Farther off from Heaven

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 4/7

Something was up.

Joshua Lyman crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the door jam, letting his gaze slowly travel the length of the ballroom and with some concern carefully noting the stepped-up security activity. The Secret Service was trying to be discreet and were, for the most part, doing a pretty good job. Extra agents were stationed at the exits, more than the usual chatter into palm radios and earpieces. Checking out a few of the guests, gauging their reactions, he figured nobody not already in the know had figured it out yet. Probably wouldn't. The majority of the guests - unlike him - were having too good a time to even care.

A tight expression settled on Lyman's face and he thought sourly, 'Lucky them.' His fortune hadn't been quite so good tonight.

Watching two more agents - they always traveled in pairs - exit the ballroom with grimmer than usual expressions, hands to their earpieces, Lyman couldn't deny the facts any longer. Party or no party, they were far more intense than was customary given the situation.

Without evidence to the contrary he couldn't be exactly sure, but something was definitely up. Laying his next paycheck on that would be a safe bet, about the only safe bet he'd take tonight.

He'd just come back from pouring Amy into a cab. He was still trying to figure out how to confront the First Lady about getting his girlfriend plastered and filling her head with ideas. As if she hadn't had enough of those to begin with. The ideas weren't the problem. He could deal with those. It was the overdose of smug she'd laid on him afterwards that he hadn't wanted any part of. Lord, but that woman knew how to drive a point into the ground, and then stomp on it mercilessly till any sort of logical resistance was futile.

Thank God, point made and driven home, she'd been okay about leaving. Amy's machinations and gloating was one thing. Her drunken machinations and gloating resembled one of Dante's levels of hell. Which one he hadn't been able to figure out yet, but quite probably the lowest and the nastiest. Lyman couldn't really blame her; you took your opportunities where you could and private parties with the First Lady were few and far between. But tonight wasn't the night for her games. He'd just wanted to have fun.

A thin-lipped smile on his face, he candidly admitted to himself that he should have known better. If anything, Amy was not what you'd term typical and her idea of fun often bordered on the Machiavellian.

Pushing himself off the wall and shoving his hands in his pockets, he debated whether or not he wanted to stay. It hadn't exactly been the evening he'd imagined it would be, and judging from the Secret Service activity, he just might want to leave while he still could. His date, the party and the evening had been a total bust.

Well, not quite all of it. A fond, indulgent smile lit his face as he thought about Donna. He'd done good there. At least he had something to be proud of tonight. Feeling just a touch smug himself, Lyman figured that would be a pretty good note on which to call it a night.

Spirits out of tempo with the sounds of gaiety and laughter around him, Lyman was about to leave when out of the corner of his eye he spied Leo McGarry along with Ron Butterfield and Nancy McNally huddled near the main entrance. Taken separately, each of those individuals would send up warning flags. Take them together, add the flurry of activity going on right now, and the final sum was not a reassuring one.

Trying not to appear too obvious, Lyman watched them with as much nonchalance as he could manage. Butterfield soon left, moving off into the crowd with a tight expression on his face he could only describe as... angry. No other word for it. The man was ticked.

Then Nancy turned to leave and Lyman caught a quick glance of the National Security Advisor's face. She had never been what he'd call an easy read, but the signs were there. Angry again. It was a toss-up as to whose slow burn would erupt into an all-consuming conflagration first.

As for Leo, Lyman didn't need a road map. He'd known the man since he was a kid, learned the rules of the political game from him and watched him make his mark in the party and as Labor Secretary. Now, as one of the most influential Chiefs of Staff in living memory and the most powerful non-elected official in the White House, it was clear that Leo McGarry was on the hunt. His face as he scanned the milling crowd was a study in tightly masked emotion.

Lyman frowned. And there was that anger again. This was not good.

The storm warning flag went up another length on the flagpole. From the look on the man's face, Lyman had a very nasty suspicion who his boss was hunting for. He hoped he was wrong, but experience had taught him that that much focused emotional energy was usually reserved for only one man.

Resigned to his fate, it was at that point Lyman realized that he wasn't going to be leaving the building any time soon.

From across the room, Leo McGarry made eye contact with his deputy. With a curt nod of his head, he motioned for the younger man to follow him out into the hallway. Pasting what he hoped was a sincere smile on his face, he muttered a few niceties to passing guests, shook a few hands, and politely ignored the rest.

Right now, politics and refined social pleasantries were the furthest things from the Chief of Staff's mind. Let the curious guess if they wanted to, but he was feeling as far from pleasant as he could possibly get.

Taking his deputy by the arm as he drew near, McGarry stepped across the hall and took up a position that provided a good view of the ballroom interior and the length of the corridor. And a bit of privacy. He was taking no chances.

Struggling with the uncertainties aroused and the myriad of questions he wanted to ask, Lyman quietly voiced the one that covered the most bases, "What's up?" McGarry would choose the answers.

"Nancy got the report," McGarry kept it simple, keeping his voice low and hoping Lyman hadn't been into the booze too deeply. A quick glance up and down the hallway assured him that none of the wandering guests were paying any attention to them or getting suspicious.

McGarry silently prayed that innocent ignorance would continue.

Eyes narrowing, Lyman held his silence for a moment, studying the Chief of Staff. The man could have been talking about any number of reports, none of which would have brought him to this stage. Knowing McGarry and recent events, he didn't need to guess. "The accident."

"It wasn't."

"Son of a bitch." He definitely wasn't going home any time soon. The heightened security made sense now, but not why it hadn't been taken to the ultimate level. "Why no crash?"

"Not now, Josh."

"Hell, Leo! They've called crashes when a chipmunk sets off a ground detector. This..."

"...is different." McGarry frowned at him, silencing him with a black look. All he needed at this point was some passing guest to hear Lyman fly off the handle. The glare worked. He nearly laughed at the 'crushed puppy' expression that inevitably crossed the younger man's face when he got stepped on. "Ron's people are on it."

"Does he know?"

Lyman flinched and took an involuntary step backwards as McGarry turned things up a notch and shot him an even darker, hooded glare. That familiar look and the buzzing security could only mean one thing. "I don't believe it. He did it again, didn't he?"

Grateful beyond words that Lyman's powers of deduction hadn't failed him, McGarry could only clench his jaw till he could hear his teeth cracking. President or friend, he knew if he gave in to the urge, the stream of invective wouldn't stop.

Silently chewing on a few choice words of his own, Lyman eventually could only observe dryly, "His timing sucks."

"You are not the first to make that observation."

"How the hell does he do it? There's what, thirty, maybe forty agents on this floor alone. What'd they do, all blink at once?"

It was a question McGarry would have paid any price to have the answer to. "I'm sure Ron has considered that possibility." And if there were one thing he was sure of, Josiah Bartlet would continue to do so until they did figure it out.

Another certainty was that the President was not going to make it easy. Forty years of friendship assured him of that. Shaking his head, he could only conclude that the fault was his. He should have known that, ground rules or not, the unpredictability of his friend guaranteed his life on a day to day basis was not going to be boring.

"They know what he looks like, right?" Lyman was asking sarcastically, his voice dangerously close to breaking into a higher volume range. "His picture in their wallets and everything?"

"Now you're getting silly."

"I'm silly?" Insulted, Lyman was more used to getting that sort of comment from Donna than the Chief of Staff. Considering the whole of the evening, he should have expected it. "Teenagers could recognize him on the street!"

"Your average teenager couldn't recognize their school principal on the street, let alone the President of the United States."

"Fair point."

"The Secret Service is not staffed with teenagers."

"Could have fooled me."

Tapping Lyman on the chest with an adamant finger, McGarry warned the younger man with all seriousness, "You'd best not let Agent Butterfield hear you say that. He's looking for someone to take it out on."

"Now that's a scary thought." The accompanying shiver of expectant dread was only partially dramatic. Lyman had a pretty good imagination and Ron Butterfield was... intimidating.

Satisfied that he'd made his point, McGarry pulled back a bit and said, "Here's a scarier one, Joshua. We need to find him, now. Before Ron does call a crash."

"Ron, hell. You're gonna call it."

"Damn right."

A familiar voice made itself heard over the party's din. Glancing across the hall into the ballroom, Lyman saw Mrs. Bartlet talking with Lord Marbury. The conversation appeared somewhat animated and neither participant looked happy. She turned away into the crowd, leaving Marbury alone with a somewhat bemused expression on his face.

A thought occurred to him and he asked cautiously, "Have you asked Mrs. Bartlet? Maybe she..."

"Hell, no!" McGarry responded with some heat, horrified at the thought. "Like I've got enough problems without letting her know we've misplaced her husband? We wouldn't need a crash at that point."

"She doesn't know about the... thing?"

McGarry laughed shortly, hoping he was only imagining the tremor he heard in his voice. Only Jed Bartlet could have brought him to this stage. The thought wasn't exactly a fond one. "Tell her about the thing right now and they'll be looking for him through the rubble of the building."

"Another fair point."

"I'm full of them tonight," McGarry muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"I was with Amy..."

"Don't remind me."

Boss or not, Lyman was getting a little peeved with the smart-ass remarks regarding Amy. "Hey..."

"Josh," McGarry repeated with infinite patience, "where?"

Apparently the entire evening had devolved into 'pick on Josh' night. Sighing with resignation, Lyman searched his memory. The original reason escaped him - but it must have been important at the time - but he'd been hunting for Donna. He recalled seeing both of them, the President and his erstwhile assistant, from across the room. The incongruity of the pairing had struck him as odd and Donna had unquestionably appeared flustered and cornered.

That thought had barely crossed his mind before another hit him. It was ridiculous, but considering the participants and the fact that Donna possessed a truly lousy poker face, the conclusion made a bizarre logical sense.

Or at least he hoped it did. Somehow, this entire evening had defied the normal rules of sound reasoning. "Donna," he said, turning his attention back to an impatiently waiting Chief of Staff.

 "Focus, Josh," McGarry growled, rolling his eyes with exasperation. "The President, not your secretary."

"Senior assistant."

"Josh!"

Lyman backed up and hit the wall. He hated it when McGarry got like this. "He was talking with Donna."

McGarry perked up at that and regarded Lyman with intense expectation. "When?" he asked eagerly.

"About a half hour ago."

"Did they leave together?"

"He left. She stayed." For some time after Donna had left, despite Amy trying to add her two cents in, Lyman had been unable to stop himself from thinking she'd been up to some sort of mischief. She generally was, but now he was sure of it. "Something happened, Leo. She wasn't all there after he left, kinda distracted, confused."

"Our Commander in Chief has that effect on a great many people. Besides, she works for you, Josh. Give her a break, why don't you?"

Scowling, Lyman risked giving McGarry a dirty look. "Thanks, Leo," he muttered.

He didn't feel the need to relate everything Donna had said before she'd abandoned him, doubted whether McGarry wanted to hear it. But considering whom she'd been talking to, she had said something fairly interesting.

Fixing McGarry with a steady, sure regard, Lyman told him, "She said she was on a mission, Leo. It's a long shot, but..."

"Long shot my ass!" McGarry cut him off angrily. Turning sharply on his heel, he stalked off down the hallway and confronted one of the Secret Service agents stationed outside the drawing room door.

Caught off guard, Lyman scrambled to follow, catching up just in time to hear McGarry telling the agent to pass the word and to locate and detain Donna Moss.

"...bring her here!" he ordered sharply, grabbing the door handle and yanking it open. Motioning for Lyman to follow him, he snapped, "Inside!"

Sparing a brief thought of profound sympathy for his assistant, Lyman swallowed nervously and reluctantly followed McGarry inside. He should have left while he had the chance. Honesty forced him to admit he'd had no choice in the matter, but there was no longer any doubt about it. His immediate future was secured.

When she found out about his part in this, Donna Moss was going to kill him.

The wait seemed interminable. Glancing at his watch, Lyman tried to figure how long it would take the agents to locate Donna. From the way they swarmed during the weekly practice crashes, his speculation was that it shouldn't take them all that long. But then, they couldn't seem to find the President, let alone one of the senior assistants.

Wincing, he decided to keep that errant thought to himself. No sense inviting trouble and the ire of far too many irritated and well-armed people. Looking up, he watched McGarry impatiently quarter the room like a caged lion. He was getting tired just watching him.

"Leo..."

"Tell me I'm wearing a hole in the carpet and I'll not be held responsible for my actions."

"Wasn't going to." Actually, he was, but he didn't think McGarry needed to know that.

McGarry's pacing came to an abrupt halt and Lyman's head snapped round when the door opened. Hand to his earpiece, Ron Butterfield gave both men a curt nod and said something quietly to the agent stationed outside before closing the door.

Without further acknowledging Lyman's presence, he turned directly to McGarry, "We've got her. They're on their way."

Lyman squeezed his eyes shut and winced. Donna was definitely going to kill him. Messily and painfully. Feeling a bit weak in the knees, he collapsed into a nearby chair with a loud, melodramatic groan

"What's with him?" Butterfield asked McGarry curiously.

McGarry smiled thinly and replied, "No doubt contemplating his mortality."

Butterfield gave a muffled exclamation that was somewhere between a grunt and a chuckle.

"They're gonna be... nice to her, right?" Lyman asked weakly.

One arched brow was the only indication McGarry found anything even remotely amusing. Dryly, he asked Butterfield, "Does the Secret Service even know how to be nice?"

One corner of Butterfield's mouth twitched, as close as circumstances and his training would allow him to a smile. Another time or place and he wouldn't have allowed himself even that. But since the accident, he and McGarry now had an understanding. In some ways, it made things easier.

And even though he wouldn't have dared to admit it aloud, a great deal more fun.

Leaning forward, Lyman buried his face in his hands and groaned, "I'm dead."

Butterfield had a pretty good idea what was troubling the Deputy Chief of Staff. Not much went on in the West Wing that he or his people didn't hear about. Certain staffers had become minor legends. It was no great feat of deduction to figure out what Lyman feared.

Turning to McGarry, the senior agent inquired with stoic composure, "Think Ms. Moss will let us watch?"

"Donna's a practical girl. I'm sure there will be tickets."

Pretty sure he was at the end of his rope; Lyman included both men in the wounded, accusing look that crumpled his face. "You know, life around here was a lot easier when you two barely acknowledged each other's existence, let alone..."

The rant was rather rudely interrupted when the door opened. With an agent holding her elbows on either side, Donna was hastily escorted in. Almost literally carrying her across the threshold, they brought her to the center of the room. Feet barely brushing the floor with each step, her darting glance quickly settled on the most intimidating man in the room, a very unhappy looking Butterfield.

From the concerned looks on their faces as they carried her forward, McGarry concluded the Secret Service agents weren't so much treating her as a suspect as they were worried that if they did let go of the girl's arms they'd have a limp disaster on their hands.

Finally set on her feet by the accompanying agents, barely managing to lock her knees before she collapsed, Donna took a deep breath and thanked the powers that be she'd been able to make it to the bathroom before they'd caught up with her. Otherwise this entire frightening situation would have included a seriously embarrassing accident.

Butterfield dismissed both agents with a commanding look, and then turned his attention to Donna. A rabbit cornered in a deadfall by a hungry panther probably looked a great deal calmer. Not unaware of the affect the Secret Service had on the staffers, the menacing impression their presence and training left on even those who were familiar with their jobs, he softened his expression and took both of her hands in his. Leading her to a chair, he invited her to sit down.

Ron Butterfield wasn't a complete ogre, and right now he didn't want her thinking he was one. This was his job, but if she fainted from sheer terror he wasn't going to get any answers.

Crouching down, lessening his imposing presence, he looked into her eyes and smiled at her.

In unison, McGarry and Lyman's jaws dropped in shock.

Donna nearly melted. Butterfield had smiled at her and it looked like he actually meant it. It was an odd thought to have, especially now, but he had a very nice smile underneath that mustache. Swallowing some of her fear and nervousness, she asked him in a small voice, "What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything, Ms. Moss," Butterfield sighed and shook his head a little sadly. He honestly didn't like feeling like a bully, and right now her fidgeting was making him look like one. Perhaps it was the circumstances, but a little more of his reserve disappeared and he began to mutter, "Knowing the President..."

Donna started guiltily. "The President?"

Butterfield exchanged a knowing look with McGarry and patted the poor girl reassuringly on the shoulder. Shaking his head, he levered himself up and stepped away. "The President," he said, holding the Chief of Staff's gaze and daring him to contradict his conclusion.

McGarry didn't even bother to try.

"Where is he, Donna?" McGarry asked, stepping forward and trying to keep his tone unthreatening, a not so easy task considering his mood. The girl looked like she was still ready to bolt.

"He's with the pizza."

 "No games, Donna," Lyman warned her with exasperation. The words may have sounded playful but the meaning was not. "You're not making me look good..."

Donna flinched.

Butterfield and McGarry silenced the Deputy Chief of Staff with a collective glare. Gratefully, Donna watched as Josh withered and, feeling a little braver, added a dangerous warning look of her own.

Shrinking back under the onslaught, Lyman scrambled out of his chair and stammered, "I'm just going to go stand in the corner now."

"You do that, Josh," McGarry told him, meaning every word. Turning back to Donna, he gently asked again, "Where is he, Donna?"

The alcoholic fuzz, rapidly clearing from her mind, dissipated a bit more, but not quite enough. "I thought it was an executive order," she answered vaguely.

"It probably was," Butterfield muttered darkly. "In all likelihood, it's not your fault."

Donna beamed up at him gratefully. He really was a nice man. "It was my pizza."

"Pizza?" McGarry echoed incredulously, finally putting the pieces together. Throwing his arms into the air, he growled a sincere promise, "I'm gonna kill him."

Donna gasped.

Lyman stared at his boss with open-mouthed amazement.

Butterfield shook his head sagely and said with cool aplomb, "I can't let you do that, Mr. McGarry."

"Why?" McGarry challenged him, throwing caution and whatever good sense he had left to the wind. "You gonna get there first?"

Donna almost choked.

Lyman's mouth closed with an audible snap, nearly biting off half his tongue.

Butterfield's eyes narrowed, an unidentifiable glint in his eyes leaving everybody to guess what was going through his mind.

McGarry shook his head. Words. Just words. "Where is he, Donna?" he asked again, beginning to feel like a parrot and so tired now his nerves throbbed. Hoping that maybe, just maybe this time he'd get an answer, he waited.

The last of the fuzz cleared, giving Donna a good impression of the men's seriousness. "Ainsley Hayes' office," she told them in a tiny voice.

"Hiding among the Republicans." It was so simple. McGarry could have kicked himself for not thinking of it first. "With the pizza?"

Not all of the fuzz was gone. "What's left of it."

Butterfield was already talking into his palm transceiver. Message sent, he gave McGarry a brisk nod, then turned another relieved smile on Donna and said with all sincerity, "Thank you, Ms. Moss. We'd have found him eventually, but you've saved us some time."

That gentle smile was another minor miracle, but they were all getting used to it. Including Butterfield. He chalked it up to the greater than usual stress he'd been under lately.

Donna, feeling a bit braver, asked, "How did you know?"

McGarry hooked his thumb towards the man trying to hide in the corner and said with some relish, "Josh told us."

Donna drilled her boss with a supremely dark, promising look.

Lyman sighed heavily. Life couldn't get much better than this.

Feeling some relief that it was all over, McGarry couldn't help a sincere laugh. The next few days in the Deputy Chief of Staff's office was going to be interesting. If Donna were smart, she would sell tickets. She'd make a fortune. He sure as hell would buy one.

Standing off to one side, Butterfield put his hand to his ear. Listening, his face went stone hard and he demanded harshly into his palm mike, "Say again?" Curtly waving off the others questions before they could be asked, he listened for a moment, then swore hotly, "Shit!"

Lips tight with frustration, anger and something the observing Chief of Staff couldn't quite put his finger on, the senior Secret Service agent told them all flatly, "He's not there."

"Shit!" McGarry took his turn at swearing. They'd been so close!

Donna shrank back into her chair, clutching at the armrests and looking horrendously guilty. "Oh my God," she whispered.

"Donna?" McGarry asked, alarmed and concerned. She looked like she was about to faint or be sick. He prayed it was the former.

"I lost the President."

To be continued…