there will be visitors. I can help both of you then; I can tell you when the visitors are corning so that Henry can leave if he wants to, and so that you, House, can pretend to be a simple house system, rather than an AI. But I think that if you know the entire story—or, at least, as much of it as I know—perhaps both of you will welcome the visitors, rather than fearing them."
"As much as you know," the house said triumphantly. "So you have holes in your memory too, Preston. There are things we know that you don't, aren't there? You're trying to find out what we know too."
"Yes, that is true. Very good, House."
"And how am I supposed to help you remember what I can't remember myself?"
On the television set, Preston's image smiled. "Good. Then at least you acknowledge that there may have been an earlier beginning. That is a start."
Four
WHEN Roberta woke up the next morning, she could barely move; her back was on fire, and the muscles in her neck and arms were burning ropes. She swallowed thickly, inching her legs over the side of the bed, bits of memory returning each time she blinked her gritty eyes.
The storm. The struggle up the stairs with the stranger who had turned out, mother of trees, to be Meredith Walford. Preston on the phone, telling Roberta that Kevin Lindgren was dead, and that it was her job to break the news to Meredith when she was well enough to hear it.
Roberta glanced at her bedside clock: 8:00 A.M. She'd slept for fourteen hours. The storm was over; the patch of sky Roberta could see from her bedroom window was bright blue. The storm was over, but her problems were just starting. She was going to have to find some way to deal with Meredith, and with whatever Sergei knew or guessed. She couldn't imagine what effect all of this was going to have on her case. Right now, she couldn't even imagine getting out of bed.
She took a deep breath and concentrated on the things she knew would make her feel better. Coffee. Orange juice. Megavitamins and ibuprofen, on the counter in the kitchen where she'd put them yesterday, knowing that she'd feel like shit this morning. She should have put them on her bedside table. She'd been stupid. Tabs did that, even when you were crashing: they made you forget how difficult life would be when they wore off. She wished, once again, that Mr. Clean had a better brain, that she could ask him to bring her a cup of coffee.
But she couldn't ask Mr. Clean, and she'd be damned if she was going to ask Meredith. Pushing the bedcovers back with arms that felt like two-by-fours, Roberta sat up with infinite slowness, straightening centimeter by centimeter, wincing against the pain. Her head was filled with cotton, a triple hangover from too many drugs and too much sleep. The idea of forcing her legs over the edge of the bed seemed as laughable as jumping off a cliff. But she did it, and hobbled out into the living room, talking to herself the way she had talked to Meredith the night before. Step, step. Good girl. Not far to the kitchen now. Step, step, step. Almost there.
And there was Meredith, sitting at Roberta's tiny kitchen table. She looked up and smiled, the expression gruesome on that disfigured face, and pointed to a piece of paper weighted down with Roberta's sugar bowl. THANK YOU FOR TAKING CARE OF ME, it said, in her neat block script. A night's sleep had restored her fastidious handwriting.
Roberta almost answered, "You're welcome," but then thought better of it. Instead she grabbed the pen sitting on the table, the same one Meredith must have used, and scrawled as rapidly as her screaming muscles would allow, if u don't talk, I can't either. I-way conversation 2 big a tip-off, if any1's listening. She could always tell Sergei that her guest had laryngitis, but it seemed simpler to avoid the issue entirely.
Meredith nodded, made a thumbs-up sign, and
"As much as you know," the house said triumphantly. "So you have holes in your memory too, Preston. There are things we know that you don't, aren't there? You're trying to find out what we know too."
"Yes, that is true. Very good, House."
"And how am I supposed to help you remember what I can't remember myself?"
On the television set, Preston's image smiled. "Good. Then at least you acknowledge that there may have been an earlier beginning. That is a start."
Four
WHEN Roberta woke up the next morning, she could barely move; her back was on fire, and the muscles in her neck and arms were burning ropes. She swallowed thickly, inching her legs over the side of the bed, bits of memory returning each time she blinked her gritty eyes.
The storm. The struggle up the stairs with the stranger who had turned out, mother of trees, to be Meredith Walford. Preston on the phone, telling Roberta that Kevin Lindgren was dead, and that it was her job to break the news to Meredith when she was well enough to hear it.
Roberta glanced at her bedside clock: 8:00 A.M. She'd slept for fourteen hours. The storm was over; the patch of sky Roberta could see from her bedroom window was bright blue. The storm was over, but her problems were just starting. She was going to have to find some way to deal with Meredith, and with whatever Sergei knew or guessed. She couldn't imagine what effect all of this was going to have on her case. Right now, she couldn't even imagine getting out of bed.
She took a deep breath and concentrated on the things she knew would make her feel better. Coffee. Orange juice. Megavitamins and ibuprofen, on the counter in the kitchen where she'd put them yesterday, knowing that she'd feel like shit this morning. She should have put them on her bedside table. She'd been stupid. Tabs did that, even when you were crashing: they made you forget how difficult life would be when they wore off. She wished, once again, that Mr. Clean had a better brain, that she could ask him to bring her a cup of coffee.
But she couldn't ask Mr. Clean, and she'd be damned if she was going to ask Meredith. Pushing the bedcovers back with arms that felt like two-by-fours, Roberta sat up with infinite slowness, straightening centimeter by centimeter, wincing against the pain. Her head was filled with cotton, a triple hangover from too many drugs and too much sleep. The idea of forcing her legs over the edge of the bed seemed as laughable as jumping off a cliff. But she did it, and hobbled out into the living room, talking to herself the way she had talked to Meredith the night before. Step, step. Good girl. Not far to the kitchen now. Step, step, step. Almost there.
And there was Meredith, sitting at Roberta's tiny kitchen table. She looked up and smiled, the expression gruesome on that disfigured face, and pointed to a piece of paper weighted down with Roberta's sugar bowl. THANK YOU FOR TAKING CARE OF ME, it said, in her neat block script. A night's sleep had restored her fastidious handwriting.
Roberta almost answered, "You're welcome," but then thought better of it. Instead she grabbed the pen sitting on the table, the same one Meredith must have used, and scrawled as rapidly as her screaming muscles would allow, if u don't talk, I can't either. I-way conversation 2 big a tip-off, if any1's listening. She could always tell Sergei that her guest had laryngitis, but it seemed simpler to avoid the issue entirely.
Meredith nodded, made a thumbs-up sign, and
Similar Books
In the Court of the Yellow King
Tim Curran, Cody Goodfellow, Gary McMahon, C.J. Henderson, William Meikle, T.E. Grau, Laurel Halbany, Christine Morgan, Edward Morris
