Falls the Shadow

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 10/14

Abbey settled back into her chair with a slight groan and wondered if she would ever fully be able to relax again. Her muscles seemed stiff and unnatural, and she felt as if she hadn't properly taken a deep breath since she and Jed had talked last evening. Of course, it wasn't every day you had to deal with the fact that not only had an attempt been made on your husband's life, but that the same threat continued to shadow him even now.

Someone wanted Jed dead, and it seemed as if they would not stop until they had achieved their objective. The very thought caused fear to surge within her, turning her limbs to water.

Oh, he was one of the best-guarded men in the world, but they had tried already, and come so close to succeeding. And all it would take was one sufficiently determined and reckless person in a crowd. The President couldn't govern from an isolated fortress. Nor would Jed's own personality permit it. Both of them had discussed the possibility of assassination before, acknowledged that the Secret Service took excellent care, and that all else was left in the hands of God. There was nothing they could do about it but trust in those hands, and in their protectors.

Abbey scowled to herself in firm resolve. She might not be able to protect Jed against that particular threat, but she could and would do everything possible to ensure that her stubborn husband did not leave himself open to attack on another front. Leo's concern the night before, coming on top of her own observations, had only reinforced her determination to try to get her husband to slow down before he drove himself into the ground.

Leo would help, she knew. Charlie too, along with the entire senior staff. All she had to do was ask. And she was going to need all the allies she could muster. Even last night's ultimatum had proved considerably less successful than she had hoped. Leo had been right; one single night of rest wasn't going to solve the increasingly visible problem of Jed's ongoing exhaustion, but it would have helped.

Would have... if he had only obeyed her. She had returned to their bedroom well after midnight - her talk with Leo and pondering on the threat had left her unsettled and wandering the corridors for some time - only to find Jed dozing, propped up in bed, telephone on the mattress beside him and the bedspread strewn with files.

Silently raging against his obduracy, she had managed to settle her weary husband back under the covers and had joined him, gently stroking his hair until he finally slept. But he had risen even earlier than usual, muttering something about a staff meeting in the Oval, to be preceded by a briefing with Fitzwallace.

Tonight he would sleep through the night. Abbey was determined on that, even if she had to ask Admiral Hackett to consider prescribing something, and unplug the wretched telephone. Jed had never been the best of sleepers, but this broken napping was taking its toll. Well, tonight she would see that he slept. After that...

Maybe she could persuade Leo to clear Jed's schedule for a few days, get him up to the farm. He could usually relax there. It was his home, the one place where he could pretend for a little while that he didn't have to make life-affecting decisions for millions of people on a daily basis.

The First Lady's reflections were interrupted by the bedroom door being abruptly flung open and the two agents who had been on duty outside bursting through. She looked up, startled, then paled. There were no prizes for guessing the reason for the intrusion. A security alert. Jed...

"I'm sorry, ma'am." Agent Daniels was tense. "We have notification of a security breach and orders to secure your safety. Could you remain here, please?"

Abbey nodded, heart pounding but outwardly calm. She and Jed were becoming as accustomed as it was possible to get to such violent interruptions. There seemed to have been a great many in recent weeks. All quickly and unthreateningly resolved, but bad for the nerves all the same. She sat quietly. No point badgering for details. These two probably hadn't any concrete information yet. They would let her know as soon as they did.

A couple of minutes of strained and mutually uncomfortable silence were finally broken by the hasty arrival of her Head of Detail. Abbey greeted him with relief. "Emil, what's happening?"

Agent Torres' expression suggested that in no way was he looking forward to answering that question. "Ma'am, I'm afraid that reports indicate there was some kind of explosion in the Oval Office within the last few minutes."

Watching the face of the woman before him blanch in shock, he hastened to add, "It was a small explosion, and there have been no fatalities, or critical injuries."

The First Lady gave a little gasp of relief. "No injuries?  Jed's all right?"

Torres winced slightly. "Not exactly, ma'am. There were no critical injuries."

"What do you mean?" Relief had vanished again, and Abbey was on her feet and practically in the unfortunate agent's face. "Jed's hurt?  Is he hurt? How bad is it?"

Helplessly wishing that one of his colleagues would have pity and pass on those answers, Agent Torres struggled to make sense of the din on his radio. "Ma'am, I'm afraid the President was hurt. I don't know the extent of his injuries at the moment, but I can tell you he is conscious..."

"You don't know..." Fear and anger blended themselves in Abbey's tones.  Determinedly, she moved forward, forcing the agent into instinctive retreat. "I'm going down there."

Agent Torres closed his eyes and briefly meditated on the Four Last Things before moving to block the First Lady's progress. "Ma'am, I'm very sorry but my orders are explicit. I cannot let you go into a danger zone. Please. Wait here."

Usually, Abbey yielded to Secret Service requests with the minimum of protest. They were just doing their job after all, and both she and Jed were always only too painfully aware what that job might one day require of the men and women who undertook to guard the lives of America's First Couple. Plus, she felt that making their lives as easy as possible was the least she could do to make up for the occasional juvenile stunts Jed pulled on his own detail.

But not now, not in these circumstances and after the revelations of recent days. "Emil..."

"Please, ma'am."  The agent's tone was sympathetic, but inflexible.

Abbey glared at him for an instance, tears of frustration and fear welling in her eyes, before abruptly turning away to perch rigidly on the edge of her armchair.

Torres fidgeted uncomfortably, before whipping his hand up to his earpiece. Finally, some news he could give to the anxious woman. "Ma'am?"

Abbey's head snapped up hopefully. "Yes, Emil?"

"Ma'am, Agent Butterfield is escorting the President to the Residence. The President is ambulatory, but has sustained injuries to the face and one hand." Torres frowned as he concentrated on the voice in his ear. "Admiral Hackett has been summoned, and is entering the Residence as we speak.  He should be here..."

"Now," Abbey interrupted him, rising to greet the tall, uniformed medic who had just come through the door. "Robert, it's good to see you."

"Ma'am," The naval doctor nodded briskly and courteously to the First Lady.

Now back on rotation as attending physician to the President, Robert Hackett felt that he had forged a mutually respectful relationship with Josiah Bartlet's wife and doctor. Honestly regarding himself as an essentially good humored and intelligent man, his matter-of-fact attitude had helped smooth over any awkwardness between him and his patient over the former's non-disclosure of his medical condition when Hackett had first been obliged to attend on an executive collapse.

Likewise, his innate professionalism had recognized the medical skills of the First Lady, and he hadn't permitted her problems with the medical boards to alter his attitude towards her as a fellow physician in any way.

Now was not the time for social niceties, however. Dumping his satchel and medical tray on the table top, he stripped off his overcoat, demanding of Torres, "Any news yet on the President's arrival?"

Torres again pressed a finger to his earpiece. "The President has just entered the Residence, Admiral. He has a full security detail, and is being assisted by Agent Butterfield and Mr. Ziegler."

"Well, at least he's still on his feet." Dissatisfaction evident in every gesture, Hackett snapped on a pair of surgical gloves and began to unpack dressings and instruments from his bag.  "I still think I should have seen him before he was moved..."

"Security procedure..."

"Yes, yes." Hackett waved down the agent impatiently. "I do know how these things work.  And I trust Ron Butterfield's judgment. He wouldn't have moved the President, however precarious the situation, if he thought it would be dangerous for him. I'm just saying that, from a medical standpoint, the position is less than ideal."

Abbey cleared her throat awkwardly. In the wake of recent events, she had sometimes felt quite tentative about offering any opinions or advice on her husband's health to his attending physicians. But concern and fear overcame her hesitancy, and Hackett had gone out of his way in recent times to let her know that he still considered her a valued colleague, especially for filling in any blanks his occasionally less-than-cooperative and always reluctant patient might leave him with. "Robert?  Will you be treating Jed here?  You won't be taking him to Bethesda?"

"No, ma'am. Not unless the nature of his injuries makes in-house treatment seem an unacceptable risk." The Head of White House security had also been insistent that only the Admiral attend, no assisting medics till all security checks had been seen to. His paranoia seemed a bit excessive and Hackett had nearly balked at that, but given what he'd been told of the injuries and knowing the First Lady would certainly be present, reluctantly agreed. For now. "Ron is particularly anxious that the President remain at a secure location, considering the circumstances."

"Yes." Abbey nodded, the panic once again beginning to rise. Ever since the NTSB report, the circumstances had seemed to ensure that Jed's always-precious freedom would be even further circumscribed. Just one more factor to wear on his temper and nerves.

Much as her professional instincts might balk at the idea of Jed not receiving the full attention of a hospital staff - even with the miniature hospital in the basement - she could understand Ron's caution. Right now though, she wanted nothing more than to have her husband there in front of her, so she could wrap him in her arms and shield him from those who sought to hurt him.

She didn't have long to wait. Within the minute, there was an audible flurry from the corridor, and the doors opened to admit a strained and silent Charlie Young. Abbey rose, alarmed by the sight of the thin laceration on the aide's face. "Charlie, are you all right?"

The young man scarcely glanced at her. "Yes, ma'am." He stepped aside to allow the group behind him to enter.

Immediately, and rather shamefully, all thoughts of the President's body-man were dashed from Abbey's mind, and she stepped forward, hands impulsively extended, to meet her husband.  Relief at having him here at last warred with shock over his appearance, and the now ever-present dread surged anew.

Jed Bartlet entered his bedroom unsteadily, supported on one side by the stern Butterfield. Toby Ziegler cautiously grasped his left elbow, trying to exert enough pressure to hold the man erect while avoiding jolting the hand bound against his chest.

The President's face was masked in blood, still trickling down to be absorbed by his collar. The front of his shirt was also soaked crimson at the spot where his mangled hand rested.  Aware of the dramatic picture he presented he looked up, blinking through blood-sticky lashes, to meet his wife's horrified regard.

An attempt to smile reassuringly was aborted with a wince as cut lips protested. "Hi, Abbey. I seem have got a bit of a hangnail here..." Awkwardly, he indicated his torn hand. "Think you could take a look?"

Oops. Clearly humor had been the wrong note to strike. Bartlet watched with some apprehension as his wife's expression darkened with irritation. On the plus side, he had achieved his objective of reassuring her panic. It was just a pity he hadn't been able to manage a more positive mood swing. 'Pissed Abbey' wasn't really much better than 'panicked Abbey', not from his front row target position. Still, being wounded had to offer some protection, right?

Apparently it did, for Abbey managed to close her lips over the exasperated retort struggling to escape them. A suspicious curve formed at one corner of her mouth. The vexation briefly smothered her anxiety, enabling her to fall back into the old, familiar patterns.

Darting into the bathroom, she emerged with two large bath towels. "Toby, Ron. Bring him over here," she directed briskly, spreading the towels over the pillows and eiderdown of the bed. "That's right, lay him back. Carefully," she added sternly as the two men eased their President into a sitting position on the bed.

Butterfield gently supported the man's head back onto the pillow as Ziegler lifted his legs onto the mattress. Both men then withdrew slightly, to join Young in anxious and useless vigil at the foot of the bed.

Abbey bent over her husband, brushing the slightly damp hair back from his forehead and attempting to assess the damage to his face and neck. It looked messy, but not as bad as she had feared. His hand though… she swallowed hard, how had he managed to avoid losing any fingers?

Yet, somehow he had. The flesh was torn and practically flayed on his palm, but the hand itself seemed basically intact.  She reached to loosen the tie holding it in place - then froze.  With a mixture of apology, discomfiture and frustration, she turned to the uniformed man hovering behind her. "I beg your pardon, Robert. I didn't mean to keep you from your patient." God, but that was hard to say!

Since her decision to give up her license, she had had to curb her automatic reflexes towards her husband, knowing that she could not be a doctor to him now. The trouble was that she had been both wife and doctor to Jed for most of their married lives. The two roles were so intertwined that she wasn't sure it was possible to separate them.

For now at least though, she wasn't going to have to. The observant Hackett held out a pair of latex gloves, setting a medical swab, a bottle of sterile water and a small pair of tweezers on the bed beside her. When she looked up at him, startled and grateful, he smiled sympathetically.

"Dr. Bartlet, perhaps you would start working on the President's face? I'll tend to his hand."  Bending his head towards hers, he murmured quietly, "I think he would appreciate your attention, ma'am."

'So would I.' Gratefully, Abbey snapped on the gloves and leaned over her husband's head, using the swab and water to gently wipe away the blood still trickling from the deeper facial wounds and delicately extracting tiny fragments of debris with the tweezers.

Clinically, she began to assess the damage. The wounds were clearing out fairly well. At least two were going to require one or two stitches, but fortunately the shrapnel pieces had been so small that for the most part the damage was a matter of depth rather than surface area. A fairly copious quantity of sticking plaster should take care of the rest. Jed would find shaving interesting for some time to come, though. And C.J. was going to have a fit when she saw the damage. Abbey wagered that the White House press corps would find presidential photo opportunities severely curtailed in the immediate future.

Hackett had seized a pillow and was using it to raise the President's hand as he delicately maneuvered the fingers and inspected the deeply impacted fragments among the ripped flesh of the man's palm. From the way Jed was subtly flinching, Abbey knew the exploration was far from painless, and it was going to get worse before it got better.

Holding the wounded hand firmly by the wrist, Hackett regarded his patient intently. "Mr. President?"

Bartlet blinked slowly, turning his gaze to the medic.

"Before we go any further..."

"We?" the President replied dryly, an arched eyebrow indicating the inevitable sarcastic mood swing. "There's a we here?"

"Jed," Abbey warned him softly. "The sooner you cooperate, the sooner we can get this over with."

Bartlet made no attempt to hide his annoyance and merely grunted.

Rolling her eyes, more than a bit pleased he still had the capacity to be grouchy and contrary, Abbey gently turned his head to one side. "Good boy," she murmured fondly. The glare he shot her from lidded eyes pleased her even more.

Hackett, well used to this, took tighter hold of the man's wrist. "This is going to hurt, sir, but I need you to move your fingers."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Bartlet complied, moving the fingers as best he could till the pain became too much. Letting out a gust of breath that bordered on a groan, he let the hand relax, swallowing against the rising nausea in his stomach.

"Sir, please," Hackett encouraged him. "Full extension, force yourself."

Bartlett was about to protest the impossibility when he felt his wife's fingers brush his cheek, then settle lightly on his shoulder. Meeting her anxious gaze, he gritted his teeth and fully extended the fingers. He shut his eyes again when the pain, which had nearly become background tolerable, surged to new, exquisite heights.

Watching carefully, Hackett told him firmly, "Make a fist, as tight as you can."

Oddly, that was actually easier than the first. Making a fist, the President could feel the torn flesh of his palm, the sticky feel of still-weeping blood. A spasm threatened to tear his wrist out of the medic's grasp, but Hackett kept hold. He felt Abbey's hand tighten on his shoulder. Somehow, that made it more bearable.

"Okay," Hackett said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. "You can relax now."

One eye opened and Bartlet gave his attending physician an incredulous glare. "You've got to be kidding."

"Jed, behave." Abbey then gave her attention to Hackett, who was laying out a syringe and bottle. "No tendon damage?" she asked.

"I think we got lucky there," Hackett replied, upending the bottle and inserting the syringe. "He has full extension and retraction..."

Bartlet snorted. "We," he grumbled. "I still don't see any we here."

"... I'd still prefer some x-rays," Hackett continued, ignoring the grousing from the patient. Finishing filling the syringe, he gave Abbey his full attention. "Under the circumstances, given Ron's objections to removing him from the Residence, I feel safe administering a local, then cleaning this and closing it as best we can. Do you concur, Dr. Bartlet?"

For a moment, Abbey was too stunned to reply. He was asking? "I do," she replied, finding her voice. His question was more than a gesture; it was a sincere acknowledgment of a trusted colleague. So much for a piece of paper.

Aware of her unspoken thanks, Hackett smiled at her, then his expression grew serious. "Mr. President?"

"Don't tell me, it's going to hurt, right?"

"Probably." Hackett turned the President's hand over and positioned the needle at the base of his wrist. "I'm administering a local anesthetic. In a few minutes, you won't feel a thing."

"In the meanwhile?" Bartlet asked skeptically.

Hackett didn't bother to answer and inserted the needle, slowly depressing the plunger. Stopping, he pulled back on the needle slightly and maneuvered it into another position before beginning another injection. Under his hand, he felt the muscles of Bartlet's arm tense.

Starting to repeat the process, he paused briefly when a choked voice asked, "You're gonna pull that out eventually, right?"

"Eventually, Mr. President," Hackett consoled him. This was the worst part and thankfully, considering what his patient had already been through, soon over. The last of the local injected, he removed the needle and gently laid the hand back on the pillow. "Done."

The President wasn't the only one to relax at that declaration. At the foot of the bed, Butterfield and Young, an unwilling audience at best, let out a collective breath that was nearly as loud as the patient's own relieved sigh. Realizing their tandem performance, the short, embarrassed glaring contest was won by the scowling Secret Service agent.

Ziegler, a past champion at the stare-down, chose to let the two amateurs go at it. His own sigh of relief was no less an emotional relief than theirs. For him, at this moment, it was enough.

Witnessing this, Abbey's short laugh contained only a hint of hysteria. At this point, she figured just a touch of emotional instability had been well earned. Her expression softened when she looked down at her husband.

Despite the ordeal of the local being over, he had sunk his teeth into his lower lip, apparently headless of the fact that this was causing the cuts there to bleed anew. His occasional screwing up of his eyes in pain was frustrating her continued attempts to clean them of the blood that had dried on the lids.

Looking closer at his left eyelid, Abbey couldn't help but feel that whatever angels of good fortune habitually hovered over her husband were working overtime on his behalf of late. Jed's eyes seemed amazingly untouched, but judging by the cuts and scratches on that eyelid in particular he had, quite literally, blinked at exactly the right moment.

Gently lifting Bartlet's hand and laying out a fresh towel, Hackett scowled at the mess he had to deal with. He'd seen worse, but it still wasn't pretty. Opening a bottle of saline solution, he asked, "What exactly happened, Mr. President?"

To be continued…