Title: Puzzles

Author: tinhutlady

Email: tinhutlady@yahoo.com

Series: House and X-Men

Disclaimer: I don't own rights to any characters related to the House television show or to Marvel comics, nor do I make a profit off of any story I write wherein these characters are used.

Rating: I'd say it's safe for teenagers and up.

Summary: House and Logan go on another fishing trip.

Comments: Why do I do this to myself? And why do you read it?

Notes: It's surprising that almost 22% of New Jersey, a very populated state, is preserved as natural habitat in the southern part of the state. There really is a Mary Elmer Lake, though I have no clue if Charlie's exists. And if you miss 50 and hit 55, you do go through Wharton State Forest eventually, though I'm not sure if there really is a little place between Jenkins and Speedwell. This is a work of fiction, after all, and you do need to suspend your disbelief, though not on the fishing part, for I hear New Jersey is one hot spot (rivers, coastal, lake, etc.) for anglers. And crappie are very good to eat, though it's tougher to find the big ones down here in Texas. We do grow catfish up to small shark size, if that counts.

 

 

It took him a moment to realize there was nothing to see, and when he did, House blinked, then glared across the table, accenting the dirty look with a raised eyebrow of disbelief.

 

"How did you do that?"

 

The other man looked up from the menu. "It's called reading. I read the list of food so I know what they have here. You should try it."

 

House rolled his eyes at the wry witticism of his fishing companion out of habit, but there was a strange sensation in his gut, letting him know that yet another puzzle piece had been found.

 

Ever since House had met the man called 'Logan,' who acted as courier to the famous, enigmatic, and thoroughly hard to find Dr. Henry McCoy, he had found the deliveries from Dr. McCoy only half as interesting as the gruff, irritating, and unrepentantly rude man who brought them. They had struck up, not a friendship by any means, an understanding, one that involved no personal questions. Since both men liked to fish, and fishing did not require conversation, both men went fishing together at irregular intervals. These weekend getaways caused much speculation at the hospital, but House didn't care. Getting away from the hospital was the main point of the forays, thus his lack of interest in what hospital staff thought of them, though he had found himself looking forward to them for another reason. He was fascinated by Logan, but not in any personal sense. Instead, he had found this man, someone who had never pressed him for any medical diagnosis and had even insisted House keep his mouth shut if he had any medical advice to impart, an intriguing companion, both because he and House had much in common attitude-wise and because the man was a walking contradiction.

 

Logan smoked, but didn't have asthma - heck, he didn't even cough. The man rarely slept, either. The one time House had been forced to share a room with Logan had taught him why. Logan had nightmares beyond the scale of night terrors, and seemed more concerned that House knew about this than the fact that these nocturnal episodes were a terrible risk to his health, both physically and mentally. He had recently confirmed one more oddity about Logan, and at the hospital of all places - the man weighed more than he should. When he had steered Logan into a conference room to escape meeting Cuddy head-on while trying to make it out of the building unnoticed, he had mentally noted how deep an impression Logan's boots made in the carpet. Later he had experimented, bringing Wilson, Cameron, Chase, and Foreman into the same room under the pretense of needing to talk about a case in a different setting. Despite their suspicions, and the eventful addition of Cuddy, who broke up the meeting rather rudely, he thought, House was able to determine that Logan's deep indentations were abnormal, on par with the concentration of the women's weight in the small area of their shoe heels. Now he sat across from Logan again, in a small restaurant near the rooms they had rented in preparation for angling in the lake nearby, and Logan had presented yet another enigmatic clue for him to ponder.

 

"I saw you cut your thumb on the clasp of my tackle box when you put it in the back," House muttered, knowing only Logan could hear him. "You even stuck it in your mouth. Now I can't see a mark on it. What gives?"

 

Logan didn't even bat an eyelash. "Can you see a paper cut after it stops bleeding?"

 

"Normally, no, though I believe that clasp was made of metal, not paper," House retorted.

 

"Tell that to the clasp." Logan held up the thumb. "Still hurts. If you can't see it, it's not my fault. Get some glasses." He put down the menu and glared back at House. "What's with the questions, anyway? You were the one who laid down the rules about no doctoring while fishing."

 

"The hooks aren't in the water yet."

 

"Don't assume you can put them in me."

 

Both stared angrily at the other, and, for a while, there was no more conversation, the waitress arriving at just that moment to take their order. House, distracted, ordered something he figured the cook couldn't screw up. Logan finally went for a steak and potato combination.

 

With nothing to read, and nothing else to look at, House studied the surrounding patrons of the greasy eatery. To his amusement, Logan did as well.

 

"Newlyweds," House offered, nodding to Japanese-American couple across the way.

 

Logan didn't turn. "She's pregnant."

 

House took a second glance. Sure enough, the blushing and fumbling was due to newfound happiness, but she was eating a strange combination of foods, and, when she moved, he could just make out the catalogue poking out of her purse - one decorated in bright primary colors and a baby's excited face.

 

Finding this new game amusing, House grinned. "And the man two seats behind you?"

 

"Heart attack in the making."

 

House nodded. "What tipped you off?"

 

Logan glanced at the mirror on the wall ahead of him. "He's rubbed his chest twice."

 

"Could be indigestion, but you're right. Poor circulation, poor diet, poor health - he's obvious." House scouted around for another victim. "And the girl?"

 

Logan slid a glance toward the door at the young woman sitting near it. Her jacket draped on her as if it were two sizes too big, and the plate in front of her only held a bowl of soup. Her dull eyes refused to look around, preferring instead to concentrate on getting every last bit of soup out of the bowl before she pulled a handful of coins from her pocket to pay, in a carefully measured manner. To House's surprise, Logan's eyes softened slightly and the corner of his mouth actually lifted in a melancholy smile.

 

"Runaway."

 

On and on they assessed the people around them and, much to House's surprise, Logan came up with uncanny answers, some barely explained by the few clues available. Before he could make mention of this, however, the waitress approached again, a confident smile fixed on her face as she delivered hot food in a generous manner. House was not amused. The hamburger in front of him sat on a bun saturated with red-tinted meat juice. He beamed at her.

 

"Much as I would love to eat this appetizing bit of crap, it's not what I ordered," he said in what he felt was a reasonable tone.

 

Appalled, she searched her apron for her ticket book. "But you ordered," she began, but her voice trailed off.

 

"I ordered the hamburger and then changed it to steak," Logan said, his knife and fork poised over a piece of charred meat House found just as unappetizing as the nearly raw burger in front of him. "He ordered soup and a sandwich."

 

"I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, hurriedly taking the offending matter away. When she brought him his soup and sandwich a moment later, House only grunted.

 

"No tip," he said when she walked away.

 

"Tip," countered Logan. "Give her a break."

 

"She served me a potential case of food poisoning, Logan."

 

"So shoot the cook."

 

House half smiled. "Good idea. Speaking of which," he said as he eyed the bloody interior of the steak Logan was devouring, "You probably shouldn't eat that. I don't want to be in a boat in the middle of the lake with you when you start puking your guts out." He turned his head slightly. "That meat's still mooing."

 

"I'll be fine," Logan said with a shrug. "And we won't be out in a boat."

 

House swallowed a mouthful of soup a little too quickly and coughed, but he recognized the opening for what it was and jumped in. "Have something against the water? You can wear a flotation device, you know." Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "Or are boats just not buoyant enough for you? Tell me, do you sink or float when you go swimming?"

 

Logan quietly chewed his food and said nothing. House, knowing Logan was on to him again, decided to concentrate on finishing the meal. When the waitress had cleared away the empty dishes and left the bill, House forked over his money, plus a grudgingly decent tip, and sighed as he put his wallet back.

 

"Why the hell do you go on these trips with me?" he finally asked, determined to at least learn something new.

 

"I was wondering the same thing," Logan muttered, making sure the waitress would not be hurting due to the cook's grilling inability.

 

House cocked his head. "You know what I am - what I do."

 

"You ignore patients who want treatment, but pester me because I don't?" Logan sipped his coffee.

 

"Well, if you put it that way, it doesn't make sense," House reluctantly agreed. "Still," he said as he stared hard into those brown/green eyes across the table, "you must admit you present an interesting puzzle."

 

And he did, even now. Logan hadn't run from the questions, only refused to answer, as if being irritating was simply something everyone had the potential to be - as if he expected the worst of people at all times, just as House himself expected the worst of patients, and simply rolled with the punches when they were.

 

Logan leaned back in the booth. "You do, too. You hate doctors as much as I do yet you're one of them. Why?"

 

"I'm a diagnostician. I love solving puzzles."

 

"Just my luck."

 

House grinned wickedly. "Exactly."

 

Logan slid sideways out of the booth with a graceful movement House secretly envied, and stood at the end of the table. "How early did you want to start tomorrow?"

 

"Sunup's fine," House said, struggling to stand.

 

Logan offered no hand and no criticism, though he did casually make it to the door before House did, and just as casually pause outside long enough so the door remained open for House to make it through without effort.

 

"Sunup it is." Logan said, letting go of the handle as he reached inside the jacket he was wearing for the cigar House knew would be there.

 

"Are you going to sleep tonight?" House asked. "Or just go play in the woods?"

 

A puff of smoke was his only answer.

---

 

It was late, he knew, but Logan didn't bother looking at his watch. Instead he drew hard on the cigar in his mouth, the last he could on the bit that was left, then dropped it and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot. The light in the hotel room he was watching went out at nearly the same moment, and Logan sighed, shaking his head slightly from side to side.

 

When he'd taken that first package to Dr. House, Hank had told him to get a feel for the man, see what kind of a person he was since Hank couldn't meet with House himself. When Logan realized just how depressed House had been at that moment, he had stepped in and made sure House was okay. One, because he didn't want Hank mixed up in any messes for writing the man, and two, because he realized he and House had a lot in common when it came to pain. Damned if things hadn't gone wrong, though. They'd had to share a room at that hotel after fishing, and he'd gone to sleep when he shouldn't have. It would have been all right if House hadn't woken up, but he did. And he saw one of Logan's nightmares.

 

When Hank showed him the letter House wrote to him, asking about Logan and what, if anything, House could do to help, Logan had shrugged it off. House was a doctor and not to be trusted. It had taken a while for Hank to wear him down, get him to go back. He had argued that Logan had a family now - the people and students at the mansion as close to brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews as Logan was ever going to get. Here was a chance to actually make a friend, someone who had similar interests and temperament. Logan had argued back that he was a teacher, coach, and fellow X-Man, and none of those things had anything to do with being in a family, and what the hell good was a friend for anyway?

 

But when he had gone back, partly because Hank wouldn't leave the matter alone and partly because he had actually enjoyed the fishing, Logan had been shocked to hear House make a comment about friendship, too. Now here he was, stuck with a dangerously observant doctor as a fishing companion, someone who any minute could peg him as humanity's worst enemy, and yet, as frustrating as House could be to deal with, Logan found he was actually respecting the man, even if he was a doctor.

 

Logan debated about getting some sleep. All he had to do was walk across the nearly desolate parking lot and into the hotel room, crawl between the sheets, and hope for the best. Funny how he kept doing that, even knowing just how futile it was. Must mean he was some sort of an optimist after all, deep down. Then again he could walk through the woods he now stood in, going down to the lake and checking out the best places to catch something. But before he could decide between a restful walk in the trees and a harrowing night on a mattress, a car pulled up in the hotel's parking lot, one that captured his attention. Sure enough, it was the potential heart attack guy, but he had a passenger with him - the runaway. Still not looking around, with shoulders slightly hunched in a defeated way, she exited the vehicle and waited for the portly, flushed gentleman to escort her where he wanted her to go. His pale, blotchy skin contrasted her mocha coloring in the light of the full moon, and Logan had the feeling she was not pleased with the results of the pairing, following the man reluctantly as he led the way to his room, a few doors down from Logan's, occasionally letting slip a different attitude in her walk, one Logan could identify with.

 

Sure enough, by the time they had made it to the door near the end of the first floor rooms, and she had to help him with the card to open it (so he could continue to hold the bagged bottle clutched in his other hand), Logan had her pegged for what she was, and it wasn't a hooker. He shrugged his shoulders. It really wasn't in him to go warn the man that he was about to be fleeced. Still, the girl was pretty slight for the job. She probably had an accomplice. And when the door to the room had closed, a man emerged from the shadows below the second story stair landing nearby, not much bigger than the girl, but taller. Feeling the heart-attack-guy might learn a lesson, and the runaway and her man were not dumb enough to really hurt their victim, Logan decided a quick foray into the woods wouldn't be a bad idea after all, and he'd come back in about an hour, giving the girl and man time enough to slip away. If part of him was angry that the man in the shadows was using the girl, putting her in a dangerous situation, he ignored it, though the face of another runaway he had met a few years ago swam in front of his eyes briefly. The feeling ignored or not, he did reach for his cell phone to make a call to a certain Rogue in a certain school back in New York, just to make certain she was okay.

---

 

The curtains weren't that thick. Still, being on the first floor, under the second floor balcony, and thus hidden from the taller of the parking lot lights, House thought it only reasonable to assume they would work at keeping the room dark enough for someone to sleep in. They weren't. There was the theory that they weren't totally to blame for his sleeplessness, but House preferred to stew in the thought that they were. And he'd stewed now for over an hour. His hand reached for the little pill bottle on the bedside table, but something stayed it from actually touching the plastic. He'd had enough pills already, enough to deal with the pain. That one week spent without them had taught House a powerful lesson - he was an addict - and he wasn't going to let the addiction creep into the 'problem' territory anytime soon.

 

Someone, no, two people, passed by his window, whispering frantically in a language House recognized as Japanese, though he didn't understand what they said. It was the happy couple from the eatery. He knew enough to discern there was trouble when he heard a moan of pain, and he restlessly shifted in the bed, finally throwing the covers off in frustration. Why the hell did he care if they were having problems? Why the hell did he care about anyone at all? Why try to heal them? Still, he put on his pants awkwardly, threw a shirt on, and tied his sneakers on sockless feet before heading to the door, trusty if damnable cane in hand. Before he grasped the knob, a sickening crunch came from the parking lot outside his room, and he jerked on the door, forgetting to undo the latch.

 

When he finally exited, and hobbled as fast as he could between the cars parked near his door to the parking lot beyond, he saw a small sedan with a cracked windshield, sparks arcing from under a badly dented hood, stalled in the middle of the asphalt expanse. Glass from a shattered headlight sparkled under the moonlight from above, and it dawned on House that the parking lot lights had not been the source of his luminary woes, since the lot was dimly lit at best. As he hurried forward, a figure rose from in front of the car and came around to the driver's side just as House arrived. Stunned, House realized it was Logan, minus one boot. Together they tried to open the car. It was locked. And the interior of the windows was smudged just enough from the powdery residue of deflated airbags to keep him from seeing what kind of damage lay inside - not a good sign.

 

Logan grabbed up a boot from beside the car, stuck his hand in it, and punched the heel through the window behind the driver, quickly dropping the boot to reach in and unlock the door. House dropped the cane and grabbed the now open back door, sidling in and feeling both necks for carotid arteries.

 

"Call 9-1-1," he said and Logan hopped momentarily on one leg to get the boot on before he raced for his room, right next to House's.

 

The man began to cry out in pain, throwing up on the spent airbag, bent steering wheel, and his own lap. The woman began to sob, speaking again in Japanese.

 

"Calm down," said House, in a smooth tone. "You've been in an accident. An ambulance will be here any moment. Try not to move.

 

He reached forward and managed to snag the lock on the driver's door. Hauling himself out of the back seat, he bent to retrieve the cane before making it to the man's door and opening it. From what he could see in the moonlight, the man's vomit was tinged with a dark stain, possibly blood, and he was shaking and feverish to House's touch. Carefully he made his way around the rear of the car and to the woman's door. She managed to open it for him, her hands clammily grasping his free one when he bent down to look at her.

 

"I'm pregnant. I had pain tonight, several times, the last one a few moments ago. My husband was going to drive me to the hospital, but he just, he couldn't, he cried out and lost control of the car." Her dark eyelashes were shiny with tears. "I don't want to lose our baby, but I don't want to lose him either."

 

"Was there any blood?" She blinked in confusion, so House tried again. "In your underwear? Any blood?"

 

"Yes."

 

"How many cramps did you have? How far apart?"

 

"I don't know!" she wailed, one hand breaking free to grab for her husband. "Help him, please!"

 

Logan ran up and House grabbed the arm with the watch on it. "Time her next cramp - how long it lasts - and how much time separates them if she has another one." He made his way around the front of the car this time, glass crunching under his feet, and back to the husband. In the distance, the sound of a siren started, coming mercifully closer each second.

 

The husband vomited one more time, less volume than before and no blood. Still shaky, he actually opened his eyes and began to speak. Before House could open his mouth and remind the man to speak English, Logan chimed in with the same language and the man nodded feebly, closing his eyes again and remaining calm.

 

House glanced at Logan, but all the man offered was, "He asked how his wife was and I said she was fine."

 

When the paramedics came on the scene, House conferred with them on both patients. Later, he and Logan gave statements to the authorities, and the car was towed away.

 

"She lost the baby, didn't she?" Logan asked after the parking lot emptied.

 

House nodded. "Not much of one. She might have been six weeks along. And he ends up with a nasty case of nontyphoidal salmonella so he can't drive her in to try to save it. Nice guilt trips for both of them. Good for the marriage. The good news is she's more than capable of getting pregnant again and keeping it."

 

"I'm going to lie down for a few minutes. I'll still see you at sunup, unless you want to postpone the fishing for another hour or two.

 

"Nice try," muttered House as they walked back to the hotel rooms, the few people attracted by all the sirens and emergency lights now gone from view again, trying to glean what little sleep they could before sunrise.

 

"What do you mean?" Logan replied, his voice a fair imitation of a growl.

 

"They didn't hit a deer or a dog or any other type of animal, like you proposed to the police. They hit you."

---

 

House leaned his back against the door and stared at the ceiling, anger, frustration, and incredulity vying for top emotion as he wondered what to think now. Logan had looked at him like he was crazy, and had shrugged him off. Damn it, he knew there was something strange going on, something that defied explanation, but the answer that stared him in the face looked so alien he couldn't blame anyone for thinking he had gone off the deep end. There was no other answer, was there? Logan had cut his thumb. It did not show now. Logan crawled out from in front of that car. There had been blood on the ground and Logan's hands and knees. There were no cuts. Could someone really survive being hit by a car like that and not show a scratch? His mind reeled with questions and only one answer came to mind:

 

Logan was a medical impossibility.

 

Knowing he was too riled up to sleep, he decided to forego the nap idea and just get ready for fishing. As he laid out things in the bathroom for a shower, a soft knock on the door almost missed his attention, but he stiffly made it to the peephole, expecting Logan, and making ready with a verbal assault. But it wasn't Logan; it was the runaway.

 

Quickly he opened the door, his eyebrow cocked in surprise at the look in her eyes. If she hadn't been blessed with such dark features, she would have been pale with shock.

 

"I saw you out there," she stated without preamble, her head nodding backward toward the parking lot, "and you helped them. You're a doctor."

 

"Matter of opinion," House responded tartly, still in the mood to give someone a hard time, though his curiosity was piqued.

 

"Can you help my friend? He's pretty bad."

 

Small alarm bells went off in House's head. "Take him to the hospital."

 

"I can't move him."

 

Bigger alarm bells went off and House leaned against the doorframe. "There was an ambulance here not thirty minutes ago, but you didn't think to call them for help, did you?" His tone was mocking, he knew, but he was already irritated and this girl was not helping. "Was that because the police were with them?"

 

"Please?" Her big brown eyes begged him, and something in him responded, something stupid, he knew.

 

He let out an explosive sigh. "Look," he tried again, "it's probably salmonella. Go to a drug store, ask the pharmacist for over the counter nausea and diarrhea medications, and grin and bear it while your friend lives through it. That's it. He'll ether live or die. I don't care which."

 

"What does it mean if his lips turn blue?"

 

House's jaw dropped. "Show me. Now!"

 

She ran in front of him, down to the last room, where she inserted the card swiftly and opened the room to him, the smell of sickness quickly hitting him in the face as he finally caught up to her and stepped across the sill.

 

"Damn," he muttered, and he followed his nose to the door of the bathroom.

 

It was the big guy from the restaurant, the one Logan had labeled a potential heart attack victim. He'd had an attack while throwing up in the toilet, and had fallen, wedging his body between the commode and the bathtub. He'd never have one again, House thought, as he observed the familiar skin discoloration from the beginnings of blood redistribution.

 

House turned on her. "You idiot!" he barked. "What happened?"

 

"When the sirens stopped outside, he ran to the bathroom and then threw up. He said something and slipped down on the floor like that. I couldn't move him."

 

House's eyes narrowed with viciousness. "I'm not talking about him. What happened to you? Paralysis from the neck up?"

 

"I was scared!" she pleaded. "I didn't know!"

 

House pointed with his cane. "No breathing and blue lips means dead body. End of story. Hope you're not the beneficiary. The police will have a field day with you as it is."

 

"No," said another voice. "No police."

 

A tall man, white in color but slim like the girl, came out of the wall closet, knife in hand, forcing House back against the door frame. House could tell immediately from the man's eyes, shaking hand, and slightly stooped stance that he was in severe pain, gastrointestinal, more than likely.

 

The girl gestured toward him, and House now registered whom she really wanted him to treat. "Can you help him?"

 

House sighed at the stupidity, both his and theirs, and rubbed a hand across his eyes. "You couldn't make a bigger mess of this if you tried. And you're trying, aren't you?" The irony of trying to get away from his job and spend some quiet time fishing only to end up dealing with people like this hit him smack in the face. "There's no hope."

 

"He's going to die?" She began to shake. "What about me? Can I catch it, too?"

 

"You catch it from something you eat. This man," House waved a hand toward the remains in the small room behind him, "had a heart attack while he was spewing his guts out. You," he waived a hand in the direction of the man with the knife, "are going to fall on that and kill yourself. Might as well. You're brain dead anyway."

 

"We didn't cause nothin', and you can't prove it," the man said through tightly clenched lips. House noted how the man's eyes darted a glance past him and at the toilet, as if he thought it would be unwise to throw up and risk the same death.

 

"Oh, but I can prove you did nothing. Just out of curiosity, did you have the steak or the hamburger?" House asked amiably.

 

"He had soup, same as me."

 

"I had the hamburger," the man contradicted.

 

Her mouth dropped open. "We only had money for soup!"

 

"I had more," he countered. "Besides, you looked better eating the soup."

 

"Better for what?" she snapped. "Screwing? 'Cause that's not what I was baitin' for and you know it, asshole. You have extra money, you'd damn well better share."

 

House rolled his eyes. "It would seem there's trouble in paradise." He shifted his weight to ease the pain from his throbbing leg. "Never mind me, I'll just make a phone call."

 

The knife wavered his way. "No police!" they shouted.

 

"You seem to agree on that at least." House was thinking fast, seeing the possibilities and hoping they would pan out. "Tell you what. You two leave and I'll stay here and report it. I'm a doctor; they'll trust me."

 

"Find the keys," he told her.

 

She ducked under his arm and moved between the two men to the greater part of the hotel room, where the victim had put his coat over a chair. When she started searching through the victim's pockets, House stared. "Don't tell me you plan to take his car?"

 

"It's a rental," she said, not bothering to look back.

 

"And registered in his name. How thick can you get?" House shook his head.

 

"Fine, we'll take yours, and you'll come, too." The man motioned with the knife. "Come on. We'll make it to the next town where there's a bus station and we'll let you go after that."

 

"Right. My keys. My car," House muttered, knowing full well who owned the vehicle outside his hotel room and where its keys could be found at that moment - in Logan's pockets. He just hoped Logan was fast on the uptake when it came to action. He motioned with his head toward the bathroom. "Did you make the same promise to him?"

 

"We weren't going to hurt him, just string him along."

 

"Uh-huh."

 

"Look, we have a criminal record. We can't call the police," the man said with shaky breaths, now openly staring at the toilet as if willing the corpse beside it to go away so he cold puke in peace.

 

"You have a criminal record. I don't. And I don't like getting screwed." She pulled a wad of bills from the wallet she had found, and stuffed it in her pocket. Then she wiped the leather clean with a handkerchief and tossed it at her friend, who caught it automatically, though he was stunned. "'I'm old enough. I don't need you anymore," she informed them as she jingled the keys and jumped for the door.

 

"Bad for you," House offered in sympathy.

 

"Bad for her. I slashed one of his tires last night to make sure he wouldn't run off with her."

 

"So you do care," quipped House.

 

"Move."

 

They made it toward the open door, the rising sun a welcome prelude to Logan getting up. House moved slowly, buying time in case Logan was late getting out to the SUV, when the man doubled over in pain, falling to his knees. Ever the opportunist, House lunged forward and was promptly grabbed by his ankle. Unable to kick with his bad leg, he smacked the man as hard as he could in the head with the tip of his cane, but he lost his balance in the process and fell heavily to the floor, inches from freedom.

---

 

Logan showered and dressed in record time, probably due to the fact that he'd used cold water. That, and he knew he had to rush if he was to beat House out the door. It wouldn't take him long to find the deer, but he knew finding it in front of House would only raise more questions. So in his rush to make it outside, he didn't see her coming until the last possible moment, and by then neither could stop in time to avoid a headfirst collision, literally, for her at least.

 

Staggered momentarily, he bent down to check her unconscious form, wondering what had made the runaway plow into him at full speed like that. Then he caught a whiff from her and that stopped him cold. Not only did she smell of the fat guy and the thin watcher, she smelled of House and she reeked with sickness and death. She seemed fine enough, only cold-cocked, so he stepped over her and ran silently toward the last door on that side of the building, making sure to stop shy of the door so he could have a listen to what was going on inside the room.

 

All he could hear was retching at first, then some strange thumps. A quick peek around the doorframe and into the room beyond told him volumes. The big man was dead somewhere in the back, he was sure of it from the smell, so he concentrated on the two figures on the floor in front of him. The thin guy was struggling to keep hold of House even as he spewed vomit everywhere. House, for his part, was using the cane to good advantage, smacking at the man's arms to try to get him to let go and drop the knife. It was the knife that held Logan's attention and that's what he moved for first, crushing fingers and snapping the blade in half with a well-placed stomp of his boot. He hauled House up and looked him over for damage, though he didn't smell any blood other than the small amount the thin man had tossed out along with his cookies.

 

"How did you know?" House asked in a gasp, gritting his teeth from the pain radiating from his much abused leg.

 

"I ran into the runaway."

 

"Little whore!" moaned the man on the floor, now curled in a fetal position as he nursed his hand.

 

House's blue eyes were piercing. "She told you everything?"

 

"She didn't." Logan saw the unspoken question and answered. "She knocked herself out. When I bent over her, she smelled like vomit. I saw her go in this room last night with the heart attack guy so I came down here to check on him."

 

"Right." House moved toward the door, his every movement telling Logan how much pain he was in. "Too bad no one checked on him earlier. He's dead. We need to call the police."

 

As if on cue, a patrol car pulled into the parking lot and pulled into a space near them. This time two men exited the vehicle. One was the same officer from the accident scene over an hour ago and the other, judging from the frown lines on his forehead and the way he slammed the car door closed, was just pissed.

 

"Which one of you is Dr. House?" the unfamiliar officer asked with a snarl.

 

Logan expected fireworks and leaned back against the doorframe, ready to enjoy the show, all the while keeping an eye on the man still inside the room.

 

"Strangely enough, I am," House said in a deceptively nice tone. "But the other officer could have told you that if you'd get your head out of your ass and ask him."

 

"I'm trying to track down how many people in Charlie's ate a hamburger last night," the man responded from between tight lips, fighting an urge to strangle House, Logan guessed. "Can you help me?"

 

"It might not have only been the hamburgers," House offered.

 

The frown evolved to an expression of shocked surprise and then hardened into an angry scowl. "You told my deputy the husband had a hamburger!"

 

"He did, so did the man on the floor in here. But the man in the bathroom didn't. And he's dead."

 

There was only a moment of silence before the sheriff, cussing a blue streak under his breath, pushed his way past both of them so he could see for himself.

 

An hour later, almost standing in the same spot, Logan waited for more shit to hit the fan. Sure enough, after the hearse and ambulance had pulled away, and the other patrol car had taken the girl back to the station for questioning, the sheriff was ready to come unglued again. This time it was because the car he and his subordinate had come in now had a flat tire.

 

As they watched the officers change it, House leaned toward Logan and whispered, "You didn't did you? I saw you near that tire earlier when the other officer took your statement."

 

Logan didn't answer, only watched intently as the tire came off and the men inspected it.

 

"I'll be damned! Just my luck today!" the sheriff roared. He tossed something aside that he had pulled from the deflated tire. "Get that other tire over here. We've got to get to Charlie's house and ask him what happened before he goes and opens his place up for the day."

 

The other officer rushed to comply, but Logan knew from his shifting that House had lost interest in the amusing plight of the officers and was now focused on getting his hands on whatever the sheriff had thrown.

 

As soon as they backed up and headed out, House hobbled over to the dumpster and straight to the item that had failed to go in it. He bent over and straightened with a grunt, then stood puzzling over it and glancing at Logan with a questioning gaze.

 

"It's a piece of an antler."

 

Logan watched with satisfaction as House studied the parking lot, noting the path the patrol car had taken when coming in - right over the remains of the broken glass from early this morning.

 

"And you thought I was lying," remarked Logan, not bothering to look back at House when he turned and walked away. At least there would be no more questions about that.

---

 

The small lobby of the hotel was extremely crowded. People looked anxiously at one another, taking shallow breaths for fear of catching germs, trying hard to figure out which one of them was going to be sick first. Only Logan sat calmly in the midst of the turmoil. He had a feeling House would have done the same, but House had his eyes closed, probably willing the Vicodin he had taken moments before to kick in quickly, Logan guessed.

 

The sheriff raised a hand for silence, not that it was needed in the fear-stifled atmosphere. A tall dark-haired man, he was built to impress due to his height and build, and he used it to his advantage.

 

"The faster we get this over with, the faster all of you can get back to what you want to be doing instead of sitting here with me." He eyed the twenty-three people sitting and standing around the room, and picked on the most likely suspect. "You," he barked as he pointed to Logan, "what did you have to eat last night?"

 

"Steak, like I told you before," Logan shot back.

 

"And you had sandwich and a salad?"

 

Logan nudged House, and House nodded without opening his eyes.

 

Around the room it went. The patrons of the restaurant answered with all kinds of food orders, but with one common denominator: none of them had steak or hamburger, except Logan.

 

The sheriff glared at the anomaly and then squared off against Charlie, the restaurant owner, who was half his size. "And the beef all came from the same place?"

 

Another man, younger than the grey-haired Charlie, but much more capable of defending himself even though he was on the borderline between thirty and forty stepped up to bat.

 

"We've been through this! I delivered that meat and I run a clean processing place. I've done it for years and no one's going to get sick on my meat!"

 

"Don't get your shorts in a wad, Jake," muttered the deputy.

 

"Mr. Rodriguez, I haven't asked you a question yet," the sheriff said curtly. "Mr. Samuels, did the beef all come from the same place?"

 

"Yes, Sam," the old restaurant owner said in a raspy tone. He cleared his throat. "Yes, it did."

 

The sheriff rounded on Logan. "Did you have anything to do with this mess?"

 

Logan grunted. "Other than eating that steak, nothing."

 

"Another man died after 'eating that steak.' How do you explain that?"

 

"I don't think he died because he ate steak."

 

House shifted and Logan felt the piercing gaze from his blue eyes bore into him, but he kept his focus on the sheriff as he continued.

 

"He was in a hotel room with an underage girl. When the ambulance and police cars came in the parking lot with sirens going, he panicked and ran to the bathroom to hide. He must have gotten sick and thrown up. That's probably when he had a heart attack."

 

"She says nothing happened," offered the sheriff, obviously interested in the theory, but unwilling to let go of his original ideas just yet.

 

"Ask the liquor store owner," Logan countered. "I saw the two of them come back from there, bottle of Jack in hand. He was going to have a party. And she was going to let him get as drunk as he wanted before she took everything he had. I'm betting he threw up because of the alcohol."

 

The sheriff leaned over and muttered something to the deputy. Logan fought to keep the smile off his face when he heard the instructions to grill the storeowner and ransack the hotel room for alcohol.

 

"That still doesn't explain the food poisoning," the sheriff began again. He glanced down at the report in his hand. "So no one from the lunch crowd was sick? And over half ate hamburgers? I don't get it. Who cooked the lunch, you?"

 

Charlie nodded. "Always."

 

The sheriff turned. "And you did the evening shift?"

 

A young pale man dotted with pimples and freckles, and adorned with unruly red hair, swallowed hard, but nodded, too.

 

"And you worked a double shift for the whole day?"

 

The waitress nodded, not looking happy about anything. "I made the soup, salads and the sandwiches because Joey was really busy on the grill and the fryer." She shot a look at Charlie. "If he'd had some more help, maybe he could have cooked the meat a little longer."

 

"I handle the lunch crowd just fine by myself," Charlie responded. "He's got to learn to keep up with it all if he wants to keep the job."

 

The sheriff raised a hand. "Undercooked meat?" He started to look relieved. "Maybe that's the answer!"

 

Joey piped up with a surprisingly deep baritone for such a skinny kid. "I've worked there two weeks and I haven't had anyone complain about the way I do the burgers."

 

"You aren't on the floor hearing what they say!" snapped the waitress.

 

"Well if you'd talk to me, maybe I'd know!" Joey snapped back.

 

"Wendy! Joey! Stop it!" Charlie looked like an aggrieved parent. "He's been cooking the same way for two weeks, sheriff. No one's been sick."

 

Crestfallen, the sheriff zeroed in on House, who had closed his eyes again and was twisting the handle of his cane in his hand. "You're supposed to be a doctor. Do you have any suggestions?"

 

"Where's the local doctor?" House sighed.

 

"At the clinic, treating the patients who came down with this e-coli stuff!"

 

"Not E. coli, salmonella. And it's not my problem, it's yours."

 

The sheriff's neck seemed to swell and his color began to redden with the rise of his temper.

 

"It's your problem now, and you'll stay here until we solve it!"

 

"Damn. A smart idiot. How did you get elected?" House said with a grimace, then he opened his eyes. "Which one of you has a pet?"

 

The question caught everyone off guard.

 

House pointed with his cane at Joey, and Jake. "Just you two."

 

Joey shook his head, but Jake snorted with disgust.

 

"Ah," said House, who struggled to sit up straighter in the chair, his change of attitude reminding Logan of a wolf on a scent. "What happened?"

 

"I got a dog for my boy. The damn thing's into everything, and I've had to build a kennel to keep it out of trouble. The other day it crapped all over the kitchen floor." He glared at House. "We picked it up from the pound and I'm about ready to take it back, if it weren't for the fact that it and my boy are thick as thieves. But if you think I'd let it in the building where I process the meat, you're cracked. I sanitize everything!"

 

House ignored the insult. "A pet is only one possibility. Still, what trouble did it get into?"

 

Jake shrugged. "Just messing with my livestock, barking at the horses, chasing the cows. It got into my coop and ran my chickens all over the place and ate some of my eggs."

 

House smirked and Logan realized something was up. "And you are too cheap to hire help for your evening shift," he said to Charlie. "Does that mean you pad your hamburgers with things other than meat?"

 

"I provide quality meat!" Jake snarled.

 

"To a customer's specifications?" asked House casually.

 

"You bet!"

 

"Ever mix eggs into ground chuck for hamburgers?"

 

Charlie and Jake exchanged a quick glance, and then Charlie answered, "Yes, he's always done that for me."

 

House frowned, but only for a moment. "Were they new chickens?"

 

Jake scratched his head. "Yeah, just bought them from a man down the way. I slaughtered my others because they were getting old. I thought the dog had put the new ones off laying when he scared them the first few days they were here."

 

House's smirk was back. "And the dog crapped all over after eating the eggs?"

 

Jake now gaped at him. "Yeah! I didn't make the connection!" He turned to the sheriff. "The eggs! I put raw eggs and seasoning in the ground round for the burgers, and they had the salmonella in them! So the hamburger patties were all tainted! But," he added, turning back to House, "if all of them had it, and I delivered that meat day before yesterday, the same day I took that damned dog to the vet, how come it didn't turn up then?"

 

Charlie thoughtfully scratched his chin. "Because I didn't open up the latest package of patties until nearly one o'clock yesterday."

 

House glared at Joey. "And because one shift had a cook who made sure the hamburgers were totally done and the other didn't."

---

 

House leaned against the cool wall of the hotel outside his now empty room, refusing until the last minute to cram his leg into a vehicle he knew would contain him for many painful hours as they drove back. It was already throbbing, thanks to all the punishment he'd given it yesterday morning, not that he'd planned to end up in a wrestling match with a vomiting miscreant who had a penchant for knives. Still, there was some satisfaction in not spending another weekend alone, drunk, and watching TV. Logan had been impressive, walking straight into a dangerous situation and taking on the attacker without hesitation, though it had been stupid of the man to take on someone with a knife like that. His mind raced back to the cut that mysteriously disappeared on Logan's thumb, and he found himself wondering if there was a reason Logan was not afraid of knives.

 

He saw the car coming in the glow of the growing sunrise, hoped it wouldn't turn into the parking lot, and rolled his eyes when it did. He continued to watch it circle around like a shark hunting prey until it pulled parallel to the hotel and behind the SUV he was going to escape in. The window rolled down and House curbed his impulse to make a snide remark. The art of being a smart ass was to let the other person show their lack of intelligence first before lighting into them.

 

"Morning," stated the sheriff, obviously not committing himself to stating whether it was good or not.

 

House decided tact was needed.

 

"Oh look. The idiot."

 

The sheriff graced him with a patronizing smile. "That's 'smart idiot,' to you, asshole. Go ahead. Say what you want. I'm in a good mood. This mess is now solved before it got out of my hands and into the arms of the media." He took in an expanse of air and let it out again with a satisfied sigh. "That's why I've decided not to escort you two out of town."

 

Logan appeared from his room, toting an ice chest, which he walked around with and slid into the back of the SUV easily. No mean feat, thought House, since it contained more than a dozen crappie, all over fourteen inches in length. Not a bad haul for one measly afternoon of fishing, all they had left after giving a second round of statements. His leg throbbed again and House reached for the Vicodin.

 

"Then why are you here?" asked Logan with a grunt.

 

"We help you and this is how you thank us?" House quipped after tossing back a pill. "What does it take to get a key to this city?"

 

"Oh I did all the work. You two just provided clues. It takes skill to put them together."

 

House leaned forward and stood away from the wall, gripping the cane tightly that helped to hold him up. "Yeah, yeah, we know. The runaway wasn't a runaway, her boyfriend wasn't her boyfriend because he made it with the waitress, she gave him a hamburger in exchange, and there was alcohol in the dead man's room." For a moment, the sheriff was startled and House grinned to himself, pleased with the effect. "It's amazing what people will tell a doctor when they're afraid they'll come down with salmonella. So how did Bonnie and Clyde get into town?"

 

The sheriff closed his mouth, catching on finally. Knowing the answer to the question House asked, he continued to be generous. "The man claims he owns a motorcycle and they rode in on that."

 

Logan shut the back of the SUV up and headed for his room for one last check. "Probably that '54 Indian parked in that alley beside the restaurant, the one you towed away an hour or so ago," he tossed over his shoulder. "So it impressed the waitress, huh?"

 

"A '54 Indian? Probably," agreed House. "Sorry I missed seeing that. Unless it had a 700cc Enfield engine on it."

 

There was a grunt as Logan closed the door and checked one more time in House's room for any missed baggage. "It did. She wouldn't have known the Blackhawk was better."

 

House grinned, realizing Logan might be as into motorcycles as he was. "He couldn't have afforded the Blackhawk."

 

"True," said Logan as he pulled House's door to. "But even one with a Royal Enfield is worth more than he could have bought on what she brought in. Wonder where he got it?"

 

The sheriff was sputtering now, much to House's amusement. Obviously he didn't know motorcycles and had assumed the man had an older model because he couldn't afford anything else. Before he could snarl out a comment, Logan walked right up to the window of the car and folded his arms in the sheriff's face.

 

"Why are you here?"

 

House again had the opportunity to see Logan in a different light. This was no errand boy, delivering packages for a doctor. This man had absolutely no fear, not even when facing down an armed officer of the law, not that the officer was armed with much wit. At a disadvantage because he couldn't get out without asking Logan to move, the sheriff responded with a louder tone than he really needed to use, and House realized Logan had intimidated the man.

 

"Who are you? Your license came back to who you claim to be, but your driving record is only a few years old. I keep thinking you're hiding something," the sheriff continued, his neck twisted to try to look Logan in the eye. "First the steak, then the pat answer for why that man died, and now this. Who are you?"

 

"I'm Canadian. I didn't come into this country until recently, and my work visa's in order so back off. I'd chase that motorcycle's owner instead. Did you ever find that deer?" Logan asked, keeping the sheriff on the spot.

 

"Yes," the sheriff answered curtly. "That's why I'm really here. Another fisherman spotted it near the shore. Broken hip, broken leg, and torn hoof - it's a wonder it made it as far as it did. I put it out of its misery and let the guy who found it take it home for dinner."

 

"Then you don't really need to be here anymore, do you?" Logan turned and strode back toward House. "You ready?"

 

House frowned, wondering to himself whether he was relieved or disgruntled that his original, fantastic idea had not panned out. He turned to Logan. "Yes. So the boot was thrown at the deer or the car?"

 

"What boot?" the sheriff asked.

 

"The car," said Logan, now pulling a hotel door card from his back pocket.

 

"And that's what you were looking for?"

 

"Yep," Logan answered, holding out a hand for House's card.

 

"What boot?" the sheriff repeated.

 

"The boot he just applied to your ass, maybe?" House quipped, glaring at the continued intrusion.

 

The seatbelt was undone in an instant, and one shoe had already hit the pavement before the sheriff could fully vocalize his rage. "Why you!"

 

"Cripple?" House watched with amusement as the word stopped the officer cold. "Tell me, sheriff, have you ever caught anything without help?" House asked, blinking innocent blue eyes at the surly officer.

 

The car door slammed shut and the sheriff strapped the belt back on with a vengeance. "Out," came the controlled command from compressed lips. "I want you two out of town now."

 

"I guess his generosity only goes so far," House remarked to Logan as tires squealed a moment later. "What are the odds he'd hit another piece of antler?"

 

"Slim," replied Logan. "Let me have your card and I'll drop them off. Where do you want to go for breakfast?"

 

"You actually feel like eating something else in this town?"

 

"Doesn't matter. Food's food."

 

House cocked his head. "Is it? Didn't you learn anything from this?"

 

"Yeah. Next time I'll bring my 'bike and get a free hamburger."

----

 

The rain was blinding, even for Logan. Finally he pulled the SUV to the side of the road, no mean feat considering the wind was whipping it every which way.

 

"My turn."

 

House gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering in the cold space. "I'm not driving. I suggested we stay at that last town and you refused. Your problem."

 

Logan snatched the map out of the doctor's hands. "I mean my turn on the map. The name of the last town was Jenkins." He poured his attention over the paper, snarling, "There's no Jenkins on Highway 55."

 

House flipped on the dome light. "Most people can't see in the dark. I suggest we stay put until the sun shines." The SUV rocked as if pushed by an unseen hand, and a fresh assault of rain blanketed it with hard pellets of icy water. House shivered and added, "Then again we might actually be in danger."

 

"Of what?" Logan looked around, noticing car headlights passing them at a slow pace.

 

"Hypothermia, Logan. Or are you immune to that, too?"

 

Logan glared at him and House glared back, but before they could start a war, red and blue lights flashed on them from behind.

 

Before House could make a quip, Logan countered, "Don't say a word."

 

"I was just wondering how you get a ticket for standing in the rain," House said carefully, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Relax, it's probably the State Police laughing their ass off at us for being out in this mess."

 

"We wouldn't be out in this mess if you hadn't insulted the sheriff back at the lake."

 

"No, he was going to throw us out of town anyway. I though we might as well go out in style."

 

Logan rolled down his window all the way, making sure the driving rain blowing in caught House as well as himself before turning off the engine to wait for the approaching officer.

 

To their surprise, there were two officers, both with guns drawn, searching the vehicle as they came up to the driver and passenger windows.

 

"Evening," said the one near Logan, water pouring off his rain gear. His automatic was still held at the ready while he continued. "Are you on the road tonight for a reason?"

 

"He can't read a map," Logan said, the sideways jerk of his head indicating House. "Are we on 55?" he asked, holding up the license he fished out of his wallet one handed, his other hand still on the steering wheel for the officer to see.

 

"No. You're on 50." A flashlight lit up the interior of the vehicle further, momentarily blinding Logan as the officer read the information from a safe distance. "Did you come straight from New York?"

 

Logan shook his head. "Not really. He lives in Jersey. I picked him up and we went fishing at Mary Elmer. We were coming from there on 49 and were trying to hit 55 North to head back." Logan eyed the gun. "Is there a problem?"

 

"We have three escaped suspects from four gas station robberies on the loose in this area, hiding in the forest. Be glad you turned on your dome light. Made a difference." He nodded to his partner as he moved his gun upward in a less threatening position, and just kept from slamming into the side of the SUV in a gust of wind. "I suggest you get off the road. This storm has stalled and we'll be hard hit for the next several hours."

 

"Any suggestions to go with that suggestion?" asked House.

 

The officer eyed him sharply, but tilted his head in the direction they were headed. "We just checked in on a family-owned bed and breakfast place a couple of miles ahead. They only had one couple staying with them and they have a kitchen, so they have room to put you up and might scrounge up a sandwich for you if you're hungry."

 

"Where are we?"

 

The officer grimaced at Logan's question as more water went down the back of his neck in a fresh wave of rain. "You're halfway between Jenkins and Speedwell on the edge of the Wharton State Forest."

 

Logan put his wallet back and started the engine. "Thanks. We'll go there."

 

"You do that. Good night."

 

The officers disappeared back into the inky blackness of the storm and the red and blues pulled back and then made a turn around in the road before shutting off. House folded the now soggy map while Logan rolled up the window.

 

"He didn't say where it was exactly," said House.

 

"We'll find it," Logan stated calmly

 

Up ahead, on the left, they spotted the small neon sign of the bed and breakfast. For a moment, their headlights illuminated the small building as they turned, and Logan could have sworn the word 'vacancy' turned off for a few seconds, leaving the word 'no' to greet them. He turned to House, who had obviously spotted it too.

 

"You superstitious?" House asked.

 

Logan shook his head. "No, but we'll go in together."

 

"I feel so safe," quipped House.

 

Inside, the owner felt the hard barrel of the gun ram angrily against his head as his finger left the switch controls to the outdoor sign.

 

"Do that again and I'll make sure your wife pays the price," said a low, foul voice breathing in his ear. "Just remember, you have no rooms, we aren't here, and they go away. That way everybody's happy."

 

The owner licked his dry lips and darted a glance to the young couple seated on the sofa in the common living room just off the entryway. Two pairs of scared eyes pleaded with him silently.

 

He nodded and said softly, "I'll remember."

----

 

The wind didn't seem to blow Logan around as much as it did him, House noted as he slid on the slick porch. Before Logan could catch him, House whipped his cane around and used the handle to snag a nearby post, thus steadying himself on his own terms. By the time he and Logan made it inside, it was nearly 10:00 pm, they were both soaked to the skin, and his temper was as raw as the nerve endings in his leg.

 

"Evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you?" asked the genial little proprietor.

 

House took inventory: frightened couple on the couch, lightning outside, candelabra already lit on the owner's entryway desk he half hid behind, and everywhere else in the multi-roomed house dark, including the upstairs section. Definitely odd. He shook some of the water out of his hair just as the windows rattled with a fresh boom of thunder.

 

"You're kidding, right?" He glared at the man, who was fairly fit, in his sixties, slightly balding, and had a face paler than it should have been except for two embarrassed spots of red on his cheeks. "Do we really have to ask or are you kicking us out into the stable already?"

 

Logan stepped forward, still dripping and not caring. "We need two rooms. We'll pay in cash."

 

"I'm afraid we're booked solid," said the little man with a slight tremor in his voice. "You'll have to go elsewhere."

 

House exchanged a glance with Logan, and noted with satisfaction he was just as suspicious. "Fine, you're full. We'll have a sandwich, sit on one of your couches for a moment and then leave when the hurricane abates," House countered.

 

"My wife's not here and she runs the kitchen. You can't stay. The place is full," the man repeated.

 

Logan's stance changed subtly, but House caught it out of the corner of his eye. Not sure what was making the man so alert, House tried to be reasonable.

 

"What, are you an idiot? Do you have some wish for us to meet our death on the highway?" House sighed. "Look, the officer who just visited you stopped us down the road and told us to stay here. He said you only had one couple with you for the night. I'm assuming that's them. They don't look that big. Heck, they're not even taking up one whole couch. We'll sit on the empty one for a minute, I can make a couple of sandwiches, we'll pay you for your time, and then we'll leave. I know you're nervous with criminals floating around, literally, but we aren't them."

 

There was a small hiccup of a noise from the woman in the living room, and House gave the couple a more thorough gaze before turning back to the proprietor. Logan was at the ready because he knew something was wrong. So did House, now. The officers had trusted the men weren't here because the owner had lied. Since House thought everyone was capable of lies, he believed his instincts, and they were telling him that one of the men in question was behind that desk even now. That's why the two on the couch were about to wet the floor.

 

So the question was, could they actually turn and leave now without getting shot in the back? He had just mentioned what the officer said, like an idiot. Even with three witnesses, the temptation would be too much. They'd be shot because odds were the man behind the desk was an idiot, and desperate at this point. He decided the best course of action was to push the man to show himself and reveal his handicap at the same time. The man couldn't see the cane. Maybe if he knew one of the new hostages was a cripple, he'd let them both live.

 

"At least give me a drink of water so I can take my medicine."

 

Logan gave him a quizzical stare, but thankfully didn't say anything as House hobbled closer. "It's the weather, you know. Sets my leg off. I don't take my medicine, we can't leave; I won't be able to move, cane or no cane."

 

For a moment, the man's eyes softened. "I'm sorry, I really am."

 

"Then let me have a drink."

 

A man stood up from behind the counter, a very mean-looking man, one who was more than capable of knocking over a gas station or two, one who held a very large automatic handgun. House slowly took a step back, leaning heavily on the cane, playing the man's entrance to his advantage by creating a scene of his own.

 

"Oh, snap," commented House, looking as taken aback as he could.

 

"All of that," said the man, the contempt in his eyes obvious. "Looks like you're staying." He pointed to the owner. "Don't move. Think of your wife."

 

He swiftly came around the open end of the entry desk and patted House down with a quick one-handed inspection, the gun in his hand pressed against House's abdomen the entire time. He backed up and set House's wallet on the counter before he moved over to Logan and did the same thing, pulling Logan's cell phone out, a pocketknife, and his wallet.

 

"So let's see who we have here," said the man, opening up Logan's wallet first and awkwardly removing the cash while still holding a gun on them.

 

"I'm Doctor Jekyll, and this is Mr. Hyde," House managed to say with a disarming grin. "What character are you playing?"

 

"Ha, ha." House watched as the man flipped Logan's wallet over. "You already know who I am, one of the three the man was looking for."

 

"In that case, we'll just wait for you to tell us what to do," House said carefully, hoping Logan got the message.

 

"No credit cards, no pictures, only cash and a driver's license?" He looked Logan over for half a second. "Man after my own heart, though you should have skipped on the ID. Let's see who you are, doc." There was a low whistle. "So you are a doc. How about that. Just what we needed." He pointed toward the living room with a jerk of his head, the gun now trained on House's heart. "Go. Sit. Don't move."

 

Moving slowly and using the cane in an exaggerated fashion, House motioned for Logan to go ahead of him, using his weakness as a shield for them both.

 

"He said they needed you," muttered Logan as they sat on the empty couch, side-by-side.

 

"Yeah, I got that part, too, thanks," House muttered back.

 

"Then don't interfere if they take me outside."

 

House stared incredulously at Logan. Was the man insane?

 

"Dr. Jekyll?" It was the young man on the couch opposite. "There's three of them."

 

From the stress and tone of his words, it was inferred the young man would have done something by now if there had only been one. The death grip he had on the young woman's hand told House a different story.

 

"Don't worry," whispered House. "Mr. Hyde here seems to have a plan."

 

"Just like you," Logan confirmed. He met the young man's eyes with his own. "I'm Logan. This is Dr. House."

 

"Ed," the man indicated himself, "and Cindy," he said, squeezing her hand.

 

"Where's the wounded man?"

 

"Brilliant, Watson," said House as he shot a glance at the front desk where the thief was emptying his wallet. "But that was my line. You stick to what you do best and leave my job to me."

 

It was astonishing that Logan could smile at a time like this, but he did. "Exactly what I was thinking."

 

And it wasn't a pleasant smile, either, House realized.

-----

 

For someone extremely bright and supposedly cynical, House could be denser than mud sometimes, thought Logan. He seemed to believe they would be safe for a while. To Logan's mind the situation was more obvious; he knew they were in trouble the moment he'd heard and smelled the man and his gun hiding under the hotel counter. Meeting him face to face only confirmed it: the man they had just met was not bluffing - he would kill.

 

Looking around the room, he knew he couldn't do much - not here and not in front of all these witnesses - and he wasn't too sure where all three of the men were yet anyway. One was in the kitchen, why else close it? Heavy footfalls pounded down the carpeted stairs and Logan mentally slapped himself. The small window under the eaves of the high-pitched roof would be a perfect place to watch for incoming visitors.

 

He wouldn't underestimate them again.

 

"You let them stay?"

 

The leader raised his eyebrow slightly in warning before he replied, "Yes, one's a doctor," to his subordinate.

 

Not another word was spoken on the subject, and Logan felt justified on his assessment of the situation.

 

"Tie them up. All but the doc. Just break his cane and take him to the kitchen."

 

Shorter than the leader, and more heavily built, he offered no comment on the command given, but had the prudence to give the other his gun before approaching the hostages. He also made sure not to get between the two guns and a hostage while tying them up with cords he cut from the window blinds. Finally done with Ed, Cindy, and the owner, all now firmly tied up and tied to the couch where they sat, he turned and gave his attention to Logan, who almost grinned when the man unplugged a lamp and cut the cord on it.

 

"Wait," said House. "Before you tie him up, I may need him."

 

The leader was skeptical. "Why?"

 

"If you break my cane, I'm going to need help getting around and you aren't going to want to hold a gun on me and hold me up at the same time."

 

"Not good enough." He nodded to the little man who began to approach Logan. "You. Take off your jacket and turn around."

 

Logan gave a shrug and shucked the wet jacket with some difficulty, letting it fall to the floor in a soggy heap before he turned around for the man and held out his wrists as best he could. "You must think I'm a real dangerous man."

 

"You're right," agreed the leader, noting the way Logan's wet flannel sleeves clung to the muscle underneath. "I do."

 

Rain pounded on the windows of the now half-lit room in a fresh assault, and another crack of thunder rattled the house all the way from the eaves to the foundation.

 

"It's a night for the devil," said the little man, having finished with Logan's hands.

 

He turned Logan around and pushed him down on the empty couch. A questioning look from him got a nod from the leader, and he unplugged the remaining lamp in the room, leaving only the lights from the adjoining entryway to provide illumination. The cord was quickly cut and tied securely around Logan's boots and legs, but he didn't mind. The darkness would provide cover should he need to cut himself free.

 

Out of curiosity, Logan asked, "The devil?"

 

The little man smiled. "You ain't from Jersey," he remarked as he snatched House's cane and snapped it in half over his knee

 

"Enough," barked the leader. "No names, no places. Just in case." He gave shorty back his gun and pointed his own at House. "You're needed in surgery, doc. Move."

 

But House balked. "I'm not a surgeon," he stated flatly, folding his arms across his chest.

 

"You're a doc."

 

"But not a surgeon."

 

Logan could have kicked him, and so, obviously, could the leader.

 

"Look," the leader stated, "I'm a reasonable man." He aimed the gun at Logan. "You help me save my friend, and I'll save yours. Got it?"

 

"Then untie him."

 

House was pushing to the limit, Logan knew, and for the first time he had a stab of fear for the hostages in the room.

 

Instead of blowing his head off, though, the leader growled out, "Why?"

 

"Because you want my help. You've taken my ability to walk. Now you want me to do something strenuous. I'll need a helper, someone without a gun in his hand."

 

"Untie the kid," motioned the leader to shorty, jerking his head at Ed.

 

"He'll faint at the first sight of blood," House argued.

 

Sure enough, even in the dim light, Ed definitely did not look well.

 

Frustrated, the leader chose again. "The old man," he said, bypassing Cindy.

 

"And then I'll have to treat a heart attack victim in the middle of surgery," groused House. "No thanks."

 

Logan could hear the man's teeth grind as he finally gave in to House. "Fine, untie his legs and haul him up. But don't touch his hands until I say so."

 

And that's what shorty did, much to Logan's amusement. It was even more amusing when House grabbed Logan's shirt sleeve in show of helplessness, leaning heavily on the fabric for every other step he took toward the kitchen - this act from the man who wouldn't even let Logan help him on a slick porch in a heavy rain with gusting winds. Right. Helpless, not so much.

 

It was no surprise to Logan that the third man had been shot. Cops generally didn't like criminals with guns to get away, and Logan smelled blood long before they entered the kitchen, partly because House was taking his time walking and partly because there was quite a bit of blood to smell.

 

The third man was a blonde, unlike the other two, and was lying on his left side atop the kitchen table, his head propped up on some pillows. His right arm was propped on a couple of pillows too, and it had a firearm in it, trained on the tiny old woman perched in a corner on a stool with her arms folder over her chest and her lips pursed in distaste.

 

"Thought you forgot about me," the blonde panted, obviously in a great deal of pain. Towels were wrapped and tied with belts around his hip and lower right leg. "Get her out of here. She makes me nervous."

 

"We brought you a doctor," said the leader, motioning with a gesture for House to move up to the table. "He'll fix you up."

 

"No." It was firm, it was loud, and it was more commanding than anything the leader had said. "As soon as you are done with this man, they mean to kill us all," the wife continued. "Don't do it."

 

Logan watched her lock eyes with House, and found himself admiring this woman.

 

The leader grinned charmingly. "No one said anything about killing anyone. We've been very careful, grandma. You can't tell the police much about us, not even our names, so there's no reason to kill you. Just do as we say and you'll be fine."

 

"Besides," quipped shorty, "doctors take an oath. They have to treat people. Right doc? That hypocratic thing."

 

"Hippocratic," said the leader.

 

"Oh, yeah. We never break our word. How about you?" muttered House as he began to undo the belts and release the towels. "I'll need more light than that," he said, pointing to the only bulb on, the one over the sink on the other side of the room.

 

Shorty started flipping switches on the wall until the light over the table came on, giving Logan a better view of the now exposed pant leg. He couldn't be sure, but it didn't look that bad to him, even with all the stained towels stacked around it.

 

"How's it look, doc?" the blonde man said through gritted teeth.

 

"Good thing you aren't into busting a sag," offered House. He reached in and pulled something out of the rear pocket, making the blonde yell in pain. "Oops, sorry, forgot the oath. Your pants were in the right place and so was your wallet." He held up the folded leather packet, a neat hole visible through the middle of it. "Seems to have saved your ass. Literally. But I need to get these pants off to make sure."

 

House wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm, took a breath, and looked around for the wife. "I'll need some scissors and some alcohol."

 

"I don't keep spirits in the house," she said condescendingly, "unless you mean cooking sherry."

 

"No, not that kind - too much sugar," House explained patiently, and Logan got the feeling he liked her grit, too. "I mean the medicinal kind, the kind you keep in the bathroom."

 

"Oh, of course," she replied, a little chagrined. "I'll get it." And she hopped down lightly from the stool.

 

At a nod from the leader, shorty followed her down the hall. They weren't gone but a few minutes before she returned with scissors, alcohol, and everything else she thought House might need from her sewing kit and medicine cabinet, including adhesive tape, gauze pads, and a bottle of Tylenol.

 

The leader laughed. "Tylenol won't do him much good."

 

"It's for the doctor," she snapped back. "He's in pain, too."

 

House's look of incredulity was priceless, but he recovered nicely. "I have my own, thanks." He reached for his pocket, but frowned as if puzzled by something. It was then that Logan remembered where the pill bottle was - in the SUV.

 

Perfect.

 

But House shrugged it off and didn't mention needing it, and Logan had a good idea why. As he watched the physician cut away the blonde man's pants, he realized he had a fight on his hands and began to rack his brains for a suitable argument.

 

A tree branch smacked against the window over the sink, and everyone but Logan and the woman flinched visibly.

 

"Hell," said shorty, "I think it's getting worse."

 

"The patrolman said the storm was stalled over this area," Logan offered. "Might be a while before you can leave."

 

"Might at that," replied shorty with a glare. "Comfortable?"

 

Logan grinned, though his wrists were beginning to ache from the tight bonds. "Sure."

 

"Too bad," said House, fighting with the scissors the closer he got to the man's wound. "I need him untied. I need someone to hold this man down."

 

Blondie moaned a little but said nothing, though he continued to squirm.

 

"Cut him loose," said the leader to shorty. To Logan he said, "Any wrong moves at all and your friend dies."

 

"Not to mention your friend," Logan said, rubbing his wrists and moving closer to House.

 

"No one ever died from a butt wound," retorted the leader, but Logan could smell his anxiety.

 

"Hold his legs," ordered House, "and someone take that gun away from him."

 

Shorty took the gun and belted it, handed his gun to the leader, and then grabbed the blonde's hands, well away from House's reach.

 

"Why are we in this mess again?" asked House, cutting the man's belt and the last of the side seam underneath it so he could fold the cloth down and look at the wound.

 

"You didn't want to head back right after breakfast?" countered Logan.

 

"Right. My fault. Got it," said House absently, looking over the wound as he uncapped the bottle and poured alcohol over his hands. He ripped open one of the gauze packs, soaked it with alcohol, and began to clean the area.

 

"Son of a bitch!" yelled blondie. "That hurts!"

 

"Serves you right. Those who live by the sword shall die by the sword," said the wife.

 

"Your tongue's sharp enough to count," remarked shorty. "Maybe you should be afraid of dying, too." Thunder boomed close by and he jumped. "It's a good night for it."

 

"Enough," said the leader sharply.

 

"Maybe the devil will come and visit you," pressed shorty.

 

"That's an old man's tale, though I'm not surprised you're afraid of him. Only those with a guilty conscience would be. Personally, I've only seen natural wildlife around here, nothing God didn't create."

 

"What is this devil?" asked Logan, fighting to hold the blonde's legs perfectly still while House continued his ministrations.

 

"The Jersey Devil is a legend in this area of the state," said House, motioning for Logan to lean forward to rotate the hip more toward the light. "Supposedly the child of a witch, it hunts at night, and kills anything from livestock to humans. For over 200 years people have claimed to see it roaming the woods and marshes around here."

 

"And it looks like?" coaxed Logan.

 

"A big kangaroo with wings," said House.

 

Logan stared at him. "You're kidding."

 

"It's huge, and has horns and red eyes," stated shorty. The leader glared at him. "What?"

 

House sighed. "Without an x-ray, I can't be positive, but I think the bullet is in this area." He made a small circular motion with this index finger over the fleshy part of the man's right buttock.

 

"So get it out," said the leader.

 

"No. Not because I'm not a surgeon," said House, "but because I'm not stupid. There's no reason to remove it, not here. He's not in immediate danger, if we stop the bleeding." House looked the towels over as if to confirm how much blood had been lost, and nodded to himself. "He hasn't been bleeding this way long, I take it. I go in there after the bullet under these conditions and he will die. Infections, you know - really nasty business. He needs to go to a hospital. It's safer to get an infection there. Of course, that's debatable."

 

The leader nodded slowly. "So he's going to die?"

 

"That's not what I said," House replied.

 

"So he's not going to die?"

 

There was a gleam in shorty's eyes Logan did not like at all, but House didn't seem to see it.

 

"I didn't say that either, and I'm not saying this man isn't in trouble," House continued. "He is. There's every possibility that bullet mushroomed and might have severed something. That would explain some of this blood."

 

They blinked at him.

 

"The big bone in his thigh won't get blood anymore and will die, meaning he'll be in a great deal of pain for a long, long time, and eventually have to have a hip replacement," House tried again with big, exaggerated gestures.

 

"Can't you pull it out with a magnet?" moaned the blonde. "It hurts!"

 

House cocked his head. "Does the rest of your leg hurt? Toes tingle?"

 

"No," came the hesitant reply.

 

"Then don't worry. I'll patch you up enough to get you to a hospital and-." House paused as if stunned. "Did you say 'magnet?' Are you serious? That's brilliant!"

 

"Will it work?" the blonde said hopefully.

 

"Hell no! But that's a good one for the brainless suggestion box," House said as he dressed the wound. "The bullet has flattened, and is larger now than it was when it went in. I doubt if there's a magnet strong enough to rip it back out of you, but it would do a whole lot of damage to you if there were one. Brilliant," he rolled his eyes. "Just brilliant."

 

"But I'm in pain!"

 

"You could give him some of the pain medicine you take for your leg," offered Logan. "It helps you walk better."

 

House stiffened, suddenly becoming serious. "No."

 

"Yes. You're about the same size he is, so there wouldn't be a dosage problem," said the leader, eager for something to improve his cohort's condition, just as Logan figured. He stared at Logan. "You know where it is?"

 

"Out in the truck. It's unlocked."

 

Shorty let go of the blonde and moved closer to the leader. While they spoke in an undertone, House hissed, "Don't go outside."

 

"Trust me," Logan hissed back.

 

"They'll kill you. If we stay together..."

 

"Not going to happen. Trust me." Logan hesitated and then offered the one argument he knew would win the battle. "The deer didn't make it. I would've," he whispered.

 

House's eyes widened in surprise, even as shorty pulled the gun from his waist and motioned for Logan to move to the door.

 

"Let's go. You'll find it quicker than I will."

 

"No!" The wife had finally figured it out. "No, you can't go out there!" she said to Logan. "You'll be first!"

 

"He'll be back, grandma," said shorty. "As long as he doesn't try anything, neither will I."

 

Logan gave her, and a very concerned House, one last look before he put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. A blast of powerful wind, coupled with stinging pellets of icy water, pushed against him as he stepped out into the storm. Finally, things were looking up, he thought grimly.

 

It was time to go to work.

----

 

House's body was not in good shape at the moment. It wasn't so much the effort to stand for such a long period and patch up the yellow-haired man on the table that was causing it, either. Wet clothes were sticking to him, and his body was heating up in order to keep him warm, possibly a little too much, though the chill in the air barely registered against his sweaty brow. The nerves in his leg, too, were conspiring against him, keeping him in enough pain to make his hands shake slightly. Still, if he could have taken away any problems he was having at the moment, it wouldn't have been any of these.

 

He never should have let Logan walk out that door.

 

Over the next boom of thunder, he thought he heard some sharp popping noises. He closed his eyes briefly and hoped he was wrong, but the wife of the owner, standing next to him and handing him the pads and tape he needed, met his look with a sorrowful one, one brimming with tears. Neither of them said anything. There was no need to. The short robber came through the door not too long later with a pill bottle in one hand and a wet gun in the other.

 

And no Logan.

 

House felt his heart jump into his throat, and he forced it back down with a hard swallow. In the back of his mind he remembered Logan's words. They had triggered feelings anew that there was more to Logan than met the eye, and that maybe the impossible happened whenever he was hurt. But the deer was hit by a car, reasoned the louder, more logical voice in his head. Sure, a human could survive a broken leg and hip - Logan was right in that he would have made it whereas the deer didn't - but gunshot wounds were devastating to human tissue. He had only to look at the man in front of him to be reminded of that. Even spent through a wallet, muscles were now torn and damaged by one single bullet. He had heard three shots, so that meant three hot pieces of metal had seared their way through Logan's body with nothing to shield him. His only hope was the cold temperature outside; maybe Logan would go into hypothermic shock before he bled to death.

 

It was a small hope.

 

"Sorry. The big guy made a break for it." The short man shrugged, as if ashamed of Logan's actions and the consequences they had caused. "I had no choice."

 

He wiped the blonde man's gun on a semi-clean corner of one of the soiled towels he snagged from the table, tossing it back when he was done. House immediately spotted the brown hairs on it and his heart sank. He could very well imagine the man hitting Logan on the head as he bent down to retrieve the bottle from the floorboard - the place the bottle had fallen when Logan accelerated too hard once and it had tumbled from the dashboard. House hadn't felt like reaching down to get it, resolving to do so at the next pit stop. Now he mentally saw Logan sprawled in the cold mud with three bullets in him, all because he hadn't retrieved his pill bottle. House watched the short man with a cold stare as he tucked the blonde's gun under his belt, behind his back and under his jacket. So much for Logan's plan, and for his, House thought grimly.

 

The dark haired leader only grunted as he gave the short man back his own gun. "Give the doc the bottle and take grandma into the other room. I'm sure she misses her husband."

 

When the short man and the wife were gone. House continued to stare at the bottle in his hand, wondering what the hell he could do to prevent one of the others, or all of them, including himself, from sharing Logan's fate.

 

"I'm sorry."

 

House looked up, shocked at first by the sentiment mockingly stated, until a cynical smile faced him.

 

"I'm sure the rest of you won't be so stupid."

 

"Right, I'm sure we won't," answered House, the branch near the window smacking against the pane in sharp agreement. "How silly of him to run when it would have been better to lie there in the mud and take the bullets like a man."

 

The man glared at him and House glared back.

 

"You treat him and you'll live," the man promised, pointing at the blonde man.

"And the others?" asked House.

 

He shrugged. "I'll do what I can."

 

House bit back his next acidic comment, sure that the man would go back on his word as soon as he could. Instead he popped the top off of the bottle and palmed the entire contents.

 

"I'll need a glass of water," he said, staring pointedly at the leader. "He'll need to swallow all of these whole. No chewing."

 

The man was suddenly suspicious. "That's an overdose."

 

"It is, but it won't hurt him this one time, unless you've already given him acetaminophen." The man blinked. "Tylenol," House clarified. "You said earlier Tylenol wouldn't help him. Was that because you'd already tried it?"

 

"Yes, yes we did."

 

"How much?" asked House, counting the pills in his hand.

 

"About twelve or fifteen, I think."

 

House's eyebrow shot up. "You think?" He put a lot of the pills back in the bottle. "I guess I can't do much more harm than you've already done."

 

"You said I could have all of them," whimpered the blonde man on the table. "I need them! I'm in pain!"

 

"Much as I know what you're feeling, your friend here has prevented you from getting all of them. See these already have 'Tylenol' in them and I'm guessing I can't give you much more than this without damaging your liver." House looked the leader in the eye. "I'm sorry," he said in the same false tone the leader had used earlier.

 

An eerie quiet suddenly settled over everything as the rain abruptly halted. The wind whistled around the building and House felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the sad moaning sound. Before either he or the leader could speak again, the lights in the house suddenly went out, plunging everything into darkness in the kitchen, with only a faint glow from the candelabra in the far-off entryway left to show them where the door was. Lightning lit the sky brilliantly, causing shadows to disappear and then come back more forcefully than ever when the instant daylight was gone.

 

"Flashlight!" the leader roared.

 

"Just a sec!" the short man's voice said from far away. There was a pause. "She says it's in the desk in the entry! I'll get it!"

 

"Don't move," said the leader to House in a dangerous tone.

 

"Yeah, it'd be a shame to shoot me and have all these pills scatter everywhere on the floor," House replied. "Heck, who knows? I might be so scared of the dark I throw them in the air anyway."

 

"Stop it!" yelled the blonde.

 

A loud wrenching noise boomed throughout the house, and House was startled enough to make a grab at the table for support, spilling the few pills in his hand. The dim light from the candelabra went out, but not before a man's yell of "No!" was heard. A man's scream, punctuated by six gunshots, was abruptly stopped and the silence that followed was pregnant with fear. A cold breeze slapped his face, coming from the door toward the entryway, and House realized why the candelabra had gone out. Something had broken down the front door, and the storm had followed it in.

 

Just as suddenly as it had stopped, the rain started anew with another flash of lightning, coming down in a torrent loud enough to almost drown out the screams of the women in the front room.

 

Almost.

-----

 

"Leave me a gun!" the blonde had pleaded, but the leader had dismissed him with a shake of the head, and House knew why. The short man had the other gun.

 

The leader took his gun and shoved it in the small of House's back, after he had fumbled around and found House's arm in the dark.

 

"Move."

 

House clearly read the fear and desperation in the man's menacing command and he decided the best course was to obey. Besides, he thought as he located the cap of the bottle with his fingertips, capped the bottle, and placed it on the table, there really was no other choice at this point - he was dying of curiosity and had to know what had happened.

 

"Shut up!" the leader yelled from behind House, irritated by the women's shrieks and the slowness of House's footsteps, but House wasn't going to give himself away just yet. He took his time, making sure it was a reminder to the leader of just how helpless a cripple could be, a cripple who was waiting to take the gun away the moment the leader's guard was dropped. "Can't you go any faster?"

 

"Not without a cane," House shot back, stumbling with hands out for walls he couldn't see well. He touched what he knew to be the tall entry desk, the cold marble on level with his chest a giveaway to what it was. "We're here."

 

The sound of fumbling and bumping beside him and at the back of the desk met House's ears even over the sobs of the women.

 

"Got it."

 

A beam of light lit the foyer. Rain coming in on a slant through the open door seemed to shimmer in midair as it fell, spattering brilliantly in the large mud puddle spreading ominously from the sill out onto the floor. The mud hadn't come in with the rain, House thought. Someone or something had brought that in. Probably the same someone or something that had kicked the door in, for there was a large smear of mud visible on the door face, right next to the shattered edge where the deadbolt had failed. The rug, too had been moved, the one he and Logan had wiped their feet on initially. It was now scrunched against the desk, and House had a mental image of something running and sliding on wet feet, moving the rug with the force of its entry.

 

"Damn," said the leader, and House turned to look at him since the flashlight beam had now moved from the door and to the stairwell.

 

There, lit up in all its glory and draped on the bottom few steps, was body of the short man staring unseeingly back at them, a look of horror on his face. The leader bent over and took the gun from his relaxed hand, then pulled the other weapon he had carried out from behind the dead man's back.

 

"Bring me a gun!" cried the blonde form the other room.

 

"Shut it!" the leader yelled back. He motioned for House. "See what's wrong with him while I shut the door."

 

House moved slowly along the edge of the desk, every step treacherous on the wadded up rug and slick floor. By the time he made it to the stairs and had awkwardly knelt down, the leader was back behind him, the flashlight illuminating the body once more. House turned and saw that the door had not wanted to close again, and had been held closed by a small table the leader had pushed against it, one that was sliding backward bit by bit against the onslaught of rain and wind.

 

"What's wrong with him? Is he breathing?"

 

House felt for the carotid artery, then pulled the unbuttoned jacket open more and lifted up the man's T-shirt. If he had been puzzled before, he was even more so now, and he shook his head as he let the T-shirt go.

 

"No, he's dead," House finally said. "His heart stopped. I don't see any wounds or cuts, but that's probably because you can't seem to hold that flashlight still." A hand snared itself in House's short hair and yanked him upward, making House gasp in pain. He was thrown sideways into the short wall that separated the stairs from the front room.

 

"What do you mean?" the leader snarled, his forearm jammed up against House's windpipe, pinning him painfully up against the wall. He cocked the gun and held it against House's temple. "What happened?"

 

House struggled for breath. "Shine the light on his chest again."

 

Reluctantly, the man let House down so he could use the arm with the flashlight for something other than choking House.

 

The shirt was lifted one more time. "There. See that small discoloration?" House pointed to a small, barely discernable bruise on the man's sternum. "I'd say that's the only wound he received."

 

"Then where did all the bullets go?"

 

"He fired them!" said a shaking voice from the front room. A flashlight shone on Cindy's blotched face and puffy eyes as she nodded at the short man's feet, all she could see from where she sat, thought House. "He screamed and fired. All we saw was something dark moving toward him as the gun went off."

 

"You didn't see what came in the door?" asked House.

 

"The wall was in the way," said the wife. "I heard a sound after he stopped screaming, though. Like marbles dropping on the floor. I was afraid it would come after us and started yelling."

 

"I did too," said Cindy.

 

Ed, House noted, had no comment, because Ed had fainted.

 

The leader rummaged around behind the desk and came up with a lighter, which he used to relight the candles on the candelabra. Now with more light, House studied the entryway. Due to a short wall, none of the people in the front room could have seen what entered before the candles went out. The leader ran the flashlight up and around the walls, looking for bullets, but it wasn't until he started studying the floor that he and House saw the same thing. Six shiny objects winked up from the mud and water staining the wooden surface: six spent bullets. And the mud had too much of a reddish tinge to be all mud, thought House. Whatever had been shot bled, so it had to be mortal. But it had pulled out the bullets and left under its own power, which meant it wasn't. House shook his head at the contradiction.

 

"Impossible," he muttered.

----

 

The cold rain felt good, he decided, and Logan let the water run down his bare chest for a few seconds, easing the burn the bullets had caused. He hated getting shot - it hurt like hell - and shorty had deadly aim, unfortunately for him. All six bullets had hit the adamantium-laced skeleton protecting his heart, and the unique metal had stopped them, just as it was designed to do. Still hurt like hell, though, thought Logan with a grimace. He opened his mouth and drank a swallow of rainwater, then turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen, mud squishing softly between his toes.

----

 

While the robber ordered him about, the both of them piling heavier stuff up against the door than just the flimsy table, including a china cabinet that House did not even attempt to help with, House kept thinking about the intruder. When they were done and the front door nicely barricaded, he bent over slowly and retrieved one of the bullets so he could study it while the other man mopped his brow and fished one of the guns out from behind his belt.

 

"You'd better DAMN well start telling me what's going on or I swear to GOD I'll spill my guts about everything!" shouted the much-ignored blonde in the other room.

 

The leader sighed. "Come on, doc. Have a seat. I'll tie you up with them."

 

The other hostages began to speak simultaneously, with Ed's voice eventually drowning out the others with a frantic cry of, "We've got to get out of here! There's no telling when that thing'll come back and get us!"

 

"It's gone," said the man with the gun. "It won't come back." House allowed himself a fleeting glance at the fortified door, and smiled to himself. "Doc, how many pills do I give him?" he asked as House sat next to the wife.

 

Before House could answer, Cindy spoke up.

 

"What if it was hungry? What if it comes back because it didn't get the food it wanted?"

 

Everyone reacted to that statement, everyone but House.

 

"No," House said slowly, "It wasn't hunger. Something that kicked a door in like that would have had plenty of strength to carry that man back out with it. The fact that it left him, and left the bullets, makes me feel all of us are safe." He looked up at the leader. "Well, almost all of us. Too bad for you."

 

"What do you mean?" Hands holding cord paused in midair, and the leader's brow wrinkled in concern.

 

"Oh, go ahead and tie me up. I'd rather be in here with everyone else," House said amiably, holding out his hands, wrists together, for effect.

 

Immediately the cords were dropped and House was hauled unceremoniously up by the fabric of his jacket to face the taller man.

 

"Explain," he snarled.

 

"You're the one who assumed it ran out because it was scared off," stated House. "But scared off by what? You think the women's screams had anything to do with it? He was screaming, too. Didn't do him much good. He also shot at it, and hit it, judging by the flattened bullets. The gunfire certainly didn't scare it." House paused, then continued. "I'm still wondering why it waited until this place was dark inside, and that man moved into another room where he was alone."

 

"But the candles were lit in there," argued the owner. "That means...."

 

"That means it's not afraid of light, but it might know we're helpless without it," finished House. "Yet it didn't attack the helpless people in here. No, it went after the man who was alone. I wonder why?" He shrugged. "Well, you finish tying me up. It's a long way to the kitchen, though. Better be careful."

 

He knew his words were working on them, on the robber especially, and he was glad to see the others relax a little, nodding to each other as if they could understand.

 

They couldn't.

 

Even House was having a hard time understanding, and he knew far more about the intruder than they did. It had to have waited outside, looking in through the windows, waiting for an opportunity. It attacked when the short man was alone, and that spoke of predatory instinct. If the chest cavity had been crushed in by a fatal blow he would have been less surprised, given the state of the door. But the fact that it had been a delicate fatal blow blew House away. Even with the candles going out and the short man firing at it, it continued to come in until it had done what it intended to do: deliver a deadly strike to the short man that stopped his heart cold but left no outer mark. The odds were so skewed against that happening unintentionally it wasn't even funny. And that spoke of a deadly intelligence. So, whatever stepped through that door had to be able to see in the dark and hear a human heartbeat in order to know where and when to strike, and while being shot at, too.

 

Impossible.

 

The wind took the opportunity to whistle angrily through the cracks left in the front door area as if venting it's frustration, desperate to claw for some purchase in order to enter and take away the flickering candle flames that provided the only light for the moment. House focused on the sound and shook his head slightly to dispel his whirling thoughts.

 

"I think you're wrong."

 

The man dragged him quickly into the entryway, House staggering to try and keep up with the movement, despite his damaged leg, before he was slammed into the desk. He grabbed at it so he could remain standing while the leader snatched the candelabra from the marble surface and moved back into the front room.

 

"I think it's an animal and it's gone. If it's still hungry, let's feed it," sneered the man.

 

For a moment, House was confused, his leg throbbing too much to think clearly. Then it hit him. Of course, thought House, he's testing his theory. The flickering light from the other room did not reach the entry well, and House stared at the grotesque shape of objects crouched in the darkness before the door, willing them not to move, though he sincerely wanted to know what had happened just as much as the robber who had now set him up as bait did.

 

Nothing happened.

 

"See?" the man said in triumph. "I told you."

 

A loud crash echoed through the house and House's stomach flipped in response as his adrenaline level hit an instant peak. But the front area remained undamaged. Someone was screaming, though, and another crash soon followed, though not nearly as spectacular sounding as the first.

 

The uneasy silence afterward was finally broken by a voice floating in from the kitchen.

 

"That damn branch broke out that damned window and I fell off the table," the pain-stricken voice of the blonde man stated petulantly. "I hope like hell you're HAPPY! Now get in here and help me! Bring the doc. I'm bleeding again."

----

 

They left the candelabra with the others, making their way to the kitchen with the flashlight. When they arrived, they found the blonde was bleeding, as he had said, but that wasn't all he was doing. A biting wind was pouring in from the smashed plate glass window, bringing a rapid drop in temperature and a slight drizzle with it. On the floor now, with a broken chair partly beneath him, the blonde shivered and moaned.

 

"We can't move him until I check him over," House stuttered out between his own chattering teeth. "See what you can do about blocking that wind," he said as he moved a chair from the end of the table and used it as a crutch to get nearer to the wounded man.

 

Fortunately, the leader complied, though he put the flashlight on the table, pointing it at the ceiling to provide the most light for both of them, and snatched up the scissors so he could pocket them first. As if scissors were more dangerous than three guns, thought House wearily as he shoved the table back a bit and seated himself in the chair so he could look over the wound from a top view. It was no longer a matter of pretending to be crippled; his pain-wracked leg was causing him true grief, and he suffered greatly without either cane or medicine to help him function. Just as he began to use the chair to ease himself down on the floor behind the blonde, he was unceremoniously dumped out of it, causing House to cry out involuntarily when his leg collided with the unyielding surface. Righting himself into a sitting position, he glanced over his shoulder to see what had happened. The leader, holding the chair in both hands, stood over him with strange expression on his face. House could have sworn he was gloating.

 

"I need this. While you're down there, fix him up," said the man, carrying the chair away toward the window.

 

"Right," House answered slowly. Wary now, House began to turn himself around so the leader would not be behind him again. He reached up for the table's edge, trying to feel for one of the towels on its surface with his fingertips.

 

"There were four other chairs," House began to say, when the leader dropped the chair and returned with fast, angry strides. A gun barrel appeared out of nowhere, tapping House sharply across his temple and cheek, both surprising and stunning the doctor momentarily. "Not with you in them," House heard over the ringing in his ears.

 

Alcohol, bandages and tape were thrown at him, with House barely managing to catch the plastic bottle before it struck him in the chest.

 

"Help him."

 

"Stop that wind," House shot back when he began to recover.

 

The man crouched in front of House now, the cold barrel of the gun once more touching House's skin, only this time with a cold gentle caress House flinched away from.

 

"Why, doc, I thought you took an oath to help your fellow man. If you're so worried about how warm he is, give him your jacket while I seal off this mess." The falsely reasoning tone turned suddenly harsh. "I'm tired of your mouth, old man. Take it off and fix him up without saying another word, or so help me I won't be nice and use a bullet on you when the time comes."

 

A chill slid up House's spine, but not because he was removing his jacket. All along he had thought the short man was the wild card, the most dangerous one, held in check by the leader's reasoning, but it was now the leader's reasoning that was making the dangerous situation even worse.

 

House could follow the path easily, knowing what his outcome was going to be: the man wanted out of here and would leave no witnesses. Since House hadn't been attacked in the foyer, that meant the monster had moved away, creating a chance to flee the scene while leaving nothing but dead bodies behind him, probably all shot with the short man's gun, which would be put back in the dead robber's hand afterward. He'd then clear away the front door area and take one of the cars parked outside, creating a mystery for the authorities - one that would take some time to solve.

 

The moment he healed the blonde man, he was dead, House realized. He leaned forward with a grunt to cover the shoulders and back of the wounded man in front of him with the jacket as the leader moved away. The people in the front room would die as well. He racked his brains to come up with some solution, delay the actions of the man at the window, but he was too cold, too tired, and too much in pain to think of a solution.

 

They were going to die.

 

As if in a trance, House began to check the wound, his training to heal putting him in a state of automatic pilot while his mind continued to grasp at straws. The wound had bled only a little, his previous bandage holding pretty well, under the circumstances. The man had curled into a fetal position, making the job of retaping the wound fairly easy. But when House leaned forward again to grab one of the blonde's arms to check for a pulse at the wrist, the man jerked and moaned again.

 

"I'm bleeding, Joel. Get the doc," the man said with a heavy sigh.

 

The wind died down abruptly, and House looked back, concerned that Joel had heard his name mentioned, but the leader had found a hammer and some nails beneath the sink and was nailing in the second of two cabinet doors he had removed to the window frame. He turned and spotted House watching him.

 

"Problems?" he sneered.

 

House nodded. "I think he hurt himself in the fall. Can you help me turn him over?" He grabbed for the table and raised himself up so he could see over the man's shoulder. "There's blood near his head."

 

Joel nodded, put down the hammer, grabbed up the gun, and hopped down from the chair, using the sink edge for balance. He walked over and squatted in front of the blonde man, opposite House, and reached out with a hand to push the blonde's shoulder. House immediately grabbed the outstretched hand and found himself facing the gun held in the other.

 

"You son of a bitch!" the leader said with a growl.

 

"Your hand," said House, turning the man's palm up so the light reflected off the ceiling showed the blood smeared on it. "You didn't put it on the floor. Did you cut yourself?"

 

The man's eyes narrowed. "No."

 

Despite the cold, House was sweating now, for he had a bad feeling, compounded by the absence of a certain sound. "Was there blood on the sink?"

 

The leader became curious. "Why?"

 

"Because I don't hear that branch banging against the wood you just put up."

 

Sure enough, the wind was wailing against the cabinet doors, but the branch that had slapped the window before could no longer be heard.

 

House was about to argue that they check the floor for footprints with the flashlight when metal kissed skull and his head rang again with the sound of bells as he flew backward, striking the floor hard on his back.

 

"I warned you!"

 

House felt the ankle of his bad leg grabbed, and he cried out in pain when he was hauled out from under the table.

 

"There is no devil! It's gone!" the enraged leader shouted.

 

A sudden squeal followed by a crash that collapsed the table echoed around in House's head. He opened his eyes and saw a large figure loom above him in the crazy shadows created by the rolling flashlight, one that moved with frightening speed. There was a scream as gunfire exploded in one continuous stream of ear shattering noise near House's head, and then there was silence. The room went dark immediately and House had to blink to test whether or not it was the flashlight that went out or his consciousness. He felt, rather than heard, something move near him. Then something touched the side of his face where he had twice been struck by the gun, searing his skin with its fiery hot touch.

 

A soft growl vibrated in the air over the ringing in his ears, and, for a fleeting moment, House wondered if the devil had come to judge him. Then three things were pressed into his hands, something metallic rang loudly on the linoleum floor, like a marble being dropped, and then the door from the kitchen to the outside opened. He gripped the things in his hand and realized one of them was the flashlight. He sat up painfully, and clicked it back on, but the doorway was empty. Whatever it was, it was gone.

 

He flicked the beam over and was not surprised to see the agonized features of the leader staring lifelessly back at him. A quick check told him the blonde man was still alive, but unconscious. He reached up to grab the table and realized it wasn't there anymore, nor could he grab the remnants of it on the floor, as his other hand was still clutching two things. He held them out in the light.

 

It was the scissors and the bottle of Vicodin he took for his leg.

 

House's mind reeled, and he reached out and snagged one of the closest chairs to him for support, pulling himself up and into it with great difficulty. He put the scissors and flashlight in his lap before he popped the top off the bottle and took two little pills to help him deal with the pain so he could think.

 

It knew he would need the flashlight for light. It knew he would need the scissors to cut the others free. But it also knew he would need the bottle of pills in order to make it, which meant it knew him.

 

And the only person here who knew him was Logan.

----

 

Tired and hungry, Logan hiked through the woods, following the shadows back to the SUV and letting the carpeting of needles and leaves hide any trail his bare feet might make in the mud. He hadn't been able to restore electricity to the house, even though he put everything back in order. A quick reconnaissance around the area surrounding the bed and breakfast showed several trees had fallen from the high winds, one directly on a power line. He shrugged to himself, knowing there was nothing more to be done about it now. Instead he concentrated on what he still needed to do; cut out the last remaining bullets, wash the blood off his skin, get dressed, and take a nap. A small smile played about his mouth as he wondered if the real devil had such monotonous things to deal with, if there were a real Jersey Devil. In his experience, humans were always behind the worst things in life, so it, too, was probably man made.

 

He glanced up at the angry sky overhead, just visible through the tree tops, hoping lightning wouldn't seek him out before he could finish his business. That would make a real sight, he thought. He'd have a hard time explaining to House why he was naked and burned and out in the woods instead of shot near the SUV, not that coming up with an explanation for the latter would be any easier. Then again, he was probably safe for now, unlikely to be disturbed. By his guess, it was around two in the morning. If House took the pills and cut the others free, he still doubted any of them would come outside to find him anytime soon, given that the storm was not over yet. Thunder rumbled menacingly as he found a large puddle of water and stopped to cut out the bullets and wash himself. Low grunts of pain were the only betrayal of his presence, that and the small splashes he made as he squatted in the water and made sure the cool liquid rinsed every inch of him. A part of him wanted to remain there, soaking in the water under the trees, instead of returning to the civility of clothing - he was still wild inside, no matter what the X-Men thought of him - but he sighed instead and made his way to the SUV at last, finding his clothes, boots and watch right where he had hidden them.

 

Struggling, he cursed the fact that he was wet and the clothes were wet, not a good combination if getting dressed quickly was the goal. And he had just finished buckling his belt when he remembered the bullet holes shorty had left in his flannel shirt and undershirt. He struggled out of them, wringing them as best he could before stowing them in a pocket of his duffle bag while he drew out a fresh set. Luckily, he had a similar flannel shirt, same colors, though slightly different stripe pattern. He doubted anyone would notice, especially since the shirts were only going to get coated with mud the minute he lay down next to the SUV, he thought, as his boots squelched underneath him.

 

Just as he started to get comfortable stretched out on the ground near the passenger door, the wind whipped up again, followed by a fresh burst of rain that quickly turned to hail. Logan actually allowed himself a groan of annoyance. It was one thing to wait outside in the rain, dozing and healing until someone found him. It was quite another thing to get pelted by sharp ice shards. He wouldn't get any sleep at this rate. He slid and wriggled under the belly of the SUV until he was on the driver's side, and, though he was now coated with cold mud and lying in a massive puddle of chilled water, Logan felt better as he listened to the other door get hammered with the pellets of ice and icy rain. Some things were just too much to tolerate, he thought as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

----

 

He shouldn't have fallen asleep.

 

House knew the stress of the night had taken a toll on everyone, especially the older couple, but he shouldn't have fallen asleep. He had managed to make it to the living room and cut the others free, explaining as he did so what had happened, before his throbbing head and leg make him seek out an unoccupied couch to rest for a moment. The two women had pushed him into a reclined position, placing a cold washcloth on his wound and tucking a blanket in around him despite his protests centered on the proper treatment of head wounds.

 

House had awoken much later to find four hours had passed him by, his leg and head felt a little better, and the others were asleep in the chairs and on the floor around him. Even the blonde man was now in the room, tied in a fetal position on the other couch and none the worse for being moved, he confirmed after a quick physical assessment. House carefully removed the gun loosely clutched in Ed's hand and deposited it on a table nearby, preferring not to get shot in the ass as he left the room, then passed through the entryway, the hall, and the kitchen to get to the only unblocked door leading outside.

 

The forest was still, and the cold air pressing down from the leaden clouds above lent a dangerous chill to the early morning. House shivered and drew the blanket he had brought from the couch tightly up and around his shoulders. Trees were down, branches were everywhere, mud blanketed the bare spots in the yard and water shimmered on every surface it could cling to - not a pleasant sight when your mission was to find someone alive in all this mess.

 

He headed for the SUV, the last known place Logan and the short man had been together, assuming the short man had been telling the truth. It was slow going without the cane because House was determined not to slip in the mud. But he still miss-stepped when he made it to the truck and found the area around the passenger side empty of any human form, sprawled on the ground or otherwise. He had been so sure Logan would be here, dead or alive, though his mind tenaciously clung to the alive part, since that was the only theory that explained what killed the two men in the house that made any kind of rational sense. But if Logan wasn't here, where was he?

 

He touched the SUV's rear panel, as if to assure himself it was real at least, and then used the truck as a crutch to make it to the other side, where he stopped to study the sight before him.

 

Logan was on this side, half submerged in a massive puddle of water and mud that oozed out from under the SUV and stretched more than the length of the truck away from it. What part of Logan's face and clothes House could see above the water's surface was soaking wet and streaked with mud. The rise and fall of his chest told House that Logan was still breathing, but at an incredibly slow rate, and the fact that his nose was scant millimeters from being submerged made House lurch forward to prevent the man from drowning before his eyes. When he stepped into the puddle, though, water invaded his shoes and socks, and if he thought the air was chilled, he now believed his feet to be coated with ice.

 

Again House studied Logan, but this time with the sharp eyes of a puzzled doctor. At this temperature and with this length of exposure, Logan should be a corpse now, a victim of sub acute hypothermia. But he was alive. And he wasn't showing any of the classic symptoms, either. Not only was his breathing slow, his color was anything but gray. Wondering if his temperature was also off the mark, House used the side of the SUV to brace himself into a kneeling position in front of Logan. Sure enough, the man's forehead was feverish to his touch, warm when he should have been as cold as the water he lay in. House shifted his position slightly and reached out to feel the pulse in Logan's carotid artery, but as soon as his fingertips made contact with the other man's neck, there was an explosion of movement, scattering mud and water everywhere. Before he even had a chance to blink, House felt the air in his windpipe shut off as an iron grip seized him around the throat and a fist rammed up against his chest.

 

Clutching fruitlessly against the hand that held him, House managed to choke out one word.

 

"Boo."

 

The deadly eyes that faced him now sparked with life, and confusion, House noted, and Logan released his grip, allowing House to fall backward slightly, ending up on his butt in the icy water. Logan readjusted himself and sat cross-legged in the mud, obviously not caring, as House did, that his private parts were now under extreme duress.

 

"Don't do that," Logan said hoarsely, before clearing his throat.

 

"For a dead man, you move pretty fast," House rasped, rubbing his throat.

 

An eyebrow cocked upward, but Logan said nothing.

 

"I was actually worried about your sorry ass," House tried again, seeing if he could get Logan to talk about last night.

 

Now Logan looked genuinely puzzled, and House's certainties began to crumble. Amnesia and confusion were classic symptoms of hypothermia. Logan really could be in danger.

 

"What's the last thing you remember?" House asked with concern.

 

"Being wet and cold," Logan answered simply, raking a hand through his damp hair.

 

Not good, thought House. "What's your name?"

 

The guarded look House was more familiar with suddenly appeared.

 

"Logan."

 

"But is that your first name or last?" pressed House. "Do you know what day it is?"

 

"Go to hell, House," Logan said with a grunt, rising gracefully out of the mud to a standing position. "You want to play doctor, find someone else."

 

Relieved now, and happy that his theories could remain intact, House held out a hand. "At least help me up since you put me in this predicament."

 

Logan jerked him up without effort, and House reached down to drag the now sodden blanket out of the water and mud.

 

"Where's the other shirt?" he asked as he wrung out the worst of the mess from it.

 

"What shirt?" Logan responded, looking around the area as if to catch his bearings.

 

"You ditched it because of the bullet holes, didn't you?" House continued.

 

Logan sighed deeply. "You aren't going to let go of this, are you?"

 

House grinned in reply. "Oh hell no."

 

Logan rubbed his stomach. "I'm hungry. No questions till after I eat."

 

"Fair enough," House nodded. "You deserve that, and my thanks," he said with sincerity. "They really would have killed all of us. And you knew that."

 

"I knew it."

 

"And you did something about it. I'm curious, though, has the super hero dress code gone clothing optional?"

 

"Drop it," Logan growled out as he opened the back of the SUV and took out the ice chest.

 

"Fish? For breakfast?" House raised a curious eyebrow.

 

"Protein."

 

"Ah, of course. Makes perfect sense," said House as he threw the blanket over his shoulder.

 

"Not one word," Logan warned as he closed the door, picked the ice chest up from the ground, and headed for the bed and breakfast.

 

"Your secret's safe with me, kemo sabe," House chuckled. "After all, who would believe I go fishing with the Jersey Devil?"

----

 

The body was moved first, placed quietly next to the short man still covered by Logan's jacket while the others slept on. House was impressed with how silently Logan had done it, in contrast to how noisily he later ransacked the kitchen for a frying pan and implements. Wondering how Logan was going to eat raw fish, since the stove was electric and therefore out of power, he was surprised when Logan left and came back with something House hadn't even known he had packed: a portable two-burner propane stovetop. Logan had filleted the fish and was searching for oil when the wife came in to find out why House was missing. Suspicious at first, the broken end of House's former cane dropped from her hands when she realized what was going on, and she rushed forward to give Logan a warm hug despite his muddy and wet condition, much to House's amusement.

 

She then shoed him off to take a shower upstairs (ice cold, House found out later when she discovered he was just as damp and muddy as Logan had been and packed him off to the bathroom downstairs) and took over the cooking duties. Now dressed in dry clothes from their gear, Logan and House watched as she not only fried the fish but also cooked everything else she could lay hands on from the refrigerator that would spoil quickly without electricity, talking all the while. House realized quickly it was her way of dealing with the stress of the situation, and listened without his usual comments as she told them her name and her husband's (Bellamonte), how Ed and Cindy were engaged (and were a cute couple that had visited before), and how she hoped no one faulted the bed and breakfast for this entire mess (as she generously heaped food on nearby plates as if to placate any knawing thoughts of lawsuit). Breakfast was definitely going to be interesting, House thought, looking at the variety of items on the menu she was serving.

 

"I'm so glad you weren't killed," she said to Logan as she handed them two of the heaping plates of mouthwatering food that reminded House how long it had been since he had eaten and how quickly he wanted to rectify that situation. "What happened to you?"

 

"He must have hit me on the head," Logan said with a shrug. "I woke up in the mud."

 

"Yes, I need to look at that wound after breakfast," House commented with a mouth full of fish.

 

Logan's glare was murderous. "I'm fine," was all he said.

 

"Well, you missed everything," the wife said before launching into a complete, but skewed report of the past evening's events.

 

Listening to her, House had a small revelation. To her, the supernatural had occurred, but not in any sense of local 'devil' legend - she fully believed an angel had swooped down, delivering God's wrath on the two bent on murdering everyone in the place. She had fervently prayed for it and her pleas had been answered. Justice had been served. House looked over at Logan to see what he thought about this, but he was busy wolfing down the food and didn't pay House, or her story apparently, any mind.

 

Later, when the others had sleepily appeared, he and Logan vacated their chairs so others could sit and eat. House noticed Logan studied the boarded up window for a brief moment before asking if anyone had called the police yet.

 

"No phone," Ed responded. "That was the first thing they did - cut the lines and confiscate cell phones."

 

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind if we took them back now," House tartly replied, filling a glass from the tap before turning and heading for the foyer. "I'll make the call and check on the wounded man."

 

As he expected, Logan followed along. But when they found the phones in Joel's jacket pockets and House checked all of them, it was immediately apparent they were useless due to lack of signal.

 

"Bummer," said House, "we may be in for a ride to the nearest town."

 

Logan was busy putting his wallet to rights with the right amount of money taken from the leader's wallet, and piling the rest of the wallets, cash, and credit cards on the floor next to the glass of water. He looked up, grunted, and reached for his cell phone, flipping it open and hitting a small red button on it in one smooth practiced motion. For a moment he was silent as he held it to his ear, then he spoke briefly.

 

"Me. I need the local police to come to a bed and breakfast on 50 in between Jenkins and Speedwell on the edge of the Wharton State Forest. Two men dead, one injured. Tell Chuck I might need his help." Logan frowned. "And I need an insurance agent to help the owners with some damage." Another pause. "No, just a door and a window. Right."

 

Logan flipped the phone closed and met House's sharp gaze with one of his own. "Don't ask."

 

"Right," House said. "Back to the delivery grind now that you're mild mannered again."

 

They moved to the front room, where the third man was struggling with his bonds. He stopped when he saw them watching, and groused, "I've got to pee."

 

"Good for you," House said dryly. "Means you aren't totally dehydrated." He sat on the couch near the man's head. "Drink this."

 

"How the hell am I supposed to drink lying like this?" the man snarled. "Sit me up."

 

"Sure," said Logan, grabbing the man's shirtfront and hauling him upward in one smooth jerk.

 

Immediately the man's arms whipped out from behind him, clobbering Logan in the face and in the stomach with two well-aimed blows, then the man cried out in pain. Logan clocked him on the jaw just as House dropped the glass and grabbed for an arm to restrain. The blonde slumped backward and slid partially off the couch in a boneless mass of unconsciousness before Logan and House could haul him up and put him back in a reclined position.

 

House quickly checked the wound and the man's jaw. Not too much damage, he thought to himself. Then he saw the man's hand and stared. It was broken. A vivid memory of just how much force it took to break the bones in a human hand surfaced and he reached out and grabbed Logan's jaw, pulling it around until he could see the site where the blow had fallen. No damage. Nothing.

 

Logan jerked out of House's grasp and his eyes glittered angrily in a stern warning even as he continued to retie the man's arms behind him, this time with a more practical and probably tighter system than had previously been used.

 

"His hand's broken, Logan. I need to wrap it," House stated, wondering how he could be so surprised.

 

After all, if Logan had taken bullets last night and was still here, a punch on the jaw with no reddening to show for it, no matter how surprisingly it had been dealt, was simply more physical proof of the extraordinary, even if on a smaller scale.

 

"Yeah, I see that," Logan replied. "Can't make a good fist, I guess."

 

"I guess."

 

House made do with a couple of ripped up dishtowels Logan fetched from the kitchen, wrapping carefully so the circulation in the man's hand wasn't compromised but the injured bones were immobilized.

 

He looked up at the man towering over him as he sat on the couch. "We need to talk."

 

Logan shrugged and pulled House up from his seated position. He then cleared the front door of all the furniture and opened it.

 

Once outside, they moved to two rocking chairs on the porch sitting beneath the windows of the front room. Logan's creaked in protest when he sat, but revealed nothing else as they watched for the coming visitors.

 

"Commotio Cordis," House began slowly. "Also called Innocent Chest Blow. Ever heard of it?" Logan shook his head. "In simple terms, it's a low-energy chest blow that happens in sync with a heart beat; it stops the heart cold. Instant death. Trouble is, there's a very narrow window of opportunity for it to happen - and we're talking less than a second of time, here - so it is very, very rare. For two people to have died from it in the same house and on the same night is incredible."

 

"So the fact that they're dead isn't what's bothering you, but how they died?" Logan snorted. "And here I thought you were different." Then he motioned with a finger to be quiet. Not a minute later, the owner strolled out onto the porch and assessed the damage.

 

"I guess I can take my car out and flag down a patrolman," Mr. Bellamonte said hesitantly, eyeing the downed trees, slick roads, and still roiling skies.

 

"One of the cell phones worked," said House. "They're on their way."

 

Relief flooded the man's features. "I'll tell the missus," he said before reentering the building with a happier step.

 

"You knew he was coming. You heard him. You have sensitive hearing," House accused Logan. "And I'll bet you can hear a heartbeat, can't you? How? Is that how you killed them?" No answer, and he realized Logan was still waiting for an answer. "I wouldn't say their deaths don't bother me, considering how they died," House offered, "but I've seen my share of dead people. I don't have phobias about corpses. I'm just curious - they were going to kill me, and everyone else. And they were executed for that. You executed them."

 

Logan reached for a cigar, but realized he wasn't wearing his jacket, only a T-shirt, and sighed. "Did you want angelic vengeance? Would you rather they were ripped apart in a bloody mess?"

 

"I'm saying they were killed rather mercifully for murderers," House commented, trying to keep the conversation on a neutral keel. "A devil wouldn't have done that."

 

Again there was a snort. "Just spit out your questions, House."

 

House smiled slightly. "I guess I'm trying to figure out what kind of fairy tale you belong in. There's only so many possibilities. You bleed, that makes you human. But bullets don't kill you. Care to let me see your chest?"

 

"No."

 

"So no wounds ever show; makes sense since you have no scars," continued House without missing a beat. He began to rock slowly. "And you wake with the intent to kill, but stop yourself. I'd say there's some military training there." For a while he was silent, then he stopped rocking and looked at Logan. "Who are you? What do you really do for a living?"

 

Logan continued to gaze out at the trees. "I can't answer your questions."

 

"Can't or won't?"

 

"Both. It's better if you just let this little mystery die."

 

House shook his head. "I can't."

 

"Can't or won't?"

 

"Both. I can't let go of something like this," House explained. "My job is to figure out puzzles; it's my talent, the one thing I'm good at. When people are sick and no one else can figure it out, I have to find out what's wrong, and the more complex the puzzle, the better I like it."

 

"I'm not sick," Logan countered.

 

"No, you just see in the dark, hit people when their heartbeats are just right, survive in extreme environments, run on very little sleep, have terrible nightmares, and can't be killed. I bet the military just loved you." House broke off, and his expression grew grim. "It was a military doctor, wasn't it? They changed you?"

 

"And if they did, and they loved me so much, why am I not wearing a uniform?" Logan asked, now slowly rocking his chair.

 

House sucked in a breath. "I see."

 

"Do you?"

 

"They lost you and you don't want to be found again. What the hell did they do to you?"

 

"Curiosity or concern?"

 

House sighed. "Both," he said honestly.

 

Now it was Logan's turn to sigh. For a while he said nothing, and then asked a surprising question.

 

"What starts cancer?"

 

House mulled that one over, wondering what answer Logan was looking for. "In simplest terms, a mutated cell that reproduces out of control," he replied.

 

"So what would happen if human DNA all over the body was mutated, not just a single cell?"

 

"You mean recode how all cells are programmed? The military doesn't have that capability yet, Logan. Nobody does." House's eyes narrowed. "Or do they?"

 

"You forgot about God," Logan reminded him.

 

House goggled. "Natural mutation? Of course, that's why everyone's different, but a genetic string, capable of producing-."

 

"A human who heals from just about anything? You don't think that's possible?"

 

House's brain struggled to make the connection his instinct told him to run with.

 

"Snap. There really are mutants?" he asked. "It seems more like science fiction than fact."

 

"And you wondered what fairy tale I belonged to," chided Logan.

 

House's heart hammered in his chest with excitement, longing to know what medical limitations Logan had, if any. "You mean you really are a 'super' human, like a super man?"

 

Logan gazed back out at the trees again. "Not really. I didn't come with the internal bulletproofing; the doctor added it in later. That's where the nightmares come in."

 

House felt like he had been drenched with an icy shower again as he closed his eyes and let the implications of just what a military doctor would do with a super-healing man come to mind. "Oh, crap."

 

"Exactly," Logan replied as a unit, possibly the same one that had pulled over on them last night, rolled into the gravel and mud strewn yard, avoiding the branches littering the area. "Now you know why it was important for the devil to be here last night, and not me."

----

 

"And that's how it ended?"

 

House nodded, his feet propped up on his desk and a full, but very cold cup of coffee perched forlornly at his elbow. His mind was elsewhere as Wilson prattled on about the exciting adventure House had recounted in brief terms; he really wanted to be in the small meeting room visible through the glass wall, scribbling madly on the white board to try and figure this whole thing out. Instead, he just sat there numbly, absently twirling the new cane in his hand.

 

"You can't tell me the New Jersey Devil came in and wrecked the place, killing two people and leaving no trace," Wilson said with skepticism. "Is that really what happened?"

 

"The official report says a person or persons unknown did it, but they're not going to try to find the persons unknown anytime soon," House said slowly. "It was dark, it was stormy, and I didn't get a good look at what it was. Neither did anyone else."

 

"And Logan?"

 

House shrugged. "Mild concussion, hypothermia - he recovered pretty quickly with no lasting damage."

 

Wilson gave a low whistle. "He's lucky. Might be a while before he goes fishing with you again."

 

"Might's an understatement," House muttered.

 

"What?"

 

"Nothing."

 

Wilson stretched in the chair opposite, not bothering to hide his yawn. "Well, it's been fun, but I think I'll give up and go home to bed."

 

The clock on the wall noted the early hour and House gave a heavy sigh. In return for missing time in the clinic from not getting back from his vacation promptly, Cuddy had given him the nightshift, or nightmare duty, which he had completed a few hours ago, in addition to regular hours the next day. There was no real reason for him to go home at this point, not when he was due back in the office shortly.

 

A soft tap sounded on his office door and he looked up to see a well-dressed gentleman in a wheelchair waiting for permission to enter. Knowing Wilson would jump up and assist him, House stayed where he was, wondering one, how a person could get into this part of the hospital at this hour, and two, if this had anything to do with Logan.

 

"Good evening, Dr. House. I hope you won't mind my intrusion without proper introduction," the man said, wheeling closer.

 

"I won't stand on ceremony if you don't," House replied evenly.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, House saw Wilson gave him a sharp glance of rebuke as he reseated himself, pushing the chair back a bit with his feet to make room for the visitor.

 

The man chuckled. "Is there any chance we could speak alone?"

 

An overwhelming feeling that he should shoo Wilson from the office rolled over House and left him slightly disoriented.

 

"No," House replied. "I'd rather he stayed."

 

A small smile played about the corners of the man's mouth. "Very well."

 

Wilson offered no comment, and House had the distinct feeling Wilson was no longer seeing anything as he sat there staring into space with a vacant expression.

 

"He'll be fine, don't worry," the man said as House called out Wilson's name and snapped his fingers. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Professor Charles Xavier, Logan's current employer." As if reading House's thoughts, he continued with, "Dr. Henry McCoy also is in my employ. I run a school for gifted and talented children. They teach assigned classes at my institution."

 

House mulled that over, absently noting how the man's bald pate fairly glowed under the overhead lights of the office. "By gifted and talented, you mean mutant."

 

"Precisely," answered the man, only his lips never moved.

 

It took a moment for House to realize the voice had echoed around in his head. "That's pretty good," he said, eyeing Professor Xavier with new interest. "I take it McCoy's mutation makes him a recluse."

 

The smile grew broader, though no teeth showed. "He would attract attention in a crowd, yes."

 

"And you want what again?"

 

"To find out exactly what you are thinking," Xavier replied.

 

"Shouldn't be hard for you. Is this what Logan meant by needing your help?" House asked. "Are you here to make sure I never talk about him?"

 

"That was not my intention," the man replied with a frown of concern.

 

House thought for a moment. "I write to McCoy, and Logan comes and delivers the papers when FedEx would have done just fine. McCoy sent him because he was curious about me. Why? And why send Logan when he hates doctors and hospitals so much?" House cocked his head. "Why send him back when I was beginning to get curious about him? Was this a test of some kind? Did I pass when I pegged him as something other than human?"

 

Xavier nodded, "You did indeed. Henry and I know of your formidable reputation as a diagnostician. When you wrote him, he took the opportunity to wheedle Logan into delivering the papers, ostensibly to see what kind of person you were. Unfortunately Logan wouldn't say much about you when he returned, but you wrote Henry to ask about Logan's past. That was significant," he added, "if only because of the way you phrased your request for knowledge. We knew you were the type who would not only solve a puzzle presented to you in a clinical setting, but would follow through if you felt strongly enough about the subject. It was a fight to coax Logan into going fishing with you again."

 

House was stunned. "Why?"

 

"Oh, not because he didn't enjoy the fishing. He realized, as Henry and I did, that you were a danger to yourself. We told him to enjoy his time off from regular duties and he finally complied, seeking you out because you provided a certain respite from his usual jovial companions at the school."

 

"A danger to myself?"

 

"You would be particularly valuable to certain parties wishing to, say, diagnose oddities in certain humans," the man replied slowly. "I'm surprised you haven't been approached yet."

 

The cane twirled slowly in House's hand again as he put two and two together. "You used Logan. You knew I'd figure him out."

 

"Yes, but we had to know what you would do with the information, once you believed it was true."

 

"You used him."

 

Xavier smiled again. "I see. I must warn you that Logan has no understanding of family or friendship. While I regard him as one of my family, he does not understand the concept, having had it taken away from him, along with everything else."

 

House stared. "What do you mean?"

 

"That doctor, and I use the term loosely here, not only performed unnecessary surgeries on Logan, he took away his memories as well. Whatever person he was before the military decided to mold him into a weapon is lost." Xavier's eyes clouded with sorrow and he heaved a great sigh. "Even the name Logan is possibly a pseudonym, I'm afraid, but it is all that he remembers. I do not want to ever see him in the hands of such monsters again, but more than that I wish to prevent any of my students from suffering the same fate, or any mutant for that matter. For that reason, I used him to see if you were capable of making your ultimate diagnosis, and what you would do about it afterward."

 

Wilson's blank face reflected his own emotions, House thought. He wasn't sure what to think anymore. "Logan said the doctor was dead," he finally said out loud.

 

"And he is," Xavier confirmed. "But we are not sure there are not more volunteers waiting in the wings to replace him."

 

"You think I'd do that?" House rasped, glaring at the dapper man. "I'll admit I have a certain reputation for callousness, but I'm not-."

 

Xavier held up a hand. "If you had not first met Logan and known him as a human, wouldn't you be curious to see how he functioned? Run tests to find his limitations, if any?"

 

"I would," House admitted. "I love solving puzzles."

 

"And to you a patient is simply a problem waiting to be solved," Xavier said kindly. "I understand."

 

Silence reigned for a while until Xavier coughed gently. "I do have someone waiting for me."

 

"And you want to know what I'll do with the information, I suppose," House said darkly. "So would you wipe my brain clean if you thought I was a danger to your students?"

 

"I would," Xavier said honestly, "though I'm loathe to tamper with such a delicate instrument. You have a gift for healing. I'm only asking that you not comply should someone ask you to use it to find people who are 'different.' Since Logan did not comment on your first fishing excursion, nor on any of the ones since, I'm inclined to think he respects you enough to not compromise information about you to others. I'm also inclined to believe you are of similar ilk."

 

The cane twirled absently. "I'm not a rat, Xavier. Doctor/patient privilege - he's safe. Any patient I treat is safe."

 

"You never treated him."

 

"I asked questions about his health. You and McCoy should have realized I was trying to treat him then. Get out of here," House added, "And fix him before you go. I don't like having someone use my friends like that," he said jerking his head at Wilson.

 

Xavier let the annoying smile play around his lips again, but was wise enough not to question the warning. "I understand," he said, as Wilson blinked and turned his head. "Perhaps we can talk another time when the hour is not so late."

 

"House, I'll go. You two can talk, I don't mind," Wilson offered, standing now.

 

"No, he's leaving, aren't you?" House asked pointedly. Xavier gave a small bow from the waist. "See, he's leaving. I'm sure he had the wrong doctor."

 

Wilson left, escorting the enigmatic Professor Xavier with him, leaving House alone in the office. He moved his feet from off his desk and took his shoes off, rotating his ankles and stretching his sock-encased feet out against the floor. What he really wanted to know now was whether or not Logan would ever come back. And should he? Could he curb his curiosity about the man now that he knew what kind of medical wonder he was? Was Xavier right? Would he become a monster like the one who had done so much damage to Logan? No, he thought. As jaded as he had become toward others, he wouldn't. Anyone telling him what he needed to do for the good of humanity was only going to rub him the wrong way. The military could kiss his ass. Cuddy could kiss his ass, too, for that matter, he thought, realizing he needed to catch at least a few winks in the next few minutes or she would light into him for sleeping on the job.

 

A phone number popped into his mind, the numbers clearly etched in his consciousness as if he was seeing them on paper. House rolled his eyes at the Professor's gesture of trust, and pulled his cell phone out, entering the number and putting it under the letter L in his address book before pocketing it once more.

 

Wilson was a good friend, one he had known for years, one who knew his faults and still stuck with him through his worst times. He had a feeling Logan would also make a good friend, one slightly less irritating than the always good-natured Wilson, though infinitely more dangerous to be around apparently. But if all anyone else around Logan could do was use him, then it was only fair that House make sure he didn't follow the same protocol. He could wait. Let Logan see if he wanted to go fishing again someday.

 

House smiled to himself as he went in search of a couch for a few minutes' rest. After all, if the next fishing trip were as interesting as the last one, it would be worth waiting for. Not everyone got to fish with the devil and live to tell the tale.

 

 

End.