house_wilson_ghc | Rational Principle Part VIII 2/2

“She’s in the hospital.”

Wilson sipped his Earl Grey tea, wishing he was anywhere but having lunch with Senator Monroe. Nice restaurant. Lousy company. “She?”

He knew Monroe was talking about the president. Osuna was his favourite topic of gossip for that the chauvinist pig couldn’t well tolerate the idea of a woman being in charge of the Union, never mind one as deadly sharp as Osuna. So on-the-ball that she easily out-smarted him.

“Osuna. Her own doctor’s there. Who knows? She might not make it.”

You wish. Still, Wilson did not like the sound of that. He pulled out his wallet, calling for the bill. “This is on me, okay?”

“What? No dessert?” Though Monroe was pleased.

“Thanks, no. Need to get to the office.”

“How do you find time to be a doctor, James? All those snotty noses and bowel noises. I couldn’t stand it myself.”

James just smiled.

“House.”

“Yes, Master and commander?”

James frowned. Greg was still his driver on top of now being his unofficial consulting diagnostician. “You know, no one likes a smart ass.”

“You’re the one who hired me. What’s the problem?”

“We need to make a detour to the hospital.”

“Which one?”

Osuna was still in town and would be as long as she was still sick. “The General.”

“That’s where your president’ staying.”

“She’s everyone’s president, and yes. I’m worried.”

“Maybe I should take a look at her?”

“I’ll take a look at her. You stay in the car with your hat on. The place is probably crawling with G-Men. Besides this is a social call.”

Not seconds after Senator and Doctor James Wilson (after a proper pat-down), was allowed entry into the president’s private room, his phone rang. Wilson smiled warmly at the president in apology (though it was unnecessary since she appeared to be asleep), raised one finger anyway to beg her patience (just in case she wasn’t asleep), and answered his ringing phone.

Impatiently, and without looking at the call display - “Yes?”

“How’s she look?”

Wilson turned away from Osuna’s near-by ears, stood in one corner of the room and growled into the tiny microphone. “Greg. I told you never to call me.”

“That was so this morning. Stop living in the past. How does she look?”

“We are not doing this.” He hung up.

The device immediately trilled again, and Wilson answered less its insistent and annoying ringing wake her up. “Greg, I just told you- “

“-pale, flushed, waxy, blotchy?”

“Stop calling me, Greg, this is-“

“Rash, edema, fever, chills? Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

Wilson sighed, closing his eyes on the inevitable defeat heading his way crashing its brass cymbals. “Just a second.” Thankfully the president had not awoken, and he crept over to her bed.

Her face was thinner, but just barely. It may have been the effect that she was laying almost flat on her back. Her skin was dry and pale, and she appeared to have no fever. James related these symptoms to Greg, more to shut him up than because he himself needed any consulting assistance at this point. Besides this was just a social call anyway. “Can I go now?” He whispered fiercely into the tiny phone.

“How old is she? Does she have any history of digestive upset? What about her family – do they -?”

“Look, I just got here, and her doctor hasn’t exactly handed me her file and said “go to town”.”

“Well, get the history and call me back. Get blood, stool and urine samples, too.”

“How the hell am I supposed to get those? I am not, I remind you, her personal physician.”

“But you are her friend.” Greg’s most infuriatingly reasonable voice calmly answered back, “find a way, and call me back. Better yet, bring them to me and we’ll run the labs ourselves.”

“Greg, I will do no such insane thing. I’m hanging up now.”

“You’re right.” Greg said - again cool as a cucumber salad. “What was I thinking? It is crazy. Better to let her die, so what’z-name can get into office. What do we want with a reasonable, fair-minded president like her anyway? Forget the whole thing.” He hung up.

Wilson stared at the blank screen. How could he get what Greg wanted without Osuna’s doctor or the president herself finding out? He supposed he could just wake her up and ask, but what if she said no, or asked a lot of probing questions? Ones he had no truthful answers for? After all, how often does anyone, just out of curiosity as a friend, request a sample of your stool? Or want to drain a vial or two of your blood, just to be neighbourly?

The bathroom was there, off to his right. What if...? He checked the toilet. Upon close inspection, he found trace amounts of runny stool resting on the bottom of the tank, just where the pipe began to curve under the over-hang. Probably remnants of Osuna’s last bowel movement. It was unlikely anyone else would pop into the president of the Union’s private hospital bathroom to fire off a missile without permission.

Wilson searched for and found the tiny bathroom cup dispenser. He also found and donned a pair of latex gloves from the toilet tank cover, where the assigned cleaning staff had so thoughtfully left a box sitting. Taking one of the waxed paper cups, Wilson reached down into the water and managed to scoop a very small amount of the stool into it, and then with great patience draw the cup up from the water without losing the sample to the now disturbed water.

He stuffed the tiny cup into another sterile glove and tied the end of it closed with a fourth.

What about urine? Osuna was hooked up to a catheter, and there was a recent wash of urine in the bag. Fresh urine was better, but the used portion was all he had to work with. He certainly couldn’t insert a needle into the woman’s abdomen to get the fresh stuff which, undoubtedly, Greg would demand if he thought it was remotely possible.

Gathering the urine was a simple matter of unhooking the drain line from the bottom of the bag, and letting some of the Ol’ Yeller’ trickle into another latex glove - tying this one off as well.

Obtaining a blood sample would not be so simple. There were no vials of the stuff laying around the room for his convenience. Getting even a single vial without waking up his president would be impossible. But perhaps, if he went about it the right way, getting a tiny sample would not be too difficult.

Wilson quietly searched the room, opening doors so they would not creek, and carefully sliding our drawers so they did not squeak, until he found what he was looking for – a disposable razor. A straight-edge would have been easier, or even an old-fashioned double-sided job, but this would have to do.

Concealing himself in the bathroom, and using his tiny pocket knife, Wilson hacked at the tough plastic until he was able to extract one of the triple edged single sided razors. It was enough to cut the skin, but not too deeply. Enough to gather a few drops but not seriously injure.

Wilson took another pair of latex gloves and a new square of facial tissue from a few layers down in the box (so to secure the most sterile example). He carefully removed the thin blanket and sheet to expose Osuna’s feet.

When stealing blood, location was everything. The outside flesh of the foot was the least sensitive part of the very sensitive organ. It wasn’t ideal but it was the only choice. Osuna might feel the prick of pain in her sleep and she might, nor might not, wake up. Either way, he had a ready explanation for her should she awaken.

“The razor blade got mixed up in the bed sheets, Missus President, and I was attempting to remove it.” Something like that.

Pretty fucking weak, but he supposed he’d come up with on-the-spot brilliance when or if he was caught in the act of maiming the president of the Union.

Amazingly, she did not wake up, and Wilson made a fast retreat with his stolen goods, tossing the weird collection of human body samples into the front seat beside Greg House, the cause of all his new miseries.

Greg fingered the odd assortment with curious fingers.

“There.” The Senator said to his limo driver. “Go nuts.”

XXX

tbc