Farther off from Heaven

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 2/7

"Oh, God."

Guiltily closing the cell phone she'd been using, she desperately searched through the milling crowd for an escape route. Maybe she should have called a cab instead of indulging in a ridiculous craving. There were too many people and the buffet table stood in the way of the one escape route open to her. She wasn't about to jump it and all the other exits were blocked. She was cornered.

"Oh, God."

Generally, Donnatella Moss wasn't one to beg divine intervention, let alone twice in as many seconds. There was, however, always a first time and of course a selected place for everything. Why not at the First Lady's birthday party? Given how this entire evening had begun by crashing down around her - she was still trying to figure out how to blame it all on Josh - and then appeared to forgive whatever transgression she'd inadvertently committed - again, still trying to find a way to blame Josh - she wasn't at all surprised to see another disaster of truly epic proportions bearing down on her.

That the disaster in question was her boss's boss, the President of the United States and the man she had personally voted for, did little to relieve her anxious thoughts. Especially the voted for part. Against all odds, Josiah Bartlet had won the election.

Somehow, Donna was sure it would all turn out to be her fault and he'd blame her for sticking him with this thankless job. One vote was enough. That she probably hadn't been a citizen at the time - therefore making her vote moot - had very little bearing on her convoluted reasoning. It was turning out to be that kind of evening.

Watching him approach through the crowd, exchanging smiles and a few niceties with guests, Donna decided she didn't like the look in his eye. It was the one Josh, in all seriousness, had warned her about. It was the one that made Toby cringe and CJ scream the paint off walls. And poor Sam? She'd thought Cathy had only been kidding when she'd jokingly claimed to have found the Deputy Communications Director hiding under his desk one day.

There was no getting away from it. The man was up to something and whatever it was involved her.

Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she concentrated and made a wish. A BIG wish. The biggest she ever had. Opening them, she nearly cursed aloud. Still here. Still cornered.

Teleporting wasn't working. Go figure.

When the President drew to a halt in front of her, Donna tried very hard not to faint. She was just a secretary, an executive assistant. Why would the leader of the free world be looking at her like that? She'd seen him talking to the First Lady earlier. Considering what the girls had tossed around and back upstairs, she had a pretty good idea what, if not how.

Surely Mrs. Bartlet hadn't mentioned what she'd said, had she? She'd had too much to drink, they all had. CJ, Amy, Mrs. Bartlet. They'd managed to send several bottles of pretty good zinfandel to a worthy end.

"Oh, God." It had become a mantra.

"Let's not get carried away, Donna."

Blinking slowly and hoping she didn't look as stupid as she felt, Donna stammered, "Sir?" There was nothing for it. Not only was she cornered and he was giving her the look, but he was in of those moods, too.

She was dead. She wondered briefly if Sam would be willing to make room for her under his desk. Gathering what was left of her courage and nerve, she began to apologize in a heedless rush, "Mr. President, I am so sorry. I wasn't thinking, which is...weird because Josh'll tell you that's something I do far too much of and really... between finding out I was Canadian and too much wine... and not knowing which Mrs. Bartlet I was talking to... "

"Which Mrs. Bartlet you were talking to?" The President repeated carefully, fairly certain he was about to step into something deep. "How many are there? And please, don't tell me they all belong to me."

"They do."

"Really?" It was the only response he could think of.

"Yes, sir." Donna couldn't tell if the hunted look that came into his eyes was at the prospect of multiple Abigail Bartlets or the patented Moss conversation style.

"Which one were you talking to?" he asked, still trying to find the bottom of this conversation. It had to be there somewhere…

"Mostly the First Lady... I think."

"But you're not sure?"

"Nope," Donna sighed. "I think it was the wine."

"Or the topic?" At the guilty flush that spread across her face, a sad smile pulled at one corner of Bartlet's mouth. Letting her off the hook, he said, "She didn't say anything, Donna. I can guess though."

"Oh." Donna wasn't too sure his confession helped, because if he wasn't here about the girls getting bent upstairs, then it was something else. The need to escape was growing. "Then what... "

"I can read lips."

"Really?" It was all she could come up with.

"No, not really." Shoving his hands in his pockets, Bartlet glanced casually around the room, making sure nobody was listening. "Just one word, when you were on the phone."

He knew. Truly cornered now, Donna tried to bluff it out. "Sir?"

"Pizza."

"No."

"Yes."

Donna shook her head firmly, a sudden sense of empowerment giving wings to her courage. "You can't."

One presidential brow rose at an elegantly accusing angle.

"Okay, let me rephrase that." She took a deep breath, her moment of empowerment fading as quickly as it had arisen. Time to regroup. "I can't. The First Lady… "

"Which one?"

"The mean one, sir." Donna's eyes narrowed and she dared to give the President a look of her own. It usually sent Josh scurrying for cover. Considering who this man had spent the last thirty-four years living with, she wasn't at all surprised it didn't faze him. "The one who scares Secret Service agents silly. The one who will do horrible, nasty things to me if I so much as let you in the same room with mozzarella cheese."

"The mean one?" For some reason he couldn't quite fathom, Bartlet found Donna's sincere yet petrified observations amusing. He smiled, thinking about it. Nice to know he wasn't the only one on Abbey's hit list.

Donna wasn't amused at all. "Yes, sir. Very mean."

"She'll never know."

"The Secret Service… "

"Are scared silly of her."

"They'll tell."

"Donna… "

Lips tightening into a stubborn line, Donna crossed her arms. Possession was nine-tenths the law. Working for a lawyer - even if he wasn't a real one - had its advantages. "It's my pizza."

"My house," Bartlet replied evenly, effectively ending the standoff.

There was no getting past that one. Donna sighed dejectedly. "You win."

"I usually do." At Donna's highly skeptical look, he shrugged and added sadly, "Most of the time."

It was probably the tail end of the wine consumed earlier, but Donna's short laugh came out more like a snort of unenthusiastic but still respectful disbelief. At least she hoped it did. The respectful part anyway. The disbelief she couldn't help, not with Josh to keep her in the loop. Winning was all a matter of perspective.

Looking up a bit fearfully, she relaxed when she saw the slight, mischievous smile on his face. No malice, almost apologetic and rocking back casually on his heels, he was waiting patiently. And something else, a hint of sadness, and a melancholy she couldn't quite place. For the first time, Donna realized there was a whole other level to what was going on here.

"Where?" he asked.

Donna struggled to find an answer to that one. Where indeed? It was one thing to sneak a pizza into the White House, quite another to sneak it and the President off to a quiet secluded corner - and Donna knew there weren't many in this building - where the scavengers couldn't find them. Glancing over his shoulder, she spotted one of the constant shadows that followed him wherever he went.

All other questions aside, the Secret Service was not going to make this easy. Unconsciously, her brows furrowed and she tried to figure it out. A certain alcohol-induced haze wasn't helping her problem solving abilities.

Not having to follow her gaze and understanding the skeptical look, Bartlet easily reasoned out what was troubling her. For the most part, he did his best to ignore them. He'd long ago become used to the lack of privacy, of personal space. He thought he'd come to terms with it.

Apparently he hadn't, and right now he wasn't in the mood to try. Frowning, he didn't bother to spare his shadows a glance. "I'll take care of them."

Donna saw his frown set into an expression of pained tolerance, almost depression. Given his usual good-natured spirits, and an occasion that should have seen him - at the very least - relaxed and untroubled, she took it as a bad sign.

She didn't like it at all.

It made the final decision all that much easier. "Ainsley Hayes' office."

Bartlet's eyes widened a bit, and then he nodded. "The steam trunk... "

" ...distribution venue," Donna finished, rather proud she'd thought of it. It wasn't the first time she'd used Ainsley's office as a refuge. Usually to hide from Josh, but in this case it would serve as well. "It's... hidden."

For the first time a hint of genuine humor flashed in the President's eyes. "Can't have a Republican out where she can corrupt decent Democrats."

Donna smiled tentatively in return. "Ainsley seems to think so."

"She would."

His shifting moods had left Donna confused, although she had a strong feeling there was more to this than simply a forbidden pizza. For the first time, she seriously wondered what it was Mrs. Bartlet had told him.

It couldn't have been good.

Bartlet didn't give her much of an opportunity to contemplate the mystery. Turning abruptly on his heel, he called back over his shoulder, "Be there."

It had the ring of an executive order. Donna sighed. One way or another, she was going to get into serious trouble over this. She was sure of it. There would be no trial, no appeals, just a summary execution when she was caught. If asked, she'd have candidly admitted that this particular moral quandary was not a problem she'd have thought part of her original job description.

She hoped the pizza was going to be worth it. As a last meal, she could think of any number of alternatives that would have been preferable. And the company? Under any other circumstances she'd have been thrilled. Her only wish was that she could have pegged his mood or clearly understood his motives. The problems just kept mounting. Donna sighed heavily again, uncomfortably aware that it was a useless gesture. Citizen or not, she had no choice but to see the evening out.

The pizza had better be a damn good one.

"Donna!"

The bellow was all too familiar. Groaning, Donna pinched the bridge of her nose. Alcohol induced or not, she could feel a headache coming on. "Speaking of problems," she muttered, wincing as she spied her personal problem child making his way towards her.

With Amy hanging a bit unsteadily on his arm, Josh Lyman attempted to corner his assistant. "I need..."

"It's a party, Josh. I'm off the clock." Watching the President weave his way back through the crowd, his ever-present shadows in tow, Donna gave Lyman her best intimidating scowl. "Go away."

"She's got you there, J." Amy giggled and gave Donna a conspirital wink.

Never one to take a hint, Lyman scowled at both women. The female contingent had been hitting him from all sides this evening. "Donna..."

"Shoo." Donna waved him off.

"Hey! Voice of authority here!"

Amy laughed outright at that rather plaintive protest, earning yet another scowl from Lyman.

Ignoring them both, Donna gathered up her dignity, her purse and one bottle of wine off a nearby table. She had a strong suspicion she was going to need it. Smiling enigmatically at her boss, she leaned forward and said in a suitably clandestine whisper, "I'm on a mission."

Lyman stared at her for a moment, and then said, "You're drunk."

"That too."

Frankly, Donna could only admit that being buzzed was all that was keeping her from collapsing into a hysteria-induced fit. Hefting the wine bottle in one hand, she smiled sweetly at Josh, winked at Amy, and left them both standing there in confusion. For once, Josh was going to have to figure out his own problems.

Booze, pizza and the President of the United States.

Donna Moss had enough problems of her own.

~ooOoo~

The evening was progressing downward at a rapidly increasing rate. Watching Leo McGarry stand with his back to her and slowly leaf through the NTSB report for the third time - even though he'd probably already committed it to memory - Nancy concluded reluctantly she should be thankful for some consistency. Going from bad to worse was all she could expect. Considering the report's contents, only one thing was missing.

She hesitated, measuring him carefully for a moment, then told him encouragingly, "Say it, Leo."

"No."

Her composure faltered a bit at that cold, utterly emotionless response. Perhaps it was her own uneasiness, but she had expected more. Wondering if she harbored some latent, masochistic tendencies, she said, "You're not normally at such a loss for words."

Closing the file, McGarry turned towards her, his eyes dark with barely contained emotion. He responded in a voice taut with rigidly controlled anger, "The words presently occupying what little well mannered portion of my intellect that remains unclouded by the need for a good solid venting are not what would be considered appropriate for civilized company."

"That might have been easier to say if you had unclenched your teeth."

Dropping the file onto a nearby end table, McGarry growled, "Nancy... "

"Say it. God knows you'll explode if you don't, and it's not like you're cussing in church."

"Mrs. Landingham could have argued that."

McGarry looked at the closed doors of the drawing room, keenly aware of the two Secret Service agents stationed outside to keep out the curious. They at least were on alert. Muffled, the sounds of the First Lady's birthday party continued outside. Laughter, music, the clink of glasses and lively conversation; it was all an illusion.

Reality had intruded with a much darker truth.

At that point, the events of the evening caught up with him. How much was too much? Between the medical board questions and his poorly handled confrontation with Abbey, the maze of re-election problems, and now the idiocy of human accountability, he suddenly felt exhausted. His shoulders slumped. There was another truth here, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Sighing heavily, McGarry shook his head and managed a dry laugh. "Is language, questionable or not, all we have?"

Nancy indicated the file laying on the end table and replied in an equally dry voice, "The language is pretty clear."

Collapsing into a chair, McGarry's laugh took on a bitter edge. She was still fishing for a more colorful response from him. He wasn't about to give it to her. He didn't have the energy. "Nancy..."

"Yes?"

"Your timing sucks." There was the truth he couldn't find. It suited.

Taking a seat opposite him, Nancy regarded him curiously and with a touch of disappointment. "Those aren't the words I anticipated."

"God forbid I should ever become predictable."

"There's very little chance of that."

"Have I just been complimented?' A sad, fleeting half smile crossed his face. "Or should I make the attempt to ignore the implied, however subtle, innuendo?"

"Choose your poison, Leo. I'm too exhausted to try and figure that one out. You're going to have to get an outside analysis." The sounds of merriment outside kicked up a notch. Nancy rubbed her eyes and grimaced with profound distaste. "I hate parties."

"I haven't enjoyed them much lately myself."

McGarry took a moment and thought about all the parties previous to this one and how they had all been a chore, rather than the pleasure they should have been. And it wasn't just the ones at the White House. It was at that point he realized that timing, or whatever you wanted to call it, was all a matter of perspective. Looking at it that way, the evening was advancing quite nicely down the path to complete destruction.

The observation gave him a small measure of grim satisfaction. If circumstances gave him the chance, he'd worry about the whys and wherefores later. Time to get down to business. Picking up the file, his expression stilled and grew serious. "Your analysis of this, Madame Security Advisor?"

Clearly hampered by the glaring lack of facts, Nancy shook her head and gave him the only response she could. "We have how, approximately when and where. But not who or why."

"You've got the analysis backwards. What plus how equals who… "

" ...or a close approximation." She looked at him with honest surprise, and not a little admiration. "You've been reading John Douglas."

"Interesting how the study of criminal behavior can far too easily be applied to politics."

"Interesting how the study of criminal behavior can far too easily be applied to politics."

"Don't go there, Leo."

"You don't think this is politics?" McGarry asked, regarding her with somber curiosity.

"Do you?" she challenged.

"No." It frightened him that he could come to that conclusion so easily and without any doubts. He'd played the game far too long to be fooled by it. He couldn't deny what the evidence and his instincts were telling him. "It's too quiet, too cold. It makes no statement, no ringing diatribe against either the President or the system he represents. There's no gain, no profit other than the strong impression of a highly irritating itch being scratched, and done just as casually. I may be wrong, God knows I hope and pray I am, but this stinks of being personal."

"Agreed." Nancy wasn't surprised to hear his words reflect her own thoughts and conclusions. Given the opportunity, she knew Admiral Fitzwallace would say the same. It was all still an academic speculation at this point, but an ugly one. "If not personal, then strictly business. There was a profit to be had here. We just don't see it."

"Who?" Righteous anger, for his friend, the lives lost and the insult to his honor and the honor of the institution tore away at the edges of McGarry's control. He wanted answers.

 "We're working on it."

"We're working on it."

McGarry closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, trying to relax and knowing it was a lost cause. Rather than set him off, her response served to provide some small relief. Unlike so many bureaucratic excuses he'd heard given with that same phrase, he understood that she meant it. No matter what he might say or do, Nancy and the NSA were working as quickly as they could.

That still left him on the outside looking in. A situation he in no way found at all comforting. Shifting in his seat, he glanced irritably at his watch. "Ron should have found him by now."

"It's a party, Leo. He's mingling. There's what, maybe two, three hundred people out there?"

McGarry grimaced as the exact number of warm bodies currently partying down in the ballroom flashed before his mind's eye. "Three hundred and twenty one."

"For a birthday party?"

"The First Lady was not amused," McGarry responded sourly.

He'd quickly come to realize a great many things about this entire evening hadn't amused Abigail Bartlet. The night's list was an ever-growing accumulation of irritants. However short it may be, he also knew he occupied one of the higher positions on that exclusive register. Hardly an honor, it was a serious toss-up as to whether he or the President held the top slot.

"I can imagine," Nancy was saying, trying in some small way to placate him. She didn't bother to point out that, even with that large a number of people, finding the President should not be taking this long.

Not unless it was the President himself who was giving the Secret Service a collective ulcer. It wasn't a totally ridiculous possibility. She'd heard the rumors. At the time, she hadn't given the stories much credence. Now she was beginning to wonder.

Still, she had to give McGarry something. "Ron will find him. He's motivated."

That was an understatement. Nancy hadn't considered the senior agent's reaction when she'd included him in the initial briefing with McGarry. Ron Butterfield's granite mask of professionalism had cracked for a split second and she'd caught a glimpse of a burning rage that had nearly taken her breath away. He, along with the President's Chief of Staff, had been on board Marine One, been victims as well as the man who had clearly been targeted by the attack. They had survived, only just. Others hadn't.

That moment of unguarded fury had passed as quickly as it came, but when he had taken his leave, she'd been left with the certain impression that the usually inscrutable Secret Service agent was taking this personally.

Her lips tightened as she realized yet another truth. She wasn't immune to the frustrated anger anymore than they were. They were all taking it personally.

Especially Leo McGarry.

"He should have called a crash," McGarry growled.

"And accomplish what?" They'd already had this argument; one Nancy and Butterfield had won, barely. "Right now the only advantage we have is that whoever perpetrated this has no idea that we know. It was an accident. They have to know the report was delivered. That's a given. Call a crash now and not only will every guest at this party start asking the wrong questions, but they and whoever they paid to do this will know it too and go so far underground we'll never dig them out."

"Do you honestly think there's a chance of that?"

"Finding them? Honestly? Money always leaves a trail, however faint. Let's not lose perspective here. The security risk is minimal. Leo, I know he's your friend... "

McGarry's head snapped up at that. It was rare for any of the senior advisors to acknowledge out loud the unique relationship between the President and his Chief of Staff. That it was a given was accepted, but never dwelled on. Friendship had very little bearing on how he did his job. But it did color it to a significant degree. It was a problem McGarry struggled with on a daily basis. He had yet to find the perfect balance and doubted it even existed.

"Don't finish that sentence, Nancy," McGarry warned her in a low voice. The problem, as it were, remained his. He didn't need anyone to rub his face in it. "Friendship doesn't enter into the equation."

"You're a better poker player than that, Leo." All Nancy earned with that comment was a dark look through narrowed eyes. She ignored it. "Let Ron and me do our jobs."

"And my job would be?"

"To keep him from going ballistic when he finds out."

"Fine," McGarry muttered, perhaps just a bit sullenly. "Call me Job and give me the impossible tasks."

"You do have a rep as a miracle worker. He listens to you. Can't say the same for the rest of us."

This time the look McGarry shot her could have melted lead. Ignoring those looks was becoming habit and Nancy felt she was getting pretty good at it.

Nancy and McGarry started as the door to the drawing room slammed open with a violent crash, then closed with equal force behind the tall, glowering form of Ron Butterfield, Special Agent in Charge of White House security. Both the Chief of Staff and the National Security Advisor were well aware the display of uncontrolled emotion was out of character for the man.

It did not bode well for whatever news he had to impart.

"He did it again," Butterfield growled, glaring at McGarry as if it were all his fault.

The implied accusation was obvious, and in a way, the man was right. McGarry had been the primary mover and shaker behind getting Josiah Bartlet into the White House. Whatever problems and headaches the Secret Service now had to put up with could be traced straight back to him. He could well imagine not being at the top of their Christmas lists.

Only by reminding himself that the man carried a gun and knew how to use it was the Chief of Staff able to stifle the smug grin that threatened to split his face.

Along with a great many other people tonight, Butterfield was not amused. Eyes narrowing dangerously, he let the Chief of Staff understand in no uncertain terms how he felt.

Nancy opened her mouth to ask the obvious question, but a quick glance between the two men - McGarry trying to disappear into his seat cushion and Butterfield doing his level best to intimidate and be respectful at the same time - and she decided discretion was the better part of valor.

This was not something she wanted to get in the middle of.

Not long ago, Leo McGarry had speculated on what it would take to make the unflappable Butterfield lose his cool. His own ill-conceived actions at the time had brought the agent as close to the brink as he'd ever seen him. He'd come to the conclusion that it was situational. From the look on the man's face, the barely contained frustrated anger radiating from him and the state of the door - which more than likely was going to have to have its hinges realigned - he figured the situation control had hit another all time low.

Whatever dark humor he may have found earlier quickly disappeared. McGarry didn't need to ask what had set Butterfield off this time. "He ditched his detail again, didn't he?"

Whether it was his training finally taking hold, or the slight possibility he was so far beyond words as to be rendered mute, the agent's rigid silence spoke volumes. Eyes blazing, Butterfield merely nodded.

"Again?" Nancy had latched on to the apparent keyword in both Butterfield's and McGarry's statements. Apparently the rumors were correct, and from the way both men were acting, she didn't need any further confirmation of her suspicions. "He's done this before?"

The combined glares from McGarry and Butterfield would have sent a lesser person running for dubious cover. Nancy McNally was made of sterner stuff. Besides, if this was a regular occurrence, she was beginning to have a very strong heart-felt sympathy for what these two had to put up with.

Nancy thought about it for a moment. "Leo?"

"Yeah?"

"His timing sucks."

Butterfield surprised them both by snorting derisively and muttering, "Go figure."

Standing, McGarry straightened his shoulders and tugged at the line of his suit. He stood there a moment, giving both Nancy and Butterfield the benefit of his silence. All things considered, he should have anticipated it. The unexpected had long been what he'd come to expect from the man he'd called friend for more than half both their lives.

In truth, he wasn't at all surprised.

Settling his gaze on Butterfield, he commanded softly, "Find him."

To be continued…