossed her arms, her face a blank. Mulder’s hand
plunged into his pants pocket.
“Oh, they’re still there,” House assured him, jerking his
head toward Scully. “Though I think it’ll only be a matter
of time.”
**
“Agent Scully,” House announced as he hobbled into the
room. Two young men and a woman in lab coats stopped
laughing and looked up, Scully thought with some
trepidation. “Meet Pete, Julie, and Linc.”
One of the two men, a goateed African-American, exhaled and
stood. “Dr. Foreman. He’s Chase, she’s Cameron. You
actually an agent, or did House not get his a.m. coffee
yet?”
“Youch,” House winced. “Agent Scully’s a triple threat.
She’s a G-woman – is that politically correct? – and a
pathologist.” The last he pronounced with exaggerated
reverence.
The female physician, a pretty brunette, waited, then
frowned. “But you said she was a triple threa—”
“Just don’t,” Foreman sighed. “Rose Anne Boudeaux, right?”
House crossed to a white board mounted on an easel, and he
picked up a marker.
“Let’s start with cardiomegaly.” House scrawled the symptom
on the white board. “Ms. Boudeaux apparently has a heart
the size of Montana, and blood pressure to match. Periodic
heart palpitations…Joint pain…Anemia…”
“Joint pain?” Foreman the neurologist queried. “Is the girl
from rural Louisiana? Joint pain and limb weakness present
in Lyme disease, and irregular rhythm. Maybe the anemia’s
actually fatigue.”
House nodded. “Interesting, if exotic, choice. But our
girl’s Nawlins born and bred, her lymph nodes are as smooth
as Angelina Jolie‘s ass, and you didn’t let me get to the
excessive urination. You never let me get to the excessive
urination, and that pisses me off. Thanks for kicking us
off with a laugh, though.” House wheeled around to Cameron.
“Does our perky little immunologist want to throw in HIV
for a few more chuckles?”
“Cardiomegaly is fairly common post-mortem in HIV-infected
patients, the infection can cause anemia, and
antiretroviral drugs can cause diabetes in HIV-positives,
thus the excessive urination,” Cameron noted with an
admonishing smile. “But you wouldn’t have asked if you
already knew.”
“Ah, science.” House waggled his brows at Scully, who
stared back blankly, then turned to his third protégé,
who‘d been trying to avoid the attention. “Chase? C’mon,
now. Tall, blonde, and stupid‘s no way to go through life,
son.”
“The wild card’s the gray pallor,” he murmured hastily with
an educated British accent. “They thought it was just
paleness or cyanosis associated with the heart episode, but
the skin discoloration hasn‘t gone away, and her sclera and
mucus are also gray. Osteogenesis imperfecta would explain
the discoloration in the whites of her eyes, but her teeth
look fine and her bone structure looks strong. Same with
lower respiratory infection for the gray mucus — none of
the other symptoms are presenting.”
“History?” House demanded.
“That may be difficult,” Scully piped up.
“She speaks,” House gasped.
“Ms. Boudeaux was a Hurricane Katrina evacuee,” the agent
continued. “In a lot of cases, medical records for many of
the hurricane survivors were wiped out in the flood. To
complicate things, Ms. Boudeaux is poor – she was some kind
of factory worker in New Orleans. There’s a secure web
clearinghouse set up to share any evacuees’ medical records
that have been salvaged — http://www.katrinahealth.org. But it’s
questionable whether she’s even seen a doctor in years.”
“More likely a witch doctor,” Foreman murmured.
Cameron stared at her colleague, stunned. “Stereotyping? I
can’t believe it, especially from…”
“From?” House grinned. “Because he’s an oppressed minority,
immune to the sociopolitical feeding chain? Methinks the
ugly specter of urban bigotry rears its blow-dried head.
Maybe a little residual Northern resentment, just to spice
up this festering brew? You think the little cracker caught
something from waving a spoiled chicken head?”
“Hey,” Foreman objected. “I never called anybody a cracker.
Maybe I was generalizing, but don’t a lot of folks down
there practice some unorthodox forms of medicine?”
Chase laughed. “Maybe we need to look for voodoo dolls
under her bed.”
“Quit trying to impress the hot little bureaucrat,” House
sighed. “Actually, Foreman’s intolerant little hatefest
contains a kernel of truth. A poor woman raised in a rurally
influenced polyglot culture where the lines of science and
religion frequently cross.”
“Folk remedies,” Cameron exclaimed. “Of course.”
“I wasn’t finished discoursing,” he said, witheringly. “But
since you enjoy flapping your rose petal lips and playing
Margaret Mead so much, you talk to the little cracker, see
if she’s been self-doctoring lately. Oh, and find out what
kind of factory she worked in. Chase, you run down to
Megamart…”
“Megalomart,” the Brit mumbled, still smarting.
“What-ever. Get down there and check for any possible
environmental factors. And grab me a box of Vegetable Thins
while you’re there. The real ones – not the bloody store
brand. Foreman?”
“Let me guess,” the young doctor rolled his eyes. “I get to
break into her apartment and riffle through her personal
effects.”
“You’re the only burglar on call today,” House said
apologetically. “Think of it as an exercise in cultural
tolerance – see how the crackers live. You might also think
about zydeco lessons, study up on your Paul Prudhomme.”
Foreman threw up his hands and stalked out of the room.
House nodded and turned to Chase with an expectant look.
Chase blinked, then scrambled from his chair and out into
the hall. With a patient smile, Cameron shook her head and
rose.
“You planned this, didn’t you, to get us alone together?”
House asked, eyeing Scully with mock anxiety. “You’re not
going to try something, are you? It’s a cripple thing, right?”
Scully stood. “I think I’ll accompany Dr. Foreman, just to
keep things legal. If you don’t mind.”
House stuck out his tongue. “You suck the fun right out of
the room.”
Rose Anne Boudeaux residence
Plainsboro, N.J.
12:08 p.m.
“Contemporary Dollar General,” Foreman whistled as the
building manager retreated down the hall. “Girl doesn’t
watch much Martha Stewart.”
“The flood left her – a lot of them – with virtually
nothing,” Scully murmured as she scanned the spare
apartment. The furnishings were mismatched and likely had
been donated or gleaned from the Salvation Army. The yellow
plaster walls were bare except for a car insurance calendar
with a single date circled in red, and a pair of disparate
end tables held only an anonymous coffee mug, a dog-eared
Bible, and a used transistor radio.
“No TV, no stereo,” Foreman marveled. “All work, no play,
looks like.”
Scully studied the young doctor. “If you don’t mind my
asking, how do you work for that man?”
Foreman, who’d strayed over to the calendar and flipped
through the pages, glanced up. “House?”
“He’s insulting, inappropriate, and unprofessional. He
seemed to evince little interest in Ms. Boudeaux beyond her
unique symptoms and our investigation. His comments to you
and your colleagues were demeaning and borderline
actionable. Dr. Cuddy told me you passed up a promising
post with Johns Hopkins to come here. And what was that
crack about your being the only burglar on call?”
“Youthful indiscretion,” Foreman said simply, with a
resigned smile. “Look, House’s an absolute eff-up as a
human being and a total asshole, but he’s also one of the
top diagnosticians in the country. Doesn’t give a damn
about the patient, but he’s got about a 99 percent save
rate. Never sees one if he can help it, but he’s got a
supernatural sense about what ails them. Kind of Dr.
Kildare meets Dr. Lecter, without the charming Anthony
Hopkins demeanor. You know what it’s like working with
somebody who thinks he’s always right, almost always is,
and makes you feel like the moron even when he isn’t?”
Scully was silent. “I’ll check out the bathroom.”
“I’ll take the kitchen.”
The refrigerator echoed Boudeaux’ monastic existence: A
half-package of bologna, flirting with expiration; three
slices and two heels of generic white bread; a half-gallon
of milk; a half-two-liter bottle of something called Dr.
Popper, dressed uncannily like its more prosperous cousin;
and (Foreman chuckled) a large bottle of McIlhenny’s
Tabasco. Nothing exotic or expensive. Foreman was about to
give up when he noted a foil-wrapped parcel on the bottom
rack.
It was a cheap aluminum pan – the type you’d get with a $2
apple pan. Foreman’s grandmother had always recycled pie
pans like this a dozen times, guarding them like
Tupperware. Foreman pulled up the top foil, and a wave of
chocolate, nuts, and a comforting mélange of spices struck
his olfactory glands. A half dozen dense squares were lined
up neatly around the pan.
“What in the good Lord’s name are you up to, son?”
Foreman’s heart jumped at the stern demand, and he nearly
dropped the pie pan. The blocky old woman – a short,
square-jawed septuagenarian of indeterminate race – stepped
up and pried the pan from his hands.
“I asked you a question, young man,” she repeated with a
thick southern patois.
“I’m a doctor,” Foreman stammered.
“Rosie’s doctor?” The old woman abruptly transformed from
gargoyle to grandma. “How is my little flower?”
Foreman had found the reticent girl more weed than flower,
but he knew an opening. “She’s really sick, ma’am. Are you
family?”
The senior frowned distastefully. “Only family she got
isn’t hardly worth speaking of. I’m Lorena deMoray, Rosie’s
neighbor down the hall. We came up together after the
flood. How’s she doing?”
“I’m really only supposed to talk to family…”
“She’s the only family I got these days, and I’m hers.
Don’t you go all official on me, young man.”
“All right – maybe you can help me.” Foreman sat on the arm
of the threadbare couch. “Has Ms. Boudeaux been ill lately?
Any infections, aches or pains she can’t explain?”
The woman squinted. “Nooo, not that I can recall. And we
see each other almost every day. She helps me with the
trash and the shopping, and I bake a bit for the girl.
Rosie’s come nearly to skin and bones since they dropped
her here, and I’m trying to fatten her up.”
“That your cake I found in the fridge?”
DeMoray beamed as if she were at the county fair judges
table. “That’s Rosie’s favorite. You go on, help yourself
to a chunk now.”
Foreman smiled indulgently. “No, thanks.” He looked up as
Scully reentered the living room, staring from him to Ms.
deMoray.
“Special Agent Dana Scully, FBI,” she drawled. “And you
are?”
“FBI?” the old woman breathed. “You think somebody tried to
hurt my Rosie?”
Scully relaxed. “No, ma’am. I’m simply investigating a
series of murders in the area over the last few months,
and…”
“That sweet child wouldn’t hurt a fly if it landed on her
last scrap of bread.” The transition again was jarring –
deMoray’s face had turned to stone, and her voice was icy
and unwavering. The old woman turned to Foreman. “Y’all let
me know how my Rosie’s doing, you hear? I got to run.”
“Well,” Scully concluded as deMoray’s apartment door
slammed.
“Yeah,” Foreman agreed. “Little defensive, don’t you
think?”
“Could merely have been maternal instinct kicking in,”
Scully suggested, though she didn’t sound entirely
convinced. “Ah, I found something that may be interesting,
though probably more to you than to me. C’mon.”
Foreman followed, and paused curiously in the bathroom
doorway as Scully slid open the medicine cabinet and the
shower curtain.
“Hmm,” Foreman pondered with the sly smile of a
kindergartner ready to ace Show and Tell.
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital
12:32 p.m.
Rose Anne was silent but polite and compliant as Cameron
checked her IV, but the presence and interest of the soft-
spoken woman soon put the displaced Louisianan at ease.
“And there’s no family we can call?”
The gray-skinned girl looked up cautiously. “No, ma’am.
Closest thing to real family is Miz deMoray — she and I
kind of keep an eye on each other, and…” — a dazzling
smile materialized — “…and she makes sure I ‘keep a little
flesh on my skinny bones.’”
Cameron smiled back, then turned serious. “It must have
been horrible, waiting in that attic for help to arrive.”
“I knew God would see after me, and I had plenty of water.
Even though if them folks hadn’t come in a couple of days,
I’da probably been in trouble.”
“Rose Anne, did any pigeons ever nest in your attic?
Sometimes, the dust from dried bird droppings can get into
the lungs and cause histoplasmosis. That might help explain
the strain on your heart.”
“Mama always kept our house spotless, and after she died, I
always tried to do the same.”
“OK,” Cameron sighed. “Try to keep your eyes open.” She
flashed her light into the girl’s blue-and-gray eyes;
dilation was normal. “How about work? I understand you had
a factory job before you came here.”
“Iberian Queen Soup. I filled the cans with shrimp bisque,
oyster stew, terrapin stew and the like. Money wasn’t too
hot, but the family in charge, they were good people.”
“Ever feel ill, tired at work or when you quit for the da–
?” Cameron paused, clicking off the light and examining
Rose Anne’s face. Frowning, she gently lifted the girl’s
chin and brushed her cheek with a finger. Rose Anne pulled
back.
“Rose Anne,” Cameron asked, “how did you get those
scratches?”
**
“Hypertrichosis.” House added the symptom to his growing
list. “Cracker Girl’s developing a five o’clock shadow, but
going a little weedy on top.”
“Facial hair growth, patchy scalp hair, plus the high blood
pressure,” Cameron noted. “I checked her clitoris — it was
significantly enlarged.”
“Always go right for the naughty bits,” House tsked. “And
how long since the Menstrual Fairy’s come to call?”
“She thinks at least three months. It‘s happened before,
she thinks. She has to shave and use depilatories
periodically.”
“Amenorrhea,” Chase concluded. “It fits with the facial
hair and the thinning scalp.” He turned to Mulder, who’d
been silently absorbing as much medical jargon as he could
process. “In secondary amenorrhea, a patient who’s been
having regular or irregular periods suddenly stops having
them for several months.”
“Me, Chase,” House stated. “Him, you don’t need to brown-
nose.”
“There was the stress of the flood and the hurricane, and
she looks fairly emaciated,” the chastened Chase continued.
“All of that could’ve brought on the amenorrhea. Now she’s
storing up testosterone.”
“Or maybe she’s got polycystic ovary disease,” offered
Foreman, still smarting slightly from Cameron’s jumping the
gun on his revelation about Boudeaux’ armory of hair
removal products and tools. “But that doesn’t explain the
discoloration or the joint pain.”
“Could be multiple conditions. Maybe Cracker Girl’s just a
modern gal, wants to have it all,” House suggested,
twirling his cane.
“Stop it,” Cameron demanded sternly. “This woman has lost
her home, her life as she knew it. She’s suffering from a
life-threatening illness — maybe multiple illnesses — and
you’ve reduced her to some snaggle-toothed cultural
stereotype. Her name’s Rose Anne.”
“Uh oh,” House sighed. “We’ve got a bleeder.”
Mulder coughed. House turned, frowning. “Yes?”
“If it helps, I found a CNN interview from after Ms.
Boudeaux’ rescue,” the agent reported. “That grayness in
her eyes and lips, it wasn’t on the tape. Whatever’s
happened apparently’s happened since she came to New
Jersey.”
The diagnostician nodded thoughtfully and turned to
Foreman. “See if the air conditioner guy’s still working
upstairs. I want a second, private sector opinion.”
“Man’s just trying to help,” Foreman pointed out.
“Et tu, Foreman?” House asked. “Cameron, take a gander at
Cracker Girl’s — oops — Betty Lou’s ovaries.”
**
“Dr. House!”
“Cane, don’t fail me now,” the doctor murmured, stepping up
his pace.
“Dr. House!” Mulder repeated. House bee-lined for the
stairwell.
“House,” Cuddy called sourly as she turned the corner
toward him.
“Sorry, FBI,” House told Cuddy, swiveling toward the agent.
Cuddy glared and corralled another staffer, and House
smiled at the amiable young man in the suit. “Bet she calls
you Mulder in the sack, right?”
“What?” Mulder choked.
“Your pitbull partner. I can’t see her shouting, ‘Fox,
baby!’ Too seventies, too Boogie Nights.” He leaned in with
a lascivious wink. “Oh, come on, Mulder. When Cuddy
introduced you two and Agent Scully took her customary
umbrage to me, you didn’t stand back and smirk like one of
the good old boys. You didn’t leap to her defense like the
loyal and supportive fed that you so obviously are. You
started to reach for her in that intimate, protective way
that says you sip from the same milk carton. Then you
backed off, respecting her ‘space’ – possibly a habit
cultivated from cohabitating with Agent Scully and her
monthly visitor. ”
Mulder’s face had drained of blood. He blinked at House,
then burst into laughter. “Actually, she calls me her
undercover mole. Truce, Doctor – you don’t try to profile
me, and I won’t try to profile you. I just want your gut
reaction to something. This amenorrhea – could it cause any
kind of mental delusion or psychotic behavior?”
“Amenorrhea itself’s generally a symptom of some larger
problem, like polycystic ovary disease. In and of itself, I
don’t know if could cause our hairy little gal to mutilate
and partially masticate a drug dealer and a frat boy. That
is where we’re going with this, right?”
“Hypertrichosis’s often caused by an adrenal malfunction,
though,” Mulder persisted. “Couldn’t whatever’s behind this
also be spurring her adrenalin levels into the red?”
House signed, unshaven cheeks puffing. “Why do they always
watch ‘E.R.’? I’m missing my afternoon coffee-and-Vicodin
break, Agent Mulder. Can we fast-forward to the wow factor
here?”
Mulder’s hand plunged into his pocket and emerged filled
with currency.
**
“Lycanthropy.” House nodded as he sipped at his tepid
vending machine coffee. “Of course, the answer was staring
us in the face all the time, and I was too foolish to see.
Cracker Girl’s a werewolf.” The diagnostician slapped his
forehead.
Mulder smiled, ignoring his sarcasm. “You ever heard of the
loup garou? French explorers along the Mississippi and
eventually Cajun populations in the South told of shadowy
half-men, half-dogs or wolves attacking livestock and even
settlers. Some Louisiana oystermen even describe benign
werewolves that shucked oysters in the night, while they
were asleep.”
“I’ll have Foreman check to see if Rose Anne’s been hitting
the raw bars heavy lately.”
“I’m not necessarily suggesting Ms. Boudeaux is a
lycanthrope.” House smirked at “necessarily.” “But the
delusion, whatever you want to call it, of becoming a
werewolf has been documented regularly since the Middle
Ages. Scientists have speculated the delusion was fostered
by the prevailing folklore of the times combined with
conditions such as hypertrichosis or other endocrine
disorders such as adrenal virilism, basophilic adenoma of
the pituitary, masculinizing ovarian tumors, or Stein-
Leventhal syndrome. In some cases, the rye bread eaten by
medieval serfs may have been contaminated with the ergot
fungus, which causes hallucinations and could encourage
supernatural delusions.
“I’m not asking you to buy into some wild horror movie
scenario, Dr. House. But isn’t cultural orientation and
superstition part of the patient’s history?” Mulder began
to tick off his fingers. “Ms. Boudeaux suffers from
hypertrichosis. She’s always been something of an outcast,
a loner with low self-esteem. Maybe imagining herself a
werewolf both feeds into her sense of alienation and her
need to be special. Add to that her erratic emotional
state. If this ammenorrhea of hers has surfaced only
recently, it stands to reason that she may have had other
menstrual abnormalities in the past, right? Maybe more
severe periods, marked by depression, anger, intense pain.”
“Voice of experience?” House posed, tipping his cup.
“There was a calendar on Ms. Boudeaux’ apartment wall. Each
month had one date circled. That date marked the arrival of
the full moon. The menstrual cycle has long been tied to
the lunar cycle, just like the tides and many animal and
human behaviors, and the full moon has long been a pop
cultural icon in werewolf lore. Here’s a poor, uneducated
girl raised in a culture where science, religion, and magic
have been closely tied together, even today. Ms. Boudeaux
is sprouting hair and her skin is turning gray. What if
she’s somehow embraced the delusion that she’s a werewolf,
a loup garou?”
“Roaming the moors and the Safeway parking lots in search
of human flank steak,” House extrapolated in Karloffian
tones. “Look, Agent, if that’s really your name. Even if
Cracker Girl’s suffering some kind of severe menstrual
psychosis every full moon and feels like ripping into human
flesh — no offense to Agent Scully — I’m not sure her
enlarged heart could take the stress of tearing apart New
Jerseyans. Unless…” House’s eyes popped, and he looked at
Mulder in stark terror. “Unless she actually is a werewolf.
Jeepers.”
The agent peered around the cafeteria and leaned toward
House. “Doctor, I’m going to share some information the
media hasn’t been given about the Ripper Murders. I’m going
to ask you to keep it to yourself, though.”
“That’s a mistake.”
Mulder smiled. “OK. You know the victims were mutilated and
semi-cannibalized. We found DNA in the victims’ wounds, but
the results of the lab screen were, uh, inconclusive.”
“Roger Ebert was wrong. You’re the true master of suspense.
Inconclusive how?”
“Well, the analysis identified both human and animal DNA.
Canine or lupine DNA, to be precise.”
“Of course. And how does this implicates Cracker Girl?”
“The night of the first murder — the frat guy — a witness
saw a young woman in a Megalomart smock near the crime
scene, which was in a really marginal part of town. We
think the frat guy went there to score some pot. We checked
the work schedule at the Plainsboro store for the night of
the killing, and the assistant manager said Ms. Boudeaux
received a call in the middle of her shift. He said she
seemed agitated, upset. Ms. Boudeaux has a nearly perfect
work record, so he let her go without any questions. She
came back an hour later and told him it had been a wild
goose chase, or words to that effect.
“We checked her out — it’s like an old Dragnet episode.
She keeps to herself, is friendly but doesn’t socialize
with her coworkers, has no boyfriends or, from what we can
see, any real friends beyond Ms. deMoray. No connections we
can find between her, the dead college kid, and the drug
dealer, and the drug dealer appears to have no connection
to the kid — he deals in meth, hard stuff. But here’s the
kicker: We were able to secure a DNA sample from Ms.
Boudeaux–”
“Do I want to know how?”
“No — we were told to move carefully since she was a
Katrina victim who’d been highlighted in the media, so we
were legal but creative. Thing is, although the lab
findings on the crime scene DNA were inconclusive, there
were some similarities between the suspect DNA and Ms.
Boudeaux’.”
“She’s kind of plain, I’ll admit, but I wouldn’t call her a
dog.”
Mulder paused. “There’s one other thing. Ms. Boudeaux’
grandmother moved to New Orleans just before she gave birth
to Rose Anne‘s mother, Ruth. I checked into the small town
where she lived before she became pregnant, and it turned
out no one had any knowledge who the father had been. It
may have been a young woman’s pathetic attempt at
deflecting her shame, it may have been a delusion, but the
grandmother claimed she’d been sexually assaulted by some
kind of wild creature. Once again, I won’t speculate on the
veracity of her claim. But what if Rose Anne somehow
believes she’s tainted with the blood of the loup garou?”
House‘s pager sounded, and the physician consulted its
readout.
“Been fun, Circus Boy,” House muttered, using his cane to
lever himself out of his chair, “but I got a date with a
bearded lady.”
**
“I need outta this place!!” Rose Anne wailed, sweeping her
lunch tray to the floor. “Where‘s Miz deMoray! Get her
here, now! Tell her to take me home!”
Eyes wide, Cameron turned to House, who was poised in the
doorway. “It’s like Jekyll and Hyde,” she breathed. “She
was all sweetness and light just an hour ago. You think
she’s presenting some kind of manic episode or dementia?”
“That’s not all,” Foreman warned, displaying Rose Anne’s
chart as Chase and an orderly tried to calm their thrashing
patient. “Her kidneys are shutting down — already some
necrosis starting. She‘s going to need a new kidney fast.”
House eyed Rose Anne. “Who’s this deMoray? Her boss?”
“Neighbor lady, sort of surrogate grandma from the old
’hood,” Foreman supplied.
“Rose Anne said she was the closest thing to a real
relative she had,” Cameron said.
House turned abruptly, expression thoughtful. “That’s what
she said? Exactly?”
“Yes…”
House pursed his lips and nodded. He shoved past Cameron
and Foreman.
“Oh, this oughtta help,” Foreman moaned.
“Rose Anne,” House said, limping to her bedside. The girl
fell silent, eyes narrowing.
“Who’re you?” she asked, suspiciously.
“Paul Prudhomme — I’ve been on the Palm Beach Diet. Look,
we need to contact family — your brother, father,
whoever.”
Rose Anne’s gray face went paler. “I got no family — just
Miz deMoray.”
“Yeah, yeah. She’s ‘the closest thing to real family’
you’ve got in this world of misery. Which suggests there’s
a cracker in the woodpile, a sheep in black clothing.”
Rose Anne stared hostilely at House.
“C’mon,” he murmured impatiently. “Your kidney’s on the
fritz, and we need a spare. So spare me the southern
melodrama and give with a name. I assume he or she must
still be in town.” He leaned expectantly on his cane. “OK,
then. I’ll give you another 24 hours, and you can give me a
next of kin.”
“House,” Foreman gasped.
Rose Anne’s jaw quivered, and her eyes began to fill.
“Y’all don’t understand. I can’t…”
“Fine.” House turned toward the door. “Been real, y’all.”
He halted as he spotted Scully, her eyes filled with fury.
“Dr. House, a minute, please,” the agent said through her
teeth.
House shrugged at Rose Anne. “The old ball and chain.”
“What the hell kind of doctor are you?” Scully demanded in
the hallway. “That girl in there is terrified, and you
bully her?”
“Ah, yes, that’s right. You’re part of our little
Hippocratic community. Mind if I talk to Dirty Harriet for
a minute, Dr. Scully?”
Scully’s stone expression softened microscopically. “What?”
“Think like a cop for a second. Why else would Cracker Girl
have been hanging out in the ‘hood in her spiffy Megalomart
jacket when those guys got processed into Alpo? Why would
an otherwise robotically loyal worker abandon her cash
register to troll those mean streets?”
Scully inhaled sharply, and she looked into House’s face
with fresh eyes. “To protect someone.”
“Now that’s the feisty little bichon friese we all know and
cross the street to avoid. And I’m gonna guess that with
her little monochromatic complexion problem and
personality, our blue collar belle probably isn’t burning
up the romantic court. Assuming Auntie Lorena hasn’t been
chugging Geritol and steroids, that leaves family of the
probably lowlife variety.”
The agent whipped out her cell phone. “It could explain the
DNA from the victims — might be a sibling. FEMA or the
city should be able to get me a list of Katrina evacuees in
Plainsboro.”
House nodded and turned back toward Rose Anne’s room. “Just
do me a favor. You decide to blow this guy away, aim high.
I need his kidney.”
**
“Robert Thibodeaux,” Special Agent Monica Reyes supplied as
Mulder flipped open a pad. “Thirty-two, relocated in
Plainsboro following the hurricane. He has a lengthy but
generally boring yellow sheet going back to 1989. One
assault — a bar brawl in the Quarter. Family includes one
Rose Anne Boudeaux, a half-sister.”
“Yes,” Mulder murmured into the cell phone. “I appreciate
the fast work, Monica.”
The agent was based in the now-recovering Big Easy,
specializing in ritual and cult crimes. She’d helped Mulder
wrap up an unsolved child murder the previous spring. “Hey,
happy to help. The only reason Thibodeaux had a Bureau flag
was an interstate beef about four years ago.”
“What was the beef?”
“He got caught transporting pitbulls from Louisiana to
Mississippi. He rolled over on a dog fighting ring and
didn’t do any time. Agent Mulder? Fox? Hello?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “This may be it, Monica. Thanks. And,
um, sorry, you know…”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she sang. “I temporarily started
smoking again, and the guys are still trying to get their
bearings, but once those billions of your tax dollars start
rolling in, we’ll be back in business.” She laughed. “I
guar-on-tee.”
Mulder chuckled and said his goodbyes. Scully arched her
brows expectantly.
“C’mon,” he said, jerking his head toward the hospital
parking lot. “Gotta see a man about a dog.”
Residence of Gregory House
Plainsboro, N.J.
8:10 p.m.
“I should have known,” Wilson said, finishing off his
second beer. “‘Let’s pick up some chicks and howl at the
moon.’ Right.”
House shrugged and snagged the last slice of pizza as the
creature on screen lunged at its human Happy Meal. “I’m
reasonably sure I said ‘flicks.’ Besides, you‘re married,
remember? Not happily, obviously, or you wouldn‘t be here
watching Howling I through III with a cripple.”
“Don’t start,” the oncologist mumbled. “Why the horror
fest, anyway?”
“Research. Agent Mulder’s incipient schizophrenia whetted
my appetite for ’80s lycanthroploitation cinema. If you’ll
call us in sick with Cuddy tomorrow, we can rent American
Werewolf in London and Bridges of Madison County. No
werewolves, but bone-chilling nonetheless.”
“Why’s the guy bug you so much, anyway?” Wilson asked,
propping his feet on the arm of the couch.
“Shh, the alpha wolf’s about to disembowel the nosy cancer
doctor.”
“It’s an authority thing, isn’t it? Or is it just the idea
of someone possibly being a little further outside the box
than you? Actually, Mulder’s theory sounds like something
you‘d come up with when your Vicodin‘s wearing off.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” House riffled through the jumble
on his coffee table, and retrieved an amber bottle. He
shook out a pair of pills and downed them dry.
“All right, that’s it,” Wilson concluded, stumbling to his
feet. “Call me a cab. My miserable marriage is preferable
to this.”
“Hey, you’re gonna miss Teen Wolf II.”
The oncologist toasted with his Coors. “This is the only
Silver Bullet I need tonight. Later.”
“Buzz kill,” House muttered as the door closed behind him.
As he propped his infirmed leg on the table, one of
Wilson’s depleted beer cans rolled onto the carpet. He
stared at it for a second, then clicked off the onscreen
carnage.
Residence of Robert Thibodeaux
Plainsboro, N.J.
10:01 p.m.
“Robert Thibodeaux?” Plainsboro P.D. Lt. Frank Delman
called, rapping on the warped apartment door, .38 clenched
in his free hand. Mulder and Scully and two Kevlar-swathed
uniforms flanked the detective in the dim, urine-perfumed
hallway. “Plainsboro Police — would you please open up?”
They heard a sudden shuffling beyond the thin door. Delman
looked to Mulder, who nodded. A heavy cop shoe pistoned
against the doorknob, and the door cracked and surrendered.
After a second without gunfire, the uniforms rushed the
apartment, followed by Delman and the agents.
“Don’t fuckin’ shoot!” a skinny, shirtless man with a thick
beard yelled in a thick southern patois as he displayed his
empty hands. A mouthful of brown teeth emerged in a
reptilian grin as one of the uniforms braced him over a
wobbly linoleum table. “What the hell? Rosie give me up or
somethin’. Stupid girl don’t have the brains God give her.”
“Your sister didn’t roll over on you,” Scully informed
Thibodeaux. “Though it was sweet of you to let her take the
rap for a couple of murders.”
“Hey, those weren’t no murd–” the Cajun transplant
objected before clamping his cracked lips shut. “I want a
fuckin’ lawyer.”
“Absolutely,” Mulder said pleasantly. “Perhaps he can
explain ‘mitigating circumstances’ to you.”
Delman glanced curiously at the agent.
“I know what happened, or at least I think I do,” Mulder
continued. “You willing to go to prison for this?”
“Mulder,” Scully murmured. “Are you saying he’s protecting
someone else?”
“Not exactly, Scully.”
“Hey, Loot,” one of the uniforms shouted from the filthy
hallway. “Gonna check out the bedroom.”
“Yeah — don’t touch nothing, though,” the detective
responded, eyes shifting from Thibodeaux to Mulder and
back.
The agent began to speak, then froze, blood draining from
his face as he spotted a wet, brown object on the floor
next to Thibodeaux’ ancient stove. The meaning of the
dehydrated, mangled pig ear shot up Mulder’s spine.
“NO!” he shrieked, breaking into a flat run down the hall.
“Don’t op–”
Too late, the uniform swung open the door, and a large,
white missile flew at him. The cop tried to gurgle for
assistance as the dumb, brutish pitbull seized his throat.
Mulder leveled his weapon.
“You drop that gun, man, or I swear I’ll give him the
order!” Thibodeaux yelled, grinning. “Rest of you, too! Or
your friend there, he’s gonna be ten miles of bad
hamburger.”
A sharp crack shattered his bravado. Plaster dust snowed
from the hall ceiling. Rose Anne’s half-brother jumped. The
dog, jaws poised around the cop’s trachea, appeared to pay
no heed to Mulder’s shot.
“I thought this was what you’ve been trying to avoid, Mr.
Thibodeaux,” Mulder said with steely calm. “I’ll take him
out with one shot to his tiny little brain. You want that?”
“Motherfucker,” Thibodeaux muttered plaintively, regarding
Remy anxiously.
“That’s why we found human DNA in the victims’ wounds,”
Mulder continued. “He got away from you — twice — didn’t
he? By the time you called your sister to help you find him
and located him yourself, he’d already killed that college
kid. You figured it was an accident — just Remy doing what
instinct and a lifetime in the ring had taught him. But you
love him, don’t you? You knew we’d put him down, and you
had to protect him. You watch a lot of C.S.I.?” Mulder
smiled grimly at the skinny felon, whose eyes popped in
surprise. “I figured. You thought that if somehow you
contaminated Remy’s DNA on the bodies with your own saliva,
we couldn’t prove he mauled those men and have him
euthanized.”
“Christ,” Delman snorted despite the situation. “Dumbass.”
“Your choice,” Mulder offered, cocking his trigger for a
second shot. “Or should I say his?”
Thibodeaux glared through a miasma of tears. He regarded
the tautly muscled primitive beast, which stared back with
something he read as love.
“Release,” Thibodeaux snapped, slumping against the table.
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital
8:15 a.m.
“We’ve ruled out neurology, immunology, parasites,” House
announced, tapping the white board with his cane. “Just for
kicks, how about toxicology? Oh, I don’t know, maybe heavy
metals?”
“Makes sense,” Foreman said. “The kidney overload, the
compromised liver, the sudden rage. Run a tox screen?”
“Wait,” Chase protested. “We didn’t find any environmental
contributors either at her job or her apartment.”
“Noo,” House said. “Your colleague failed to find the
source of the toxin. Sentimentality and misplaced respect
for his elders fogged his occasionally facile instincts.”
Foreman sat up. “Hey, there were no special household
chemicals, the fridge was virtually bare–” The doctor
closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
“Great watching an acute deductive mind at work.”
“Hold on. You think Boudeaux was poisoned?”
House considered. “I’d rather say she was nearly
misdiagnosed to death.”
Residence of Lorena deMoray
Plainsboro, N.J.
10:22 a.m.
“I hope y’all like your coffee,” Mrs. deMoray purred. “I
tend to make it a might stronger than the custom for
northerners.”
“It’s delicious,” Mulder smiled graciously, taking a sip of
the robust brew to demonstrate. The muted sounds of traffic
leaked through the thin apartment house walls, diluting the
antiquarian time capsule the displaced senior obviously had
attempted to create for herself.
“And how is my little Rose today?” the tiny woman inquired,
folding her spotted hands in her lap. “Them doctors taking
good care of my little flower?”
“They’re doing their best,” Scully began. “But they need
more information before they can treat all of her symptoms.
We were wondering if you might shed some light on her
illness.”
Mrs. deMoray’s company smile vanished, then reappeared.
“Whatever you mean, child? I’m no doctor.”
“Mrs. deMoray, we found some sweet bread in Rose Anne’s
apartment, and we sent it to the lab. You want to know what
we found?”
The old woman was silent.
“Silver, and reasonably high concentrations of it,” Mulder
continued. “You’ve heard of the loup garou, haven’t you,
ma’am?”
“I’ve heard the stories, of course.”
“It’s more than a story to you, isn’t it, Ms. deMoray? I
checked up and found you and Rose Anne’s grandmother had
grown up in the same rural parish. From what I’ve been able
to glean from some of the folks in your old hometown, your
childhood friend created quite a sensation when she became
pregnant with Rose Anne’s mother.”
“They were hard times for Ruth and hers’, and I find it
unseemly to bring it up.”
Mulder smiled sympathetically. “I can imagine what the
times were like, especially in a rural town in the South.
Telling her parents she’d been attacked, impregnated by a
loup garou, a werewolf, was clearly a desperate move.”
“It wasn’t any ‘move,’” deMoray hissed. “Nobody but a few
of the old folks and myself believed the poor child. I
suppose that was a blessing for her baby.”
“Because if people had suspected her lineage, they might
have went after the girl.”
“Don’t you mock me, son.”
“Believe me, I’m not. Whatever the truth of your friend’s
condition, you believed her. You also feared what might be
in her daughter’s blood. And her granddaughter’s blood.
“You watched over Rose Anne in New Orleans, watching for
any sign she might not be ‘right.’ When the flood hit, you
came with her to New Jersey, I think to safeguard her as
much as her potential victims. When the murders started
occurring here, you recalled Rose Anne’s increasingly
agitated behavior with the passing of each lunar cycle. Her
stress, her drastic loss of appetite had pushed her into
amenorrhea, a condition that causes excessive facial hair
production. You feared that somehow, the trauma of her move
here had brought her lycanthropic blood to the surface. You
had to act, to protect her and the people of the
neighborhood.”
Scully leaned forward. “The most popular notion of killing
a werewolf is with a silver dagger or bullet – it’s the
stuff of old horror films, but it was the only option that
appeared open. Except you didn’t want to kill Rose Anne –
you simply wanted to ‘cure’ her, or at least deal with her
‘symptoms.’ You reasoned that if a silver bullet would kill
a werewolf, daily trace amounts of silver might suppress
the werewolf within Rose Anne. You’ve been dosing that girl
with silver. Ms. deMoray, I understand you were only able
to save one personal item when you were evacuated from New
Orleans. Your sister told me.”
The old woman was a statue, skin pale, lips pursed.
“May we see your grandmother’s silver, please, Ms.
deMoray?” Mulder asked calmly. “We can get a warrant to
confiscate it, but I’m hoping that won’t be necessary. I
know you didn’t mean to hurt Rose Anne.”
Ms. deMoray inhaled sharply. “Hurt her? Whatever do you
mean? I was trying to help that child.”
Scully looked helplessly to Mulder, then reached for the
woman’s gnarled fingers. “Unfortunately,” the agent said
softly, “you didn’t.”
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital
4:42 p.m.
“Cadmium,” House announced as he entered the element on the
white board with a flourish. Cameron and Chase appeared
puzzled, but Foreman grinned with realization. “The
symptoms of silver poisoning alone generally are harmless
enough – gray discoloration of the sclera and the skin,
occasional emotional flare-ups which in Cracker Girl’s case
amplified the effects of her amenorrhea. Silver toxicity
used to be a lot more common when colloidal silver was used
as a home remedy and there was no OSHA to watch over
industrial working standards.
“Alone, the silver Witchee Woman filed off Grandma’s
cutlery and mixed into her ‘special brownies’ might only
have left Rose Anne in a colorless state and a blue funk.
But, Cameron, quick, what do old spinsters do with the
family silver? No offense — I said ‘old’ spinsters.”
The young woman sighed. “I don’t know… They store it away
somewhere, maybe bring it out on holidays, polish it, I
suppose…”
House’s cane cracked down with a triumphant thump. “They
polish it and polish it and polish it, like a myopic high-
schooler without a prom date. And the older you get, the
less painstaking the polishing is. The ornate crevices of
each knife and fork – don’t tell Cuddy I said ornate
crevices – were virtually caked with years of accumulated
silver polish.”
“Polish loaded with cadmium,” Foreman finished. House
tapped his nose in approval. “The renal failure, the
cardiomegaly, the joint pain. Read a NIOSH study on worker
cadmium exposure last month — pretty serious stuff.”
“Plus, Cracker Girl used to worked at a cannery — a
seafood soup cannery. She could have been taking in trace
amounts of cadmium from shellfish and the solder from the
cans for years. Nothing lethal, ‘til the Cajun Lucretia
Borgia tried to ‘cure’ her.”
“So the old lady didn’t realize she was dosing the girl
with cadmium as well as silver, and the girl had no idea
she was being dosed,” Foreman
“This is positively medieval,” Chase breathed, shaking his
head. “Boudeaux had to have wondered about her symptoms.
She could’ve saved that kidney.”
“She’s poor, and she didn’t trust doctors.” House shrugged
and considered. “Hmm, maybe Cracker Girl’s not so dumb
after all.”
**
“Dr. House.”
House turned on his cane to face Agent Scully, trailed by
Mulder.
“Sorry, Clarice, I’m stalking somebody else these days. You
and Dr. Van Helsing heading out?”
“I hardly know why I bothered,” Scully began tersely, “but
I wanted to thank you for your role in resolving this case.
And congratulate you for saving that young woman’s life. I
have to be honest — I’d considered lodging a complaint
with Dr. Cuddy about your conduct throughout this case, but
in all good conscience, I can’t bring myself to do it.”
The doctor smirked crookedly. “Nothing a modern-day Dr.
Schweitzer couldn’t have done, at least with the help of a
redneck sociopath with two good kidneys. As for the case,
well, why don’t we just keep that our little secret, huh?”
Mulder shook his head. “Why is so hard for you to accept
that there’s more to this universe, to the human condition,
than what’s in the Merck Manual and Gray’s Anatomy?”
“Well, Horatio,” House smiled mirthlessly, “science saved
Cracker Girl’s life — superstition almost killed her. The
problem is, true believers like you never know when to stop
believing and start reasoning.” He started toward the
hospital lobby. “Get the kosher meal on the plane — you’ll
eat better.”
“Dr. House.” Scully’s voice was low, but the intensity of
her tone stopped the diagnostician. He turned back,
expectantly.
“And just what do you believe in, Dr. House?” the agent
murmured, evenly. “God? The beauty of this universe? The
fundamental value of each human life? Your patients?”
“Scully,” Mulder warned.
Scully crossed her arms, eyes locked on the doctor. “No,
I’d like to know. How about yourself? Do you believe in
that? Or is this all just some glib, bitter pastime for
you?”
House stared mutely at the agent, his expression blank. “I
believe,” he finally started, “in the fundamental
restorative powers of a good cup of java. I’m gonna guess,
though, that you don’t have any change on you.”
Scully waited for her answer. Then Mulder stepped forward
and faced House. He extended four quarters. House accepted
them and looked around Mulder at his partner.
“Didn’t think so,” he grunted, and limped away.
*end
Virtual Season X 