Farther off from Heaven
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 7/7
Sure of himself and his place in the universe, Ron Butterfield pounded down the corridor towards the pressroom. Considering how his luck had gone so far this evening, he couldn't quite believe it.
Damn! They'd found him!
There were no guests in this part of the Wing, but a few members of the late night cleaning crew jumped in astonishment and flattened themselves against the walls as he raced by, three other agents struggling gamely to keep up with their boss's long-legged run. Seeing the Chief of Security in such an uncharacteristic state of emotional uproar was well worth a few colorful exclamations and unashamedly open-mouthed wonder.
Not that there was ever truly a lack of it, but gossip and speculating about the whys for this little show was going to keep everyone entertained for weeks.
Scowling, Butterfield felt their curious stares and realized he was going to be doing a lot of explaining tomorrow. Probably for a much longer time to come. One night of mistakes was going to keep the White House rumor mill running on more than fumes for an interminable decade or two. Oddly enough, that didn't concern him at the moment; although he knew it was going to drive his blood pressure through the roof before it had all run its course. Only one thing concerned him at this particular moment.
They'd found him!
Not that he ever thought he'd be using that phrase when applied to the President of the United States and the man he was supposed to be keeping out of harm's way. The logical comeback to the phrase was 'How'd you lose him in the first place?' A question he had no satisfactory answer to.
Three presidents. Butterfield had served under three sitting presidents and this man, this economist, was the first one who seemed to take a devilish delight in going out of his way to make his chief bodyguard's life more interesting.
Interesting being of course one of the most glaring understatements he'd ever contemplated.
They'd found him!
Having found him, Butterfield wasn't exactly sure what they were going to do with him once they had him safely in hand. One didn't exactly lecture the leader of the free world like a recalcitrant child, but he was sure as hell tempted. Right now, that temptation was very close to winning the battle with his hard-fought common sense.
The two men he'd assigned to the First Lady's detail looked up, boundless relief at his approach settling across their features like a heavy shroud. It was a very bad sign. Butterfield drew to an abrupt halt, the three men trailing in his wake almost plowing into his back. His own relief had instantly turned to suspicion.
What were they doing outside the pressroom if he was inside? A silly question, but Butterfield had the sinking feeling it was only the beginning.
Pausing for a deep breath and a moment to fight for his self-control, Butterfield demanded with a hooded glare for each man, "Where is he? Torres?"
Having lost his claim to safety and anonymity, Emil Torres, eleven year veteran of the FBI, treasury agent for three and now lead agent for the First Lady's detail, swallowed and stepped forward. "Eagle is inside, sir."
"Inside?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why are you outside?"
The Secret Service prided itself on a long tradition of being succinct, straightforward and economical to the extreme with words. Torres was no exception. "Eagle ordered us to, sir."
"Eagle," Butterfield ripped the words out, fixing each man in turn with an incredulous, yet still dangerous, frown, "ordered you?"
"Yes, sir." Simple answers. Torres was rather proud of himself.
Torres' partner nodded his agreement, perhaps a bit too quickly and eagerly. He nearly cringed when Butterfield turned his angry gaze in his direction. He hadn't meant to draw that kind of attention to himself. Clearing his throat, he looked away. Basic rule of survival was never make eye contact with the predator. And right now his boss definitely fell into the ravenous hunter category.
The three agents who had followed Butterfield on his mad dash through the West Wing stepped back as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. This was not going to be pretty.
Butterfield squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a headache. Along with the ulcer, he now had a headache. "Since when do we disregard our duties at the orders of the man we are supposed to protect?"
Torres winced. That hurt. "He yelled, sir."
Rolling his eyes heavenward, perhaps searching for some divine intervention, Butterfield pointed out, "Lately, the man has always been yelling. Where have you been?" Considering the strain he'd been under, Butterfield couldn't help but admire the President's restraint. Yelling was the least of what he could be doing.
Praying for a bit of that same restraint, Butterfield listened to Torres begin his justifications. However the man phrased it, he was sure it would all still amount to poor excuses.
"No, sir. He didn't just yell," Torres was saying, the lines of concentration deepening along his brow as he searched for the correct word. He couldn't find it. Emphasis was all he could come up with. "Eagle yelled, sir."
Butterfield stared at the man, momentarily at a loss for words, then snapped out, "I don't care if he yelled till he was blue in the face! You have a job! Consider yourself on report!"
Rapidly reaching the end of what little was left of his tether, Butterfield started to enter the pressroom.
A horrified look on his face, Torres stopped him. "Sir!"
"What!" Butterfield ground out; promising silently that the next meeting of the team leaders was going to be extremely vocal and entertaining. "Agent Torres, you have some objection to my going in there?"
"You don't want to go in there, sir."
The Chief of White House security's mustache twitched and his brows rose. "Why?"
"His wife's in there," Torres told him helpfully. It should have been enough.
It wasn't.
"I had gathered that," Butterfield replied dryly. "You are head of detail for the First Lady, after all."
Butterfield didn't wait to hear any more excuses and angrily marched his way into the pressroom. It only took a second - he'd always been a quick study, it was a talent he was rather proud of - before he whipped around and left again in as quick a one-eighty as he'd ever pulled in his life.
Letting out a very long breath and offering a fidgeting Torres an apologetic grimace, he said, "You were right, Agent Torres. I did not want to go in there."
Torres fidgeted a bit more, then said, "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I tried to warn you."
"Yes, you did."
A little spark of hope leapt into Torres' eyes. "The report, sir?"
"Forget it," Butterfield impatiently waved him off. "Eagle would have killed you."
A relieved breath gusted from his mouth and Torres nodded. "Either Eagle or the First Lady."
"Most likely the First Lady," Butterfield replied, smiling thinly and acknowledging the man's point. Certain deaths weren't worth the price paid to protocol. "You and your partner, take the other entrance. Nobody gets in there. You," he jabbed an adamant finger at the closest member of the remaining pack, making him the leader, "Cover every other exit and the observation window. Call in as many warm bodies as you need. Anyone wants to take a peek, shoot them."
Trying to figure out if he was serious or not, the men scrambled to obey. Considering his mood, nobody was taking any long bets. Explanations or excuses would come later. If anything, CJ Cregg could come up with a good story if they did have to shoot someone.
She always managed to spin something when needed. Flamingo was good at that sort of thing.
That left Butterfield alone, a situation he was not at all unhappy with. Alone was good. He could steam alone. Swear alone. Think the unthinkable alone. Contemplate his mortality alone. Alone, he could figure out what the hell he was going to tell Leo McGarry when he showed up.
Life couldn't possibly get much better than this, of that he was dourly certain.
Glancing at his watch, Butterfield counted down the seconds. The Chief of Staff should be showing up right about... "Now," he said with a bit of smug satisfaction. At least something was going right tonight.
Leo McGarry pounded around the corner, the NTSB report folder clutched in his hand and only slightly out of breath.
"Where's Lyman?" Butterfield asked, noting the Deputy Chief of Staff's absence.
"Ran into a door."
"That wouldn't happen if he learned to open them."
"I hear Donna's been trying to train him." McGarry glanced past the agent's shoulder at the pressroom entrance. "Is he in there?"
"Yes."
McGarry waited, impatience evident in stance and expression. Butterfield continued to stand there, blocking the way with an unreadable look on his face. "Well?" the Chief of Staff demanded.
Blandly, giving no hints at all, Butterfield replied, "You do not want to go in there."
"Like hell I don't!"
"Like hell you won't," Butterfield emphasized the negative, his thin smile in no way indicating compliance with McGarry's charge.
Frowning fiercely, having reached the end of his tether a long time ago, McGarry ignored the warning and attempted to shoulder his way past the towering agent, only to find himself grabbed by the scruff of his neck and unceremoniously hauled back. Lifted off his feet, all he could manage was a short grunt of surprise and an oddly poignant thought.
'So this is what it feels like.'
Setting the Chief of Staff back on his feet, Butterfield benevolently straightened the man's rumpled tux lapels and said again, a bit more firmly, "You are not going in there."
"No." McGarry attempted to recapture a bit of his lost dignity, brushing at a bit of invisible lint on his coat sleeve. "You've made your point. I am not going in there. After all this, may I ask why?"
"His wife's in there with him."
Realization dawned on McGarry's face. "Ahhh."
Butterfield nodded. "Yep."
"In the pressroom?"
"Apparently."
"Great." McGarry impatiently surveyed the entrance to the pressroom, chewing on his bottom lip before asking, "How long do you figure?"
"As long as it takes," Butterfield replied evenly, following the Chief of Staff's gaze and giving the entrance a narrow look of his own. "You know as well as I do that this has been too long in coming. The report can wait. It's not going anywhere."
McGarry stiffened at those quietly delivered words, momentarily affronted at the agent's audacity, then embarrassed. Those words should have been his. Never more so than now, he was all too aware of the stark line between his job and his lifelong friendship. For a brief, terrible moment, the job had been all. He'd forgotten what his friend had been through these last, long months. The personal sacrifice and heartache the man had been through.
Some things were worth the sacrifice. But not this. Jed and Abbey deserved this moment, however brief. McGarry nodded. "It can wait."
The mean play would begin again soon enough.
Butterfield shrugged, uncomfortable with McGarry's scrutiny and what he knew the man was thinking. The call wasn't one even the Chief of White House Security had the right to make. Strict rules and even stricter training dictated that the President be secured immediately. No questions or excuses. Family and personal issues were never part of the equation. He'd broken the rules.
Butterfield hardened his eyes and looked away.
McGarry saw the action, realized with a wry understanding what the man was trying to hide, the unfeeling facade he was struggling to maintain. He wasn't fooled. He now knew Ron Butterfield better than that. The man had depths he couldn't allow to surface. McGarry had seen through the cracks, though, but he didn't say anything. Allowing Butterfield the disguise was no great problem and a small way of saying thank you.
McGarry stifled a smile. Any thanks and the man would only throw the words right back at the giver. It was his job, nothing more. He didn't believe that anymore than Butterfield did. It would, however, remain their secret.
Stepping across the hallway, McGarry leaned up against the opposite wall, absently twitching the report in his fingers. There was nothing for it now but to wait. Glancing at his watch, he couldn't help the low growl of irritation.
Feeling Butterfield's amused gaze, he turned a sour look on the agent and told him in no uncertain terms, "I want to hear no comments about timing."
"Would I dare?" The agent shrugged dismissively and replied coolly, "Personally, I've had enough of those tonight to last a lifetime."
"You were thinking it."
"A very little thought," Butterfield admitted with an equally little, tight smile twisting one corner of his mouth. McGarry was the only person he would allow himself to break that personally strict decorum for. Just a tiny bit.
The agent's head snapped round as the familiar sound of running footsteps echoed down the corridor. His smile, however small, disappeared and he muttered pointedly, "Speaking of timing."
McGarry's sigh contained equal parts resignation and fond annoyance. There was only one person it could be. The young man was the best at his job, top of his field in fact. But he could be a trial at times. 'Most of the time,' McGarry admitted silently with rueful affection.
And he would never change a thing, nor would he tell his deputy that. Aloud, he said, "Josh must have won his battle with the door."
"I'll have to see about fixing that."
"Josh or the door?"
Butterfield never got the chance to answer.
"Leo!" The voice raced loudly down the corridor, bouncing off the walls and soon to be followed by its owner, who skidded to a nearly breathless halt in front of the Chief of Staff. "Is he in there?" Lyman gasped.
"Not for long if he heard you bellow like that," McGarry grumbled, giving the pressroom entrance an anxious look. He could think of better ways for the couple inside to get a wake-up call. "In fact, I think most of the West Wing heard you."
Professional facade back in place, Butterfield merely grunted his disapproval.
"Then what are we waiting for?" Lyman demanded, doing his best to ignore the glowering senior agent. It wasn't easy. Intimidation was the man's stock in trade and right now he was doing his level best to glare the Deputy Chief of Staff into submission.
"His wife is in there with him," McGarry told him patiently.
"So?"
McGarry sighed. He was going to have to have a long talk with Donna. This boy needed to be educated. "Think, Josh. Please?"
This time Butterfield's grunt sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Lyman glared at him, then turned a somewhat more thoughtful look to the pressroom entrance. Maybe he had overindulged in the wine just a bit tonight. The answer eluded him for a few beats. Then it hit him.
"Uhhh, Mrs. Bartlet?" he asked cautiously.
"Yes, Josh." McGarry nodded wisely, satisfied his deputy was on the right track. When it came to relationships, he'd learned the younger man was woefully ignorant of the more subtle aspects of family life.
"In the pressroom?"
He was a quick study too. McGarry nodded again.
"Whoa."
Rolling his eyes, McGarry couldn't help but laugh at that guileless remark. The boy was a treasure, in more ways than one. "How the hell did you ever graduate high school?"
"Got lucky, I guess," Lyman admitted with a knowing smile, shoving his hands into his pockets. "How long do we wait?"
McGarry shook his head at the impatience of youth. "As long as we have to."
Unfortunately, waiting calmly was not something Joshua Lyman was very good at. Not when the news was as important as this. He didn't have the patience yet to dampen the frustrated energy firing his nerves.
Pacing, chafing at the interminable wait, only minutes passed before he gave both McGarry and Butterfield his ultimatum, "He needs to be told!"
The older men ignored him, McGarry simply shaking his head and Butterfield crossing his arms and scowling.
"What's taking so long?" Lyman fidgeted; apparently oblivious to the slightly incredulous look Butterfield shot at the Chief of Staff, who responded with yet another elaborate rolling of his eyes.
"The First Couple have a lot to talk about." McGarry was rather proud of the admittedly somewhat strained patience of his reply. Mind you, if Josh had snickered at his accidental innuendo he was going to clip his ear, Deputy Chief of Staff or no. That restrained remnant of his composure was rapidly fading fast.
His colleague failed to recognize the warning signs. Patience wasn't exactly one of his strengths. Cracking at last, Lyman took two swift paces towards the entrance, as if intent on shouldering Butterfield aside and bursting through.
He practically skid to a halt as Butterfield moved quietly and implacably into his path, staring down impassively at the younger man and seemingly about as moveable as the Rock of Gibraltar. Frustrated, Lyman whirled around and appealed to his boss. "Leo, we have to tell him! Now! Don't you understand? The implications…"
"Don't lecture me on the implications, Joshua!" McGarry's façade cracked at last, and all the tension, stress and fear came boiling up. "I understand them just fine! Quite apart from anything else, I was there. Remember? I know what this report," he waved the manila folder in his hand like a damning flag, "means for us, for the country and for this administration."
McGarry paused for breath, suddenly emotionally and physically exhausted. Quietly, sadly, he indicated the doorway and whispered, "For them."
'And for you.' Chastised, and a little guilty, Lyman completed the thought. He knew how devoted Leo McGarry was to the President, how much their friendship - that sometimes almost seemed a symbiosis as they worked in tandem, whole conversations being conveyed by a glance or the tilt of a head - meant to both men.
Josiah Bartlet was truly close to only a few people, and Leo McGarry occupied a privileged place in that select pantheon. These two men shared a history that predated the births of most of the President's senior staff. What would it be like to lose a friend of such old and close standing? Especially in such a way as this. Lyman devoutly hoped neither he nor McGarry would ever have to find out.
Ron Butterfield shot a brief, telling glance at the Chief of Staff. He knew what the other man was thinking. 'Let them have this moment. There's been few enough lately, and they're going to need it.' The agent heaved an inward sigh. They certainly would, especially knowing what the future would bring.
The scene he had caught a mercifully brief glimpse of had been both embarrassingly private and delightfully heart-warming. Normally, Butterfield never gave a thought to the personal lives of those he was sworn to protect. He couldn't afford to. But the Bartlets had breached his professional shell. He cared. Enough to ensure that they had at least a few moments respite before he once again shredded the cocoon of happiness they were trying so hard to restore.
Hearing footsteps coming up behind him, he braced himself and turned. And almost swore. This news would never have been easy to deliver, under any circumstances. But with both the President and his wife radiating that familiar glow of relaxation and contentment in each other's company that the entire White House had always observed - and missed in recent months - being the cause of shattering it seemed incredibly unfair. Could the timing have possibly been any worse? He didn't envy McGarry.
"Mr President?" Lyman stepped forward with an air of mild alarm. "Are you all right, sir?"
"Fine, Josh. Just fine." Bartlet waved him away casually. His bow tie was partly undone; his hair tousled and there was no mistaking the air of satisfaction he fairly exuded. Nonetheless, his eyes were slightly narrowed with strain and he was definitely favouring his right leg, trying not to lean on his wife for support, even as she rolled her eyes at his insouciance.
"Yeah, Josh, everything's peachy." Abbey firmly steered her husband towards the three men. "If you don't count some stupid skulking around this evening that almost led to his being stuck with having to rest that leg for another week."
Puzzled, she was almost distracted from her present mission by the sight of both McGarry and Butterfield wincing in guilty unison. One of these days she was going to get to the bottom of that almost Pavlovian reaction to any mention of Jed's recent injury. The mystery, however, could wait for another day. She didn't want to be reminded about the accident and was determined that this day would end on a happier note.
"Jed, apologise to the nice agent for giving him the run-around this evening. Then we're getting you into bed. Not like that," she whacked her husband's arm as he gave her a broad grin. "You need to get some sleep, and to get off that leg."
McGarry cleared his throat. There would be no better time for this. "Mr. President..."
"Not now, Leo." Abbey fixed her husband's old friend with her best quelling glare. It had been known to work on him in the past. From the stubborn set of his jaw, and what she could have sworn was honest grief at the intrusion in his eyes, she knew it wasn't going to work this time. Still, she had to try. "Unless there's a major crisis, the President is going to get some much needed rest."
"Leo?" Bartlet was well attuned to McGarry's moods, and something told him the man's clear lack of relish for his role as messenger extended far beyond merely intruding into any possible family time. "What's up?"
McGarry exchanged an agonised look with Lyman, then stepped forward and reluctantly extended the manila folder, one crumpled corner of which bore silent witness to a violently felt emotion.
Bartlet gazed at it, then looked up to meet his friend's eyes. Regarding the other man steadily, he straightened his shoulders and stepped deliberately away from his wife's side. Slowly, he extended his hand and took the folder. His mouth tightened into a hard line as he saw the title and he flipped the file open with stiff, jerky motions.
Abbey's objections, both to his leaving her side and the untimely interruption, died in her throat as she felt the disquiet and apprehension radiating from her companions as they watched the President slowly leaf through the report. She looked questioningly at McGarry, but he was unable to meet her gaze, his features set in lines of misery. Lyman was positively flustered and Butterfield looked both angry and regretful. She turned towards her husband.
Leaning one shoulder against the wall for support, Jed had been gently kneading his bad leg while reading, but the action finally slowed, then stopped as the fingers of the hand holding the report tightened convulsively, creasing the paper trapped between them. His expression was darkening in anger, and something else Abbey couldn't quite place. She knew every line of her husband's expressive face, his highs and lows. The emotions passed so quickly, leading one to the next so quickly, she was left to guess.
Was that sorrow, grief, possibly even guilt? She was sure she recognized that last emotion; it was one he seemed to have worn a lot in recent days and hours. She had hoped to see the last of it. Candidly, she had to admit she should have known better.
Seeking enlightenment, she craned her neck slightly in an effort to see and caught the bold lettering NTSB on the front of the folder. It had finally come. A small sliver of ice seemed to work its unexpected way down her spine, and she drew closer to her husband.
Bartlet could barely make out the words through the maelstrom of emotions that seemed to cloud his vision. One phrase did cut through the mental fog with brutal clarity. Not an accident. Not an accident. Murder. Oh, you could argue that technically it was a murder attempt; after all, the chief target had escaped. That was what mattered as far as the world was concerned.
The hell it was! Righteous anger, colored by guilt, surged to the forefront of Bartlet's mind. As if it didn't matter that five young men had died, another good man had been slightly injured, and his oldest friend put at risk. Five people were dead. He kept coming back to that, as if the numbers would lend the harsh reality a colder, more manageable cast and give meaning to his anger. Two of them had been married. One had a young child. All dead. And why? They were killed simply because they were considered insignificant by someone seeking a bigger goal, his death. The President's death, because ending that man's life was considered a sufficiently worthwhile goal to make some collateral damage seem unimportant.
Bartlet squeezed his eyes shut as the memories once again rose up and submerged him. His right hand clutched at the material of his trousers where they concealed the injury. A brief, violent shiver ripped through his body at the recollection of cold, pain and that hideous feeling of being closed in, of those dreadful moments on first waking to total darkness and finding himself unable to move, to breathe. Even with closed eyes he recognized the gentle touch to his elbow. Abbey, concerned, was letting him know he wasn't alone.
But he hadn't been alone in that darkness either. It would have been almost preferable if he had. He felt his fingers flex unconsciously at the memory. Agent Donny Sandler had fulfilled the ultimate duty of a presidential bodyguard, and had paid the ultimate price. He left behind a wife and a two-year old daughter. He had shown the President her photograph once during a long flight, proud as only a young father could be.
She would never really know her father now, because his life had been considered less important than that of the man occupying the Oval Office, considered so by the world, the Secret Service, the perpetrator of that disaster and by her father himself. By everyone in fact but the man whom he had sworn to protect. Bartlet wondered if anyone who had not had another sacrifice their life for them could even begin to understand the crushing weight of responsibility the act bequeathed.
His fingers flexed again as the memories rushed him onwards. It had been impossible for him to do anything to help the young agent. Buried under the debris, he had barely been able to stretch his hand far enough to touch the other's head. That had been enough. Bartlet shuddered and involuntarily rubbed the fingertips of his right hand vigorously against the material of his trouser, feeling the scar he would carry for the rest of his life underneath.
As a cruel reminder, it would never leave him.
Several times since the accident, nightmare recollections had found him standing in pajamas and barefoot in his bathroom, violently scrubbing at the flesh and fingers of that hand; a frantic effort to wash away the feeling of blood and… other things that had encrusted themselves under his nails. In an effort to banish the sensation - still so fresh to the memory he could practically feel it now - he instinctively stretched that hand out, reaching for the one thing that could always anchor him, call him back from the dark places his thoughts carried him to.
Abbey took his hand and curled her fingers around his gratefully. Right now, she badly needed the reassurance of the contact as much as he did, to feel his flesh warm under hers, to know that he was here with her and safe. To be reassured that he would continue to stay that way. But she knew that there was no such reassurance. That had been lost almost ten years ago. In a way, this was just one more threat, one she couldn't recognize or fight.
She didn't want to lose him. She never had; that had partly been the cause of all the tension between them since the whole re-election issue had been broached. But she particularly didn't want to lose him now. Not now when they had finally been able to set the worst of the hurt and the anger aside, to see how the other had felt.
This evening had been painful in so many ways, but cathartic too. And the note of reconciliation they had managed to achieve had meant so much. Abbey knew their marriage was rightly famous for its impressive arguments, but it was an abidingly close one. So close it both thrilled and frightened her. The existence of the recent emotional wedge had eaten away at both of them, and its final erosion had caused her to feel as if an invisible but almost crippling burden had at last been lifted from her. She knew Jed had felt the same.
It was so unfair! After all that had happened, didn't they deserve to have the evening end as they had hoped for only moments before? Not for this newfound contentment to be shattered, and especially not in such a fashion as this.
Her husband was entertaining similar thoughts. Abbey didn't have to look into his eyes to know. She could feel the emotion in his hand, traveling through their touch into her. She took it in, held on to it and shared the new burden.
She wasn't about to let go, ever.
Clutching her hand gently, carefully, like the lifeline it currently was, Bartlet finally looked up to meet the anxious regard of his Chief of Staff. He took a deep, steadying breath and delivered the only verdict he could in the circumstances. "Leo?"
"Yes, Mr. President?"
"Your timing sucks."
The End