VII
Jed looked at the two women in front of him, and wondered where his words had gone. Wasn't he famous for holding forth for hours on the tiniest little pieces of trivia? So why, now, when it was so desperately important, could he not think of a single little thing to say?
Mallory had been alternating between undirected fury and a kind of crumpled distress that was heart-breaking to watch. Jenny, of course, was bearing up in stoic silence, but Jed could see the pain in her eyes.
He longed to gather them both in his arms and comfort them, and yet something held him back. When Donna had hugged him earlier, it had been almost shocking... a momentary breaking-down of walls he had never really realised were there.
People didn't touch the President. It was as if the office made you something different, something unapproachable. If he had still been plain old Jed Bartlet, he could have sat his best friend's family down on the couch and held them, comforted them in their fear and distress. But he was President Bartlet now, and somehow that meant he couldn't do so.
If he couldn't lend his support physically, then at the very least he should be able to muster the words. Words were his power, and always had been; all those speeches, not just the ones carefully crafted by Sam and Toby, but the ones that tripped off his tongue without even thinking about it. All those nights on the campaign or in this very office, when he had lifted his team out of their depression and fired their hopes anew, with the power of his own conviction. Where was that faith now, when he truly needed it?
He hadn't been able to tell them anything over the phone, but they had known the moment he summoned them to the White House. And when they had arrived, he thought that his inability to tell them anything had hurt worse than any blow they had been steeling themselves for.
Where are you, Leo? Are you hurt? Are you thinking of me? Of them? Are you even still alive?
Dammit, what was wrong with him, that he could only think these thoughts and offer not a crumb of support to Leo's family?
"I-" He broke off, because the words were still not there. He couldn't bring himself to utter trite assurances he didn't believe. They deserved more from him than that.
Jenny just smiled at him sadly; understanding, forgiving. He hated that.
Why won't you shout at me? Rail at me? You know this is my fault. I stole your husband from you; it was me he did it for, and you must know it. It was me who kept him working all the hours until finally you had to leave. It's because of me he's missing now, arrogant old Jed Bartlet who thought he could be President.
Tell me that. Shout at me. Hate me. Please, why won't you hate me? The weight of Jenny's sympathy threatened to snap him in two. What right did he have to it?
Mallory made a small noise of distress, and suddenly huddled up against her mother. In that instant, Jed saw her as she had been; a smiling child with a blaze of red hair who had laughed and played with his eldest daughter Liz. Leo had lost so much of her childhood in the bottom of his bottles - and now, the fragile bond they'd managed to regrow might have been severed for good.
If you die, Leo-
He didn't finish the thought, because there was no finish to it. If Leo died, if Leo was dead, that was the end. There would be no going on.
"I... I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. Because sometimes the most painfully inadequate words were the only ones there were. "I'm... so sorry."
Mallory turned a teary face towards him, and he wished, he wished that he could cry. "Where is he?" she said quietly. "Uncle Jed, where is he?"
The blaze of light was like a supernova, so fierce he cried out in pain and twisted around to shield his tear-filled eyes. When he could bring himself to lower his arms, all he could see was a dark silhouette blotting part of the brightness.
Something inside him was shouting urgently that he needed to get up, run, charge, but his body was too slow, too sluggish. I'm old, God I feel so old...
"You're alive." The voice was harsh, and thick with contempt. "It's almost a pity..."
"What-?" Leo began, hardly able to frame the question as his brain scrambled to regroup from the long hours in the lonely dark.
"Be quiet!" His sight was beginning to return to him now. The blurry shape was resolving itself into the figure of a man, tall and broad shouldered. It almost filled the doorway, but behind it he could see... sky?
"You don't talk!" ordered his captor. "No talking! You're the prisoner now! It's time you tasted your own medicine. It's time you suffered for the crimes you've wrought."
"Crimes-?" asked Leo, honestly confused. The question seemed to infuriate the man in the doorway.
"You ask? You ask, as if there was any way you couldn't know?" Then the figure was moving towards him, and there was a blur of motion in the dark and pain, incredible pain in his stomach...
Rifle butt, he hit you with a rifle butt-
"It's time you suffered for your crimes, McGarry," said the shadowy figure standing over him. And in that moment, absurdly, he was struck by the vagye feeling that he knew the voice from somewhere. "It's about time you paid what you owe."
And then the rifle butt descended again, and much as he didn't want to cry out he did. He cried out, and curled up into a little ball of pain, and cursed himself for being weak and old.
I should grab him, I should run, I could wrestle the rifle away from him- But the man was already walking away, and before he could convince his protesting body to obey the door was slamming shut. And even though the light had seared his eyes, the return to darkness made him want to slump down and cry with despair.
He wanted to just stay curled up in a ball of agony, but a something inside him started shouting. You're gonna lie here on the floor and die, McGarry? it demanded, internal voice echoing his captor's scathing tones. Get up, dammit! Get up!
Old, aching bones protesting, he forced himself into a sitting position. His head swam in the dark, but he breathed deeply, relishing the brief blast of fresh air his captor had brought with him.
Fresh air. Sky. Outside the door. Door over there. Sky. He crawled forwards in the dark, found the space where he knew the door must be. He ran an exploratory hand over it, and the wall beside it. Wood.
Wood. Wooden box. Sky. Outside. Wooden box, outside.
Trailer.
He was being held inside some kind of trailer. Where, he couldn't guess, but that wasn't important. These walls around him weren't stone, they were wood. And not very thick wood, in all probability. If he'd still been twenty, he could have kicked a hole through them under his own power.
You're not twenty anymore, McGarry. You haven't been twenty for a long time.
Much as it pained him to do so, he had to admit it. He was old, and he was weak. He hadn't let himself go in his later years, but the drinking had seen to that well enough. You couldn't put yourself through that for so long and come away in the pink of health. And so many hours spent sitting at his desk...
He wasn't as strong as he would like to be. Well, that was his problem. He wasn't going to get any stronger wasting away in here. He might not be able to kick his way out, but already he knew far more than he had done when he woke up in the dark. He was in some kind of a trailer, and his captor obviously wanted something of him - even if that was only to come in and gloat as he grew progressively weaker.
Now all he had to do was tie that together into some sort of plan, and figure out how to get out of here.
Abbey blazed through the corridors of the White House like the angel of death, and anybody who saw the expression on her face scurried out of her way as fast as humanly possible. The First Lady was on her way home, and she was pissed.
It would take someone who knew Abigail Bartlet far better than the nervous junior staffers to recognise the angry expression on her face for what it truly was; fear.
That early morning conversation with Jed had turned her veins to ice. He hadn't needed to explain himself for her to know that something was very, very wrong. When things were bad, Jed leaned on her more than ever, no matter the distance between them. For things to be so bad that he wouldn't talk even to her...
Perhaps she had narrowly scraped some huge diplomatic incident in abruptly curtailing her trip. Right now, she couldn't bring herself to care. Her staff would smooth things over behind her abrupt departure, even if they didn't know the reason behind it themselves. And she had more important things to worry about than some minor official's wounded dignity.
The first West Winger to fall in her sights was Josh. Her doctor's eye took in his even more haggard than usual appearance, but she didn't have time to mother him now. She had a husband to see to.
"Where's my husband?" she demanded. "Where's Leo?"
Josh jumped as if he'd been completely unaware of her presence. He looked half dead on his feet. "Uh... um, uh, ma'am," he spluttered. "Uh, the President's in the Oval." He swallowed. "Um, you should probably go right in."
The haunted look on his face did nothing to calm her heart as it fluttered in her chest. Oh God, what is it? What is it? The only thought that kept her on her feet was the knowledge that it couldn't be Jed, she'd spoken to him that very morning, it couldn't be anything wrong with him...
It isn't Jed, it's not my girls, it isn't Jed, it's not my girls. Those certainties were like a mantra, the only comfort she could draw. Whatever it was, if it wasn't one of those then she was strong enough to survive it.
I hope.
Charlie jumped to his feet as she approached, and he looked haunted, too. Instead of his usual chirpy greeting, he ran straight to the Oval Office door, and opened it without knocking.
The blast of nonsensical relief she felt at meeting Jed's eyes lasted about as long as it took for her to register who else was in the room with him.
Jenny and Mallory. Oh God. Jenny and Mallory.
With her soul sinking down in mortal dread, she asked the question she didn't want an answer to.
"What's happened to Leo?"