A/N: Thanks to all of you who've been reading "Rest Stop", and kudos to the site for enabling everyone who contributes stories to see where their readership lies. I've been amazed (and flattered) by how many folks have checked in from all over the globe. "Cool", as House might say.

My thanks also go out to Betz88, who has offered me insight, encouragement and friendship through the writing of this story...and beyond (go read her stuff, if you haven't already. It's killer).

Thanks very much again! I hope you'll enjoy this final chapter of "Rest Stop".

-27-

"Closure (2016)"

These backroads hadn't changed at all. It was as if they had been captured in time, to be displayed forever and always inside a snowglobe. Everything was still and silent and frozen. The snow encrusted evergreens flanked the rutted road just the way she remembered. The sky was one contiguous steel gray cloud. No merry carrot nosed snowmen lived here. It was the same sad New Jersey road she had left seven years before.

It did strike her odd that in those seven years not one ambitious entrepreneur had made tracks to build up this area. Making it as vapid and soul sucking as the rest of civilization couldn't be too difficult.

She rubbed her eyes and chided herself for being maudlin. When they started out on this trip, before even getting on the plane, she had promised herself to make her best attempt at keeping a good face on, the one she had dutifully crafted when Sam was little. It would be a difficult promise to keep, but she would do her best, for Sam's sake.

Regardless of everything that happened, Sam was still her kid. She had a responsibility to put him first and not wallow in the self pity that hung over her like the gloomy New Jersey cloud cover. He shouldn't have to put up with her moods. He shouldn't have been forced to put up with a lot of things.

He was all grown up now, twenty-one and legal. He had his own life, his own apartment, a girlfriend Lisa actually liked, and some brilliant prospects. He had won an ASCAP foundation scholarship and was currently attending music school at UCLA. She didn't want anything, especially not the past, to distract him from his life and goals. But it was time to bring him here, to give him what was his.

The waterworks were on their way; she could feel them rushing at her, sensed that familiar tightening in her throat.

You didn't really think you would get through this intact, did you?

She grabbed a tissue from her purse, dabbed at her eyes again. It wouldn't do to break down in front of him. Not that he hadn't seen her cry. At first it was all she did, on and off, every day for months. For a long time she existed in what she had come to call The Depths.

The news came hurtling at her at the worst possible time. She had been getting ready for bed when the phone rang. Charles was unusually attentive that evening, kissing her neck and running his free hand down her body as he handed her the receiver.

The man on the other end of the phone apologized for the lateness of the hour and identified himself as Carl Stolls, Gregory House's lawyer.

Those words caused something to tear at her insides, some spectral twisting, turning sword fueled by Carl Stolls's patter.

He remained coolly detached, totally professional, as he explained that Greg had listed her as next of kin. Next of Kin. The sword had become a fist, tightening around her entrails as Stolls went on, explaining about the murder, without going into the gory details.

Buzzards...vultures...desert rats...tearing at his skin...

Lisa now wished she hadn't asked to see the police photographs. At the time she thought that maybe she needed the closure. The subsequent nightmares told her she would have been better off not knowing.

She arranged for the body to be flown to Los Angeles, where, with James Wilson's help, she planned the funeral and burial. It seemed the right place to have him interred. L.A. was where he was headed when he died, the place he might have ultimately ended his journey anyway.

The news hit James hard, affecting his health, his schoolwork...his marriage. After a few weeks of watching him wallow in his seemingly unending sorrow, the wife became less than sympathetic, which prompted James to phone Lisa on the sly.

The calls would come at odd times, sometimes in the early morning, other times in the middle of the night. He never said hello, just began chattering the moment Lisa picked up the phone. He talked about everything, anything, school, money, home, Bonnie, food, TV, always making his way back, coming full circle to lament the senseless murder of his best friend. The words spilled from him like a great gushing fount, but Lisa never tried to stop him, and never asked him not to call. Listening to him go on about much of what she was thinking made her feel better. This unorthodox therapy seemed to work for both of them on many levels.

James left Bonnie soon after the funeral, threw himself into his schoolwork and was now in the final year of his residency at UCLA Medical Center. Oncology was his specialty, and Lisa promised he would always have a job with her if he wanted it.

With his help, and the address book Stolls had recovered from Greg's belongings, she was able to contact those who might have had some interested in paying their final respects.

There was Dylan Crandall, Denny and Marta Stockholm, (the couple who used to manage Dynamite), a small group of orderlies from Princeton-Plainsboro, whose names and numbers Greg saw fit to keep...

James made the call to Greg's mother, who after getting the news, took the next plane out, a dazed looking Colonel House in tow. The woman surprised them all by taking care of all the little details neither James or Lisa considered: the right sort of flowers, a reading of a particular poem Greg enjoyed as a child. Her contributions made the sparsely attended funeral something special, a celebration of life that might have even garnered Greg's seal of approval.

The music was selected by Dylan Crandall, who was also able to shed light on the cryptic "Lord of the Rings" writing discovered in Greg's wallet. He explained about the drummer known as Baggins and was not at all surprised that Greg had stolen the suicide note. With her permission, he was left to send it off to Baggins's family.

Closure.

Sam was driving her now. Wasn't it amazing what seven years could do? The passage of time had made a man out of the boy.

During following months, as she wallowed in The Depths, her relationship with Charles took a serious, irreversible nosedive. The revelation of her relationship with Greg was the strafe bomb that sent life as they knew it into a tailspin, crashing and burning into cinders on a sunny Sunday morning.

Was this why Greg put her down as Next of Kin? There had always been a method to his madness.

Surprisingly she felt better once that tumultuous day had passed. It was as if a terrible poison churning inside her had finally been purged.

Sam came through the breakup better than expected. Lisa demanded and received full custody of him (without the slightest argument from Charles). It was as though contentment and peace of mind were written into the settlement along with financial compensation, division of property and child support payments.

She figured Sam would opt for something flashy when they arrived at the Hertz counter at the airport. But he surprised her by choosing a four wheel drive Volvo: a safety first vehicle that would get them over the ragged New Jersey backroads without a hitch.

"You still haven't told me why we're here." Sam turned into the parking lot of the Rest Stop and cut the motor. His smile was tolerant as he drummed those long fingers against the wheel. "We've come three thousand miles and I still don't know why."

"You've waited this long." Lisa pushed open her door. "A few more minutes ain't gonna kill you."

They stood by the car, the soft tic, tic of the cooling motor drifted through the winter chill. They stared at the Rest Stop, that dilapidated relic, their breaths frosting, mingling, then floating off into the ether.

"It looks condemned." Sam gestured at the boarded up windows, the splintered porch, the awning that hadn't been hosed down since...forever.

"It's not." Lisa smiled, taking his arm. "Let's go inside."

"You have keys?" He looked at her, amazed, those dark eyes shining with curiosity. "I thought we were just here, you know, to reminisce."

She tugged at his arm, drew him closer to the building. "An awful long way to go just to dredge up old times."

"I know, but-"

They moved over the thin, ice encrusted snow, then stepped onto the porch, boots clomping against the half rotted wood. Lisa's keys jangled as she sorted through them. She found the right one, pushed into the lock and pulled open the door.

The store smelled damp as a wet dog, as musty as an ancient tomb. Lisa grimaced as she hurried toward the rear of the shop to turn on the heat and the lights. The old band posters were still on display but the jukebox was gone, put in storage. Smart move by Greg. By now it would probably be considered an antique, something of real value.

She'd had the utilities turned on earlier in the week and was glad she did. The apartment would doubtless be freezing. It never could hold the heat and would take a while to warm up in this weather. No sense being uncomfortable while slogging through what had to be done.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she traipsed around the barren place. The racks were dust caked. Cobwebs had taken up residence in the corners; the place had a haunted feel to it but she dared not go there, dared not ruminate about a restless spirit dancing in the rafters.

He would laugh at you, call you Mistress of the Night.

Tears threatened again, but she wouldn't have it. She was here for Sam. Through the corner of her eye she watched him wander past the racks, kick at the dust, study the posters on the wall. He had grown into a bright, tall, handsome boy and despite the divorce, despite Greg's death, he still had that easy laugh, and that optimism that seemed to have been handed to him by the gods. He certainly hadn't inherited it from Charles or herself.

That easygoing nature would serve him well in life.

"Mom?" he called.

"Sam?"

"You still haven't answered me."

"I was just waiting for the apartment to warm up."

"Oh." He blinked, his smile taking flight. "You and Greg had a thing, didn't you?"

It was a fair question. Surprisingly, it was one he had never broached before. Maybe the fact was so obvious, he never needed to, until now.

"Yes, Sam." This time a tear took the initiative and made its way down her cheek before she could do anything about it. "We had a thing."

She headed up the stairs slowly, with some reluctance now, unprepared for the mix of emotions assaulting her with each step. What might the memories locked inside that room do to her? Was his scent still rife in there after all these years? Would she smell his soap, his deodorant, his cologne, him the moment she stepped inside?

"Should be nice and toasty in there by now, Mom."

"I know, Sam...I know." She sniffed and turned the knob, moving into the apartment. It smelled of dust and cobwebs but nothing else. Hardly a trace of him, of them remained.

Only the bed.

It was still made with the sheets and comforter she had bought eons ago. Their pillows were there, side by side. She wondered if she looked close enough, would she find a strand of hair or perhaps a telltale stain of a spilled drink?

Stop it!

This was Sam's day, his time for discovery. Lisa turned, savoring his smile as he approached the bed, as he saw what was laid out on the bed.

"He never lied, did he?" He asked in a voice no louder than a sigh.

"Not if he could help it."

Seating himself on the end of the bed, he reached over and fingered the studs on the sleeve of the leather riding jacket. "I loved this thing, wanted it so bad. That too." He cast an eye toward the helmet hanging on the end of the bedpost.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get them for you then."

"It never crossed my mind that I wouldn't have them someday." Sam looked at her. "Greg said he would hold onto them for me and he did."

"In his will, he stipulated you get them after you turn twenty-one."

"Uh...wow." The sleeve fell from his fingers; the mention of the will flustered him, causing his hands to tremble in his lap.

"He also wanted you to have his books, his CDs and his piano, which are in a self storage place about a mile from here."

"I don't-" Sam shook his head, pressed his palms against his knees.

"Sam?"

"I don't--"

"Greg gave you the Rest Stop."

His head jerked up. He was dry-eyed but his lower lip trembled, a sure sign those tears were on their way.

"He stipulated it was to be yours, free and clear..." She reached into her purse for a tissue, and handed it to him. "You can do with it what you want."

"Oh..."

"You can even sell it."

"I would never do that," he said softly, balling the tissue in his fist. "It'll stay like it is until I find someone to run it. We'll stock it, put gas in the pumps." His eyes held a faraway look. "Bring back the jukebox."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"It'll be a lot of work." She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. "Now I know what you'll be doing on your summer vacation."

After taking a tremulous breath, Sam crooned in a low, ominous growl, "Everyday I got the blues, from my head down to my shoes."

He sounded too much like Greg for comfort, but she wouldn't tell him that. The song made her happy. It always had.

She sat beside her son, wrapping her arms around him. Closing her eyes, she could almost hear Greg moaning along with their rusty rendition of Buddy Guy's blues classic. "Damn right, I got the blues," she sang to both of them. "Da-a-mn right."

fin