Author's Note: Look, still here! I swear I'm still writing, it's all just taking so much more time these days. Thank you to everyone for reading and for your sweet comments and your encouragement. This chapter is dedicated specially to my mother, who keeps texting me and reminding me that she and my dad are waiting for new chapters of this one. :)
…...
Carol was beyond tired. She'd been tired before plenty of times, exhausted even, but this was the first time she could remember staring at tired as it receded in the rearview mirror, feeling nothing more than numb resignation. The phones had finally slowed down, which meant it had to be very late, but from her alcove outside the press secretary's office she really couldn't see any windows and nobody had turned off the lights in three days. She wished distantly that she'd gone home on Thursday evening to get some rest instead of staying to help cheer up Margaret, but then she'd have been alone to watch the State of the Union and that didn't even bear thinking about. Working in the press office had taught her to always have one eye on the screen, so she'd been the first to see anyway. She wondered if the images on that crappy little television were going to play behind her eyes for the rest of her life.
Since then, Danny had bullied her into going home once, long enough to change her clothes and pack a little bag, but she hadn't been able to sleep at all. Coffee was plentiful in the West Wing, and there was always more than enough to keep her busy. She'd briefed three times that day, intercut with briefings from other agencies and the President's own address that morning. Two interns had minded the phones as they rang off the hooks and the assistant press secretaries had run until they'd dropped to find research, field sources, and try to at least follow the news cycle, even if there was no way they'd ever get on top of it. The assistant press secretaries were very good at what they did, but sending one of them out to brief would've been a disaster. CJ chose her staff to bolster the areas she'd needed help in, which had never included needing somebody else to handle briefings. Henry had been the one to stand in whenever CJ was occupied, and he was… gone, now too. There was nobody else to stand at the podium.
Sunday, it was Sunday now, very early Sunday morning, and she was going to need to brief at 9am. Normally there was no briefing on Sunday till noon, and even then the newspapers usually didn't show up, but nothing was normal anymore. All Carol wanted in the world was to fall asleep at her desk and wake up to find CJ plowing through her office in her typical tornado-like fashion, spreading papers and messages, requiring coffee, shaking off the gaggle like mud from her shoes. She was so worn out she could almost see them, ghostly figures all, enacting the familiar morning ritual. Carol and Danny were the only ones left now, and Danny didn't hurry through the halls or ask questions with that sly little grin anymore. And Carol could barely bring herself to walk into the empty office at all, not even when it would've made doing her work ten times easier. Part of her wished that she hadn't send Gail home with Danny after all, but there was no changing it now.
Earlier that evening, just after the last briefing, she'd gotten an unexpected call from James Robinson, who'd been press secretary under President Newman, more than a decade ago now. Carol could remember watching his press briefings as a high school student, though honestly not much about them. He'd been precise and straightforward in general but he'd lacked the flair… In any case, he'd called to speak with Carol personally, which had been a bit of a shock because she'd only ever met him once, at some reception or other and she was sure she hadn't made much impression. Of course, she'd had a chance to make much more of one this past thirty-six hours, for better or worse. For a crazy moment when she picked up the phone, she'd thought Robinson was going to volunteer to take up the reins again and get this burden off her shoulders. But he was well past 70 now and that wasn't going to happen. Instead he'd wished her luck, told her she was doing a fine job, and how terribly sorry he was that all this had happened.
He'd wanted to talk about CJ for a few minutes, and Carol had tuned out because she had to be able to do her job today, but she was sure it was all complimentary. He had a few pieces of advice as well, most of which Carol had already learned, but a few things she tucked away in her pocket, like the one about cheating away from the window in the afternoon briefings so the sun wouldn't blind her. The idea of still giving briefings when by the time it was sunny enough to worry about that was a little overwhelming, but who knew what was going to happen? The last piece of advice he'd given her was to look in the flack jacket if she needed advice or needed a boost. Carol was press secretary now, or as close enough as made no nevermind, so she had a right to the tradition as well. She'd thanked him very much for the encouragement and advice, then put down the phone and cried a little because her friend and boss had read through all those notes during their first weeks on the job and now would never add her own. Carol really needed to stop crying, but the dead just kept sneaking up on her.
She also really needed to get a few hours of sleep, even if it was just on one of the couches down in the basement. Tomorrow's briefing schedule would be hard enough without being totally whacked out on no sleep and way too much coffee. She stood up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in her muscles after hours slumped in her chair, and began to gather her things. The sudden trill of her desk phone gave her a jolt, waking her up fully and setting her heart to pounding. "Press office," she said automatically, picking up the phone. "Carol speaking."
"Hi, Carol."
The voice wasn't familiar, despite the familiar greeting. It was… Carol couldn't pin it down, why two simple words could send a chill down her spine, but they did. She waited for the caller to introduce themselves, say something more, but the line was silent. "Can I help you?" she finally ventured.
"Carol… you're the one giving the briefings today, aren't you?" the voice went on. "Quite the clever one, staying home and getting the promotion." He, definitely a he now, though the voice seemed distorted. "It's amazing what getting rid of the corruption at the top does for the welfare of the little people, doesn't it?"
Eyes wide, Carol fumbled for the switch on the phone that turned on recording and alerted security to a problem. "Who are you?" she demanded.
"The press office is responsible for news at the White House, right?" he asked, obviously rhetorically. "I've got a hot scoop for you, and you're going to want to listen. Terrence Baylor martyred himself and his followers in the misguided belief that his work was done. You and I both know that's not true, right, Carol?" The teasing way he said her name, with a heavy emphasis on the first syllable, made her shudder. "Kill Jed dead, and his little worm Tribbey steps up to the plate. All those senators and congresscritters, they're being replaced as we speak. And then there's you, standing on your little podium with Ms. Cregg's body barely cold at your feet, telling the same tired old lies."
There didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the air. For a wild moment Carol was afraid that the gas had been released again and she was about to die the same agonizing death as all the people at the Capitol building, but then she remembered to suck in a breath and the world came back into focus. The sound of running footsteps announced Simon Donovan, the new head of the Secret Service, along with two other agents. One of them already seemed to be monitoring the call on an earpiece. "Keep him talking," she could see Donovan mouth silently.
Carol nodded weakly and did her best. "I don't- I don't want to tell lies to the American people," she began tentatively. "But I'm not sure I know what the truth is."
"Well then, sweetheart, listen up," the caller told her, still sounding obscenely cheerful. "Terrence Baylor's legacy lives on, and you're all going to get real clear proof of that very soon if you don't start returning the power of self-governance to the people. I'll be sending you my manifesto very soon, and when it comes, you go ahead and read it on the air in its entirety. Do that, and I'll leave you and all your little public servant friends alone for now. But a word of advice, little Caro, stay away from any place the Senate decides to meet. That's an idea whose time has gone, gone, gone." He chuckled.
Her mouth was dry. Carol licked her lips and tried to speak anyway. "I can give you the press office fax number..."
"Nope, no need, already got it. And it's time for me to get gone before your Secret Service boys get too frisky. Goodnight, Carol, sweet dreams!" The line went dead, seconds before the receiver fell out of her nerveless fingers.
Donovan snapped orders at the agents with him, but Carol didn't really pay attention to what he was saying. They dispersed at a jog. "You recorded the call?" he asked her.
"All but the first little bit," she murmured, nodding. "I didn't even notice it was the outside line. I should've noticed that right away, don't you think? It's not even the same ring."
The weight of Simon's hand settled onto her shoulder, warm and alive. Thank god, at least some people were still alive. "You followed procedure," he reminded her, "that's the important part. Did you recognize anything about the voice? Have you ever gotten a call like that before?"
She shook her head. "No, not either. It sounded… the voice sounded distorted, like he was talking from far away, or doing something to change it. And I've never gotten any calls like that. We get the crazies all the time, we have the office that faces the street, so to speak, but it's never been like that. Do you think he really meant it? Was any of that stuff true?"
"Not a lot of run-of-the-mill crazies have the direct line for the White House Press Office," Simon pointed out. Carol noted absently that this didn't really answer her question, but she didn't have the energy to follow up. "We'll trace the call and analyze the recording, and we'll be monitoring all communications to the Press Office. This is a positive sign."
Carol looked up at him, torn between disbelief and indignation. "What?"
"The fact that somebody's finally making contact," Simon explained. "If a terrorist group is committing acts of violence but not making demands, it usually means they feel they haven't made their point yet and need to escalate. It also makes it harder to engage with them and stop them. If this caller's on the level, we could potentially learn a great deal about him. We also have a time frame to work with now, and a potential first target. It's more than we had before."
"But he could be lying," Carol couldn't help but point out.
"That's true," Simon agreed. "But it's still more. What are you doing here at this hour anyway?"
She shrugged. "I was about to- I don't know. Couldn't sleep, and I've got all this work to do anyway. I'll probably lay down for a couple of hours at some point." Right now she didn't think she could sleep if she tried.
"Nobody in this building ever goes home," Simon commented ruefully. "They're going to need to put in a laundromat down the basement."
"Have you been home?" Carol countered, dredging up a smidgen of weary curiosity.
"I could use the laundromat too," he admitted. "The gals from the Communications office are sleeping downstairs, you should get down there too. I'll let you know if anything develops from that call."
"Thanks, Mr. Donovan." As though being told by someone else to go to bed had been the signal her body needed, three days of exhaustion seemed to catch up with her all at once. She picked up the phone again, touched the button to call the switchboard. "This is Carol Fitzpatrick, I'm closing the press office."