Blood and Thunder, a west wing fanfic

Fanfic: Blood and Thunder

Blood and Thunder
Jane Harper
RATING: R (language, some violence)
SYNOPSIS: The fifteenth man has talked, someone is being stalked, someone is pursued by someone they know, and someone else is doing what he should have long ago. Burma Shave.
ARCHIVE: Sure. Just let me know where. HTML available.
DISCLAIMER: We didn't start the fire. Please don't sue us, your attorneys would laugh when they see the balance sheet.

When Josh Lyman arrived at work Tuesday morning, there were flowers on his desk, an arrangement of carnations and daisy mums that matched the color of his office walls. Slightly embarrassed, he went looking for his assistant Donna Moss, to thank her.
"I didn't send them," Donna said. "Why would I send flowers? How could I afford it on my pitiful salary?"
Josh sighed as he anticipated another morning wrangling with Donna about a raise. Returning to his office, he booted up his computer and checked for a phone number.
"California Relay Service," the voice answered.
"Hi. My name is Joshua Lyman, and I'd like to speak to Joey Lucas, at 310-555-1620."
"TTY or TDD?" the operator asked.
"TDD," Josh responded, and waited for the connection.
"She has answered, Mr. Lyman. What's your message?"
"Tell her thanks for the flowers."
The voice responded, "She didn't send the flowers, and wants to know when you're getting your own TDD."
Donna stuck her head in the door of his office and pointed to her watch. "Senior staff," she said.
"Tell her I'll look into that, and that I had to run. Thank you, operator."

Sarah Cooper was running late, dashing around in the condo she shared with Leo McGarry, collecting the stack of memos and articles she would need for her morning. Tossing them into her backpack, she hooked the backpack on the back of her wheelchair and sped out the door to the elevator and down to her van.
When she got to the van, there was a ribbon tied to the driver's side door handle. Attached to it was a 3 x 5 card with one word written on it:
BOOM!

Toby was the first one in for the morning staff meeting. Picking up a bagel off the tray on the table in Leo's office, he sat and stared at it for a moment, then began to mutter.
"…ha-olam, hamotzi . . . hamotzi . . . "
"Lechem min ha'aretz," he heard Leo finish.
"Leo, how does a good Catholic boy like you know the Hebrew blessing for bread?" Toby asked, smiling. "Maybe because you hear it every morning at breakfast?"
"Ya think?" Leo responded, grabbing a bagel for himself. "And Sarah would say, shame on you for not knowing it!"
Shame on me, indeed, he thought in silence.

After the morning gaggle, Danny Concannon slipped up behind CJ Cregg and took her elbow. "I've got to talk to you," he said, urgently.
The two of them went into CJ's private office and closed the door. "What's up, Danny?" she asked.
"CJ, I could lose my job for this. I'm going to hand you something explosive, because I have great respect for the President and don't want to see him irretrievably hurt." He led her over to her sofa and both of them sat down. "I'm glad you're sitting down."
"Danny, you sound like Chicken Little. What are you talking about?"
Pausing a moment and taking a deep breath, he asked, "Has the White House been covering up the fact that President Bartlet has a fatal illness?"
"Good God no, Danny," CJ answered. "What a cockamamie notion. The President's annual physical examinations are a matter of public record, and his doctors have pronounced him entirely healed from the shooting."
"Are you sure?" Concannon asked, looking her straight in the eye.
"Cross my heart and kiss my elbow," she responded. "Do we need to issue a statement on this? I mean, is it something that's all over the room, or is this just a single deluded source of yours?"
"Right now I think it's just mine, but it comes from a knowledgeable source, and I wouldn't blow it off until you talk to somebody. I'm giving you a head's up because I think he's not going to stay quiet."
CJ frowned. "You wouldn't consider telling me—"
"CJ!" Danny looked shocked. "No, I wouldn't consider telling you!"
"OK," she replied, getting up. "Thanks, and I owe you one."
He grinned. "I'll remember that." And he stood up and left her office.
She crossed over to her desk and picked up the phone, punching a button. "Hi Margaret, it's CJ. Is he free?"

"Rabbi Glassman, please. Toby Ziegler calling." Toby was sitting at his desk nervously tapping the surface with a pencil.
An answering voice came from the receiver. "Toby! How are you?"
"I'm fine, Rabbi. Listen, can I make an appointment to come in and see you?"
"Is there something wrong?"
"No, not— it's nothing per— no, there's nothing really wrong. I'd just like to talk to you about something."
"OK. When is good for you?"
"How's tomorrow afternoon? I have some time free around three."
"Great, Toby. I'll expect you tomorrow at three. See you then."
As he hung up the receiver, CJ knocked at the door to his office. "Got a minute?" she asked.
"Sure." He leaned back in his desk chair.
"There's an incredible rumor out there," CJ said, sitting down in one of the office chairs. "Just incredible."
"What's that?"
"That the President has a fatal disease," she said, grinning. "No mention of what that might be."
Toby laughed. "And this is coming from the White House reporter for the National Enquirer?"
"Actually, no," CJ answered. "It came from Danny."
"Was he drunk?"
"I hope not, at nine in the morning."
"You never know."
"I'm going to give Leo a head's up," she went on. "Just in case somebody tries to ambush the President tomorrow at the news conference."
"We're working on prep this evening and tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah." She got up and headed for the office door. "I'm going over to see Leo now."
"OK," Toby responded, and went back to his pencil-tapping.

It was all Leo could manage not to react more strongly to CJ's news.
"A fatal illness?" he asked, putting on a smile. "Danny didn't by any chance mention which one, did he?"
"No," CJ answered, smiling. "He was taking it 'way too seriously, I think. Somebody is trying to jerk him around."
"Okay," he responded. "Do you think we'll need to be prepared for something at the press conference tomorrow?"
"I doubt it. And all we'll do is deny it categorically, right?"
McGarry did not respond.

"Sarah, you seem distracted today," Margaret said to her at lunch. "Are you OK?"
"Oh yeah, I'm fine. What's happening on your side of the street?"
"Not much. The President has a press conference tomorrow, so senior staff will be tied up in prep all afternoon and half the morning tomorrow. I wouldn't count on Himself getting home early."
Sarah laughed. "I don't count on Himself getting home, period. I expect him when I see him standing there."
"Smart," she responded with a grin. As she got up to leave, she said, "You'll probably see me later tonight, I suspect I'll be over to pick Himself up a change of clothes."
"Ever think of keeping some stuff in the office for him?"
"Then he'd have an excuse never to go home."
"Well you wouldn't have to tell him!"
"That would only work the first time. Once is a habit with him, you know." Margaret got up to return to her office.
"You're right. Don't want to do that." Sarah waved. "See you later!"

Abbey Bartlet looked up to see Leo standing in the door to her office.
"Well, well!" she said. "We don't often see you over here in the East Wing! To what do I owe the privilege?" She got up from behind the desk to greet him with a hug, and the two of them sat on the sofa.
"Abbey, I have something to talk to you about, and I didn't want to do it in the West Wing."
The First Lady frowned. "This must be serious."
"It is," he acknowledged. After a moment, he leaned forward and looked her in the eye. "When the President was shot, did you happen to mention—"
"Yes I did."
"Oh my God, Abbey, who did you tell?"
"The anesthesiologist. He needed to know!"
"Did you invoke any kind of confidentiality over the information? Mention national security?"
She shook her head no. "I was so upset, Leo—"
"I know."
"I told him there were only fourteen people who knew, that he'd be the fifteenth. That should have said something!"
"What did you tell him about the press, anything?"
A look of shocked recognition crossed her face. "Oh, God . . ."
His voice grew more urgent. "What did you tell him?"
"I said, 'tell the press, don't tell the press, it's up to you.'"
"Well it's out there. It's out there distorted, but it's out there."
Abbey put her face in her hands.

When Sarah got back to her office, two things were waiting for her. One was a tall stack of software design proposals submitted for the Veterans' Affairs project, with a note from Janeane on top: VP needs these abstracted for AM meeting. Sorry. J.
So much for dinner at home, she thought, and looked through her desk drawer for the deli delivery menu, which she stuck to the desk lamp to remind her to order something later.
The other thing on her desk was a box about seven inches long and four inches wide, covered in bright and colorful wrapping paper with a bow. She opened it eagerly, wondering what kind of a present she was getting, but inside there was only a 3 x 5 card. In the same hand that had written the one earlier in the day, it said, A wonderful surprise awaits you at home. Don't be late.
Laughing, she set it aside. She was a lucky woman, she thought, to be involved with such a romantic.

Margaret stood in front of the door to Leo and Sarah's condo and dug through her purse for the security code. Finding it, she stooped to pick up the small brown parcel someone had left by the door.
Opening the deadbolt, she did not hear the beep that meant the security system had detected her entrance, and when she checked the keypad the green light indicated that the system had not been armed.
Expecting to see Sarah at home, she put the parcel down on the coffee table and called, "Hello?" but there was no answer. She checked quickly in each of the rooms, but no one was home.
Umpteen thousand dollars for an alarm system, she thought, and nobody turns it on.
She went into the bedroom, gathered up two clean shirts, a fresh-pressed suit and two pairs of socks and underwear, and left.

CJ came smiling into the Oval Office. "You wanted to see me?" The President was in one armchair, the First Lady in the other, and Leo was sitting on the sofa. She was a little surprised to see Abbey in the room.
"Yes, CJ," the President began. "We need to bring you up to speed on something." He nodded to Leo.
"CJ," McGarry began, "seven years ago, the President was diagnosed with what's called relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis. It's not a fatal disease, but it is a serious one and a chronic one. Abbey has been taking care of him using various drugs that decrease the frequency and severity of attacks. That was what happened to him when he collapsed a few days before the State of the Union last year. Up until that time not even I knew about it."
The Press Secretary was dumbstruck. "You mean, Danny was . . ."
"Almost right," Abby finished. "And we think we know how he found out. The night of the shooting, I told the anesthesiologist about Jed's disease, because it could have affected his choice of anesthetic agents. He was only the fifteenth person to know. You are the sixteenth we have told."
"OK," CJ replied, taking a minute to gather her thoughts. "We're going to have to have a strategy to manage this. Do you think this anesthesiologist is Danny's source?"
"Him or someone he told," Leo answered. "We're going to have to do some serious damage control. We're confiding in you, but the rest of the senior staff do not know."
"Thank you," she said, thinking for once I'm not the one left out of the loop! "How do you want to handle it?"
"We're not going to offer anything, and we can categorically deny that the President has a fatal disease. His life expectancy is normal. If we find that the real facts are out there, we'll do something pre-emptive. So your first job will be to find out what's out there and who has it."
CJ turned to the First Lady. "Mrs. Bartlet, forgive me, but how did you manage to keep this a secret?"
"I . . . kept all the documentation out of the President's official medical record."

It was 9:30 before Sarah got home, tossed her backpack on the dining table. She noticed the brown-paper-wrapped parcel and remembered the notes from earlier in the day, and with a smile on her face she ripped the box open.
Inside was a dead rat with its neck twisted backward.
She screamed and dropped the box back on the table. Just as she was trying to keep from hyperventilating, the phone rang.
"Hello?"
A deep, unfamiliar voice said, "Hello. Did you like my gift?" Then the line went dead. Hands shaking, she got a dial tone and called Leo's private extension.
"Yeah?"
"H—hi Irish."
"Hi Toots, you OK?"
"N—no. You coming home tonight?"
"Doesn't look like it. We've got a problem surfacing. . ."
"Then can—can I come over there? I don't want to be alone. . ."
"Sarah, what is the matter with you? Did you have a nightmare?"
"That must be it." She was forcing herself to calm down, even though she could look over at the table at the ghoulish box and knew it was no nightmare. "Please get some sleep tonight. Promise?"
"I promise."
"OK. G'nite."
"G'nite."
She hung up and dialed Sam's cell phone. No answer. Mallory's. No answer. I wonder what they're doing, she asked herself with a grin. As she was putting the phone back in the cradle, it rang.
"Hello?"
"Hi Sarah. It's Toby."
"Toby! I haven't talked to you since forever! Are you home?"
"No, I'm at work, but I'm getting ready to leave. I need to ask you something."
"Well stop by the condo on your way out and you can ask me in person!"
"You're sure it's no trouble? It's pretty late."
"Well, I'm by myself tonight, Leo is probably working through."
"Yeah, we have an early day tomorrow. You sure it's OK?"
"Toby, you have no idea how OK it is. See you in a few."
Knowing that she dare not let Toby see her gruesome gift. Fortified after her scare with fresh bravado, she determined not to tell anyone of the macabre happenings of the day.
By the time she had finished cleaning up, there was a knock at the door. "Who's there?" she asked.
"It's me," Toby replied.
She let him in, curbing her natural impulse to hug a friend at first sight. "Thirsty?" she asked.
"Yeah," he responded; "I'll get it. You don't need to treat me like company." Then confronted with the twin refrigerators, he asked, "Which is which?"
"Depends on what you're looking for. Juice and soda in the left hand fridge, milk in the right hand fridge."
He brought two glasses of juice over to where she sat on the sofa.
"Forgetting something?" she asked.
He looked confused. "No . . . I don't think . . ."
"OK," she answered, pulling a scarf out of her pocket and draping it over her head. She began to sing the blessing for fruit juice, and out of the corner of her eye noticed Toby flushed briefly. Finished, she re-pocketed the scarf and turned toward her guest with a questioning look. "You OK?"
"Sure, why?"
"You looked uncomfortable there for a second."
"I was uncomfortable there for a second."
"Why? It's never bothered you before."
"Well," he responded, sitting his glass down on the coffee table, "That's why I came by to see you."
"OK," she said, puzzled.
"I need your help."
"Anything, you know that."
He nodded. "This is embarrassing." After a moment, he continued. "I never had a Bar Mitzvah—"
"And you want one now? How wonderful! How can I help?" Sarah grinned broadly. "Have you talked to your Rabbi yet?"
"No, I've got an appointment with him tomorrow. I just wondered if—well, you know what my schedule is like, I'd have an awful time making any kind of commitment to a program. So I was hoping you—"
She nodded. "Of course I will. Now I don't know much about Reform liturgy, so you'll have to show me—"
"Come to shul with me a couple of times then," he suggested. "I can introduce you to Rabbi Glassman and maybe the three of us can put something together."
"I'd be honored, Toby." She raised her glass of juice in his direction. "L'chaim!"
"L'chaim," he answered, with a clink of the glass.

Leo and CJ were sitting together in his office, after the first prep session for the next day's news conference was over.
"I thought he did well," he remarked.
She nodded. "I feel a little funny not telling Toby and Sam about the thing though."
"We'll bring them in if there's any hint that we need to be proactive. Right now there are lots of other things they need to concentrate on; this would just distract them from giving us good answers on FOIA, and the education package, and forty-two other bills we have to be prepared to address tomorrow."
"Still, they're gonna be pretty pissed," she insisted.
"I don't really care," he answered. "They'll get over it."
Josh appeared at the office door. "What the hell is going on?" he asked.
"Josh?" Leo asked.
"Drudge has something about the President and a disease?"
CJ looked over at Leo for a moment. "Yeah, Danny says there's something about the President being deathly ill. I told him his source was delusional. And besides, like we care about Drudge."
"He says it comes from 'the President's medical team'."
The three of them went over to stand around Leo's computer as he accessed the website.
"Oh shit," CJ said.
Leo turned to Josh. "Go get Toby and Sam." He got up and went through the connecting door toward the Oval Office.

A disheveled young man in a khaki jacket and jeans stood across the street from Leo and Sarah's condo, looking up at the bay windows. Curly mousy-brown hair stuck out from under his watch-cap and he had several days' growth of beard on his face. From his inside jacket pocket he pulled a tattered news clipping with a picture of the two of them as they arrived at the recent state dinner. The caption had been torn away.
He was talking incessantly, although no one was near enough to hear. "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. Not very nice, Sarah. You shouldn't be doing that. I thought I told you years ago, and you never listened to me did you. Even though you knew I had told you and I was right…"
Meticulously, he began tearing pieces away from around the edges of the photograph.

"Sarah, you can't use putz!" Toby yelped.
"Yes I can. It's a perfectly good word."
"It's Yiddish. No foreign words! Especially not when you get a triple word score, with a Z already! Where's your Webster's?"
The two friends sat over a Scrabble board, arguing. Sarah went into the study to get the Webster's Third, and Toby's beeper sounded. He picked up the phone as Sarah came out of the study with the huge dictionary. She was pointing to a page.
"See here, page 1851." She waved the dictionary, as well as you can wave a ten-pound tome, and pounded the right-hand page with her finger.
He covered the receiver. "Well then it's a vulgarism, you can't use those."
"The hell I can't! Besides, that's not the definition I have here."
"It doesn't say . . . well, you know?"
"No, it doesn't say well-you-know. It says that a putz has something to do with a nativity scene at Christmas."
"Oy," he responded, turning his attention to the phone. "Yeah. OK, I'm on my way." He turned off the cell phone. "Gotta go. It's hitting the fan." He grabbed his coat and dashed out, leaving Sarah alone.
She took out her latest cross-stitch project and settled in on the sofa for the night.

"Leo!!!!!" Sam and Toby screeched simultaneously. "You didn't tell us??"
"This was a need to know thing. You didn't need to know until now."
"Nothing like a vote of confidence," Josh chimed in.
"Get over it," the older man snapped. "You can count on this stealing the entire press conference agenda today. Sam, Toby, write a statement for the President's physician. Josh, call Counsel and make sure there are no legal issues here."
Josh's eyebrows went up. "Now?"
Leo nodded. "Wake him up." He continued, "CJ, your only comment at the morning gaggle is that there will be a statement from the President's physician later in the day." When nobody moved, he looked up and waved his hands toward the door. "Go!"
When everyone had left, he called, "Margaret? Get me Admiral Hackett in the Medical Unit!" Only the silence reminded him that it was the middle of the night, that Margaret had gone home long ago.
Abbey came timidly through the connecting door between Leo's office and the Oval. "It's on Drudge, Jed said," she sighed. "I guess it's really gonna hit the fan now."
He looked up at her with concern. "It'll be OK. We've been through worse."
"Whatever happened to 'you can have it bad, or you can have it often, but you needn't have it both ways'?"
"Who sold you that bill of goods?" he asked with a hint of a smile.
"Do you need us? I thought I'd haul my husband up to bed if you don't."
"Go ahead. We'll be all right until morning. There's not much you two can do until then."
"Want me to call Sarah?" she asked.
"I talked to her already. She knows I won't be home."
The First Lady stopped at the door and turned back to face her husband's best friend. "Leo?"
"Hmmm?"
"Don't blow it again."
He nodded in silence.

The morning gaggle started a little late, but no sooner had CJ taken the podium than the room burst with her name.
"CJ!"
"Yes, Sandy."
"Matt Drudge has—"
"I know what Matt Drudge has, besides bad taste and questionable sources. We'll have a statement later today."
"Come on CJ, tell us something," Steve complained.
"I am telling you something. I'm telling you we'll have a statement later today, from the President's personal physician. For now, let me go on . . ."
Reluctantly, they did.
An air of calculated casualness permeated the bullpens and the offices of the West Wing. In the Oval Office itself, it was Business As Usual. Toby and Sam were huddled in the Deputy Communications Director's office.
"We're not getting anywhere," Sam said, slamming his pencil down on the desk.
"Because you won't listen to me!" Ziegler snapped.
CJ tapped on the door. In unison, both men responded, "Go away!"
"Sorry fellas," she responded, sticking her head inside. "When do you think we'll be good to go with Hackett?"
Toby shook his head. "I don't know. How the hell can we tell people about this without admitting we covered it up?"
Sam looked down at the floor. "We did cover it up."
"No we didn't," CJ answered. "We didn't exactly put it out on the Web, but we didn't cover it up. The people who needed to know were told. We just didn't think a whole lot of people needed to know."
"No kidding," Toby shot back. "Including us."
Josh came striding over from his side of the building and joined the other three. "Well, we're not in any legal trouble, but Mrs. Bartlet may be in a world of hurt."
"More good news," Toby groaned.
Sam looked over at CJ. "It doesn't look like we'll have this until the afternoon briefing."
"OK."

At around 10 AM Sarah woke up to the sound of a ringing phone.
"Hmmmm?" she answered groggily.
"Sarah, what's wrong? You have a meeting in half an hour!" It was her office assistant, Pat.
"What time is it?"
"Ten o'clock!"
"Oboy. I'll be there as soon as I can get there." She threw herself into her chair and headed for the shower. Twenty minutes later, hair still wet, she raced out the door, closing the deadbolt behind her. She dug through her bag trying to find the key to switch on the alarm but it wasn't immediately at hand; looking at her watch, she said, "The hell with it," and sped down to her van.

He walked up to the door of her building, huddled against the winter wind, and smashed a hand against the panel near the door, calling several apartments. One of them would open the door for him . . .
A voice came out of the intercom: "Yes?"
"UPS," he responded.
A buzz announced the door unlocking. He slipped in and took the screwdriver and a lockpick out of his jacket pockets. With an intense look on his dirty face, he found the front door to the condo. When he saw that the alarm was not armed, he smiled.

Leo got up from his desk and leaned forward to shake the Admiral's hand. "So," he asked, "you're on board with this? I know we're putting you in an awkward position."
"I'm the President's personal physician. I should have seen it, should have caught it, regardless of what Dr. Bartlet did or didn't do. I have no problem admitting that. You all can address the other issues."
"I appreciate it, Admiral. We'll need you here at one o'clock for the press conference."
Both men looked at their watches, and Hackett turned to leave.
"Thank you again," Leo finished. "Margaret!!"
His assistant stepped just inside the threshold.
"Find CJ for me, would you?"

"That's better," Toby said. "Right to privacy, physician-patient privilege . . . I think maybe we can sell that."
"I think there's slim to no chance we can sell it, but it beats the pants off our other alternatives. We're standing in the wind with our shorts down around our ankles, and there's no place to hide." Sam shook his head, then stared off into space for a moment and resumed typing frantically.
"You're mentioning Roosevelt, right?"
Sam stopped typing and stared at Toby. "Ya think?"
"Eisenhower?"
Sam nodded.
"Kennedy's back?"
Sam nodded.
"Reagan's Alzheimer's?"
Sam didn't nod. "Do you think we want to go there?"
"You're right. Let's keep that card in our sleeve."
"I also think we can manage to omit Clinton's allergies."
Toby smiled wryly. "Which one, the allergy to pollen or the allergy to fidelity?"
Sam didn't reply but shot him a look that would freeze lava.

Leo took off his reading glasses and looked up at CJ. "How big a hit would we take if we postpone the press conference?"
"That depends," she responded. "If we're still willing to issue a statement about the Drudge thing and have the Admiral take questions, I think the hit would be minimal. That's all anybody in the room wants to hear about. It might actually be smart to postpone a formal news conference until there's more on the table than the President's health."
"Sometime the middle of next year, then?"
"If we're lucky. Either way, we're gonna have the networks, CNN, and all their children there for the briefing. The question is, do we trot out the President or not."
"I'm inclined to say not," he answered.
She nodded and left.

Sarah's meeting droned on until almost one o'clock. As it was breaking up, she ran into Janeane, the Vice President's secretary, in the hallway. "You look like death on a Triscuit," Janeane said.
"No kidding. I'm going to check with Pat, and if there's nothing on the plate later today I'm going home."
Pat turned around from her desk in the Vice-Presidential bullpen and said, "Go! There's nothing this afternoon that I can't reschedule."
"Thank you." She grabbed her backpack and headed for the elevator.

At exactly one o'clock, Admiral Hackett stepped in front of the lights and microphones in the Press Room.
"I'd like to read a prepared statement, if I may, and then I'll take questions," he began. "Seven years ago when he was Governor, President Bartlet's physicians diagnosed him with a relapsing-remitting course of multiple sclerosis. This is a disease of the nervous system which causes intermittent attacks of weakness and incoordination…"

Sarah arrived home around two o'clock, nearly groggy with lack of sleep. Once inside, she tossed her backpack into the study. When she came out again, he was standing in the hallway.
She jumped, then recognized her cousin Joel. Joel the crazy one. Joel who should be in the hospital . . . Joel who must have sent her the strange and threatening gifts.
"Joel! I didn't know you were here! How did you—"
"Get in? I managed. People are stupid."
"You look very good!" He was freshly showered, shaved, and wearing very familiar clothing . . . "I'm sure Leo won't object to your borrowing some of his stuff. He has too many clothes anyway." She forced herself to breathe deeply and steadily.
"I don't care what your rich shaygetz thinks."
"He's a very compassionate man, Joel—"
"Oh I'm really sure he is. Is he learning the mamaloshen? Have you taught him what schtup means yet?" His voice was growing louder and he was slowly approaching her down the hallway. She rolled backwards into the front of the condo, trying to keep her distance. "Do you read him the Song of Songs while you fuck him?" He was shouting now.
"Joel," she began, trying to change the subject, "have you stopped taking—"
"That poison Mother was feeding me? Yes, of course. She's not around to force it on me anymore . . ."
"Where is she, Joel?" Sarah was frantically trying to remember her Aunt Sophie's phone number. Maybe she could calm him down.
He walked through the kitchen door, then leaned backwards to stick his head back into the hallway. "She's dead."
Oh God, she thought. He's had nobody to watch him, nobody to keep him on his medicine. Aunt Sophie had been the only one who could do anything with him, the only one who could keep him calm and make him behave. She had stubbornly kept him home when the doctors begged her to have him committed. . .
When he came out of the kitchen, he had an eight-inch chef's knife in his hand.

Everyone managed to survive the one o'clock briefing. Sam and Toby's statement worked beautifully, comparing Bartlet with Franklin Roosevelt and others who had served the country admirably though suffering from a disability. Nobody had any illusions about Roosevelt being the story, but it had bought them some precious time.
"Now," Leo said to his senior staff, "all we have to worry about is a Congressional investigation and a 25^th-amendment challenge."
"I don't think Hoynes would do that," Josh noted.
"Are you sure?" Toby asked.
Josh shook his head. "No. But it takes a majority of the department heads as well, and I can't see that happening."
"We couldn't see any of this happening," CJ chimed in.
Sam leaned back on the sofa. "We should have a panel of physicians certify the President as fit for duty. Make a pre-emptive strike."
"That's a good idea," Leo agreed. "We should have done that when he was totally recovered from Rosslyn anyway." He rummaged around on his desk and the shelves behind. "Margaret!" he called. "Where's the President's medical stuff?"
She stepped into the office. "You took it home the other night, remember?"
"Damn," he snapped. "I left it in the study." He turned to his assistant. "Do me a favor, call Sarah— No, she'll still be at work. I need this thing. Would you run over to the condo and get it?"
Margaret nodded and left the room.
"Josh," McGarry continued, "make sure Abbey has a meeting with somebody from Counsel's office, and go with her, will you?"
Lyman rose and left.
Toby looked at his watch. "Damn, I missed—" Looking up, he pointed out the door and said, "I'll be right back, I have to—"
Leo nodded. "Go."

Toby dashed back to his office and called Rabbi Glassman.
"It's OK, I know this happens," the Rabbi said.
"I'm still sorry. And I'll just ask you now."
"OK."
"Rabbi, I'd . . . I was never Bar Mitzvahed. My parents were divorcing that year and it was chaos and it just never happened. I think I'd like to do that."
"Toby, that's wonderful. Do you want me to set you up some time with our educator?"
"No, I have a friend who's going to tutor me, but she's Conservative and we'll have to meet with you to go over what your requirements are."
"No problem. Bring him in with you anytime."
"It's a her."
"Really?" Toby could hear a smile in the Rabbi's voice.
"No, not like that," he responded with an edge.
"OK. Call me when you've got some time to come in."
"Thanks for understanding, Rabbi."
"No problem. Shalom, Toby."
Now, he thought, to figure out how to invite my brother.

Margaret saw that the alarm was off again, and swore under her breath. Using her key to open the door, she saw that the lights were off and the curtains drawn, and walked over to the bay window to open them.
"Stop," a voice came from behind her.
She jumped.
"Don't move," the voice said.
Then a voice she recognized. "It's OK, Margaret."
"Sarah?" she turned slowly toward the voices to see a slightly-built, sandy-haired young man holding a large knife to Sarah's throat.
"Sit down," the man said.
"It's OK," Sarah repeated. "Joel won't hurt me."
"You think not?" he asked, drawing the knife closer to her, pricking her softly with the point.
"Just calm down," Margaret replied quietly. "And give me that knife."
"Right," he responded. "Sit down here." He pointed to a spot on the floor next to where Sarah was sitting.
Glancing briefly around the room, Margaret saw Sarah's wheelchair in the corner, folded into a thin compact form. Slowly, she moved over to the spot he indicated and sat down.
"Good." He began to pace up and down the room, chattering disjointedly about Jewish women whom he called "traitors to the tribe."
Slowly and quietly, Margaret reached over and took Sarah's hand.

Leo looked at his watch: three-thirty. Where the hell was Margaret? He dialed her pager and waited. Ten minutes later he tried again. He called the condo: no answer.
Muttering to himself, he got up and put on his coat. Dammit, Margaret, he thought, where the hell are you? Did you go shopping? I need that stuff now. No drivers were available, so he caught a cab for the short ride in the freezing rain.
He had a real head of steam by the time he arrived home. Noting that the alarm was off, he burst through the door calling "Margaret?? Are you—"
"No!" Sarah screamed. "Get out!"
He froze momentarily as he saw the tableau in front of him: Sarah and Margaret both sitting on the floor, wide-eyed, holding on to one another's hands. A young man with a very large knife was leaning over them.
"Whoa, fella," he said softly, extending his gloved hands toward the intruder. Looking at Sarah, he added, "It's gonna be OK, Toots. This is somebody you know?"
Sarah was shaking visibly. "This is my cousin Joel."
"Glad to meet you, son," Leo said, reaching out toward the knife-wielding man.
Joel started to shake his hand in response, then pulled back with a giggle. "No, no," he laughed, "I'm not falling for that. Take off your coat, Pop. You're gonna be here awhile."
McGarry did was he was told. The old warrior's instincts began to awaken, and he cast a quick glance around the room. Fireplace poker, lots of glass, not much else capable of being used as a weapon. Unwilling to surrender the high ground, he sat on the arm of the sofa. "You know," he began again, "if I'm not back at the White House in a few minutes, somebody is going to notice, and they'll come looking for me."
"That's OK, it won't take much longer than that to make you fit to fuck my cousin." He started walking over toward Leo, wiggling the knife point. "It won't be a pretty job, 'cuz I'm not much of a mohel, but I can do what needs to be done."
"Joel, please," Sarah begged, "don't hurt him. He hasn't done anything to you."
"And he won't be doing anything to you again, either," the young man answered. "Did I mention that sometimes my hands shake?"
Leo waited until the assailant got within a step of him, then quickly stood up and stepped to one side. He grabbed the other man's knife hand with both of his and tried to bend his wrist back to force him to drop the knife, but the younger was stronger, and they grappled fiercely.
Over his adversary's shoulder, he could see Margaret look quickly around the room, then reach up over her head into the china cabinet and pull out a serving platter. Standing up quickly, she threw the platter like a Frisbee at the intruder. It struck him hard in the back of the knees and toppled them both to the floor as Sarah screamed. A puddle of bright red blood formed under the two fallen men.
Slowly, Leo climbed out from under the dead aggressor, blood all over his shirt, jacket torn, breathless and shaking. Together he and Margaret got Sarah up off the floor and back into her chair, and he called the police. As they waited for a response, he took a deep breath and turned to her. "Excuse me," he said to Sarah, and turned to grab Margaret, dip her, and plant a huge kiss on her mouth.
She gaped at him as he righted her and turned back to Sarah. "You didn't mind that, did you Toots?"
"You kidding? I'd do it myself, but I don't think I'm Margaret's type."
He picked up the telephone to call Josh and let him know what had happened.

The next morning, there was another bouquet of flowers on Josh's desk. This one had a note: Thanks. Mandy
He called her new office.
"Thanks for what?"
"Oh hi. Thanks for the ride. It was fun while it lasted."
"Listen," he responded, "I never did get to say goodbye—"
"Forget it. I'll see you sometime."
"OK."
She hung up.
He scratched his head for a moment, picked up a yellow pad, and headed for the morning meeting.

When Margaret got into work that day, she found her office festooned with banners and gifts. The biggest banner said GRRLS KICK ASS!! Several bunches of flowers brightened the room, and her desk was covered with Xena action figures. A huge rubber sword was hanging from the wall. And when she arrived the President strolled out of the Oval Office and into hers.
"Margaret," he began before the assembled staff, "I want to say thank you. You saved my best friend's life."
She blushed bright red as she shook Bartlet's hand. "I appreciate it, Mr. President, but I was only looking out for myself. Do you have any idea how long it took for me to break him in?"