Falls the Shadow

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 11/14

"That's what I'd like to know." A somewhat breathless McGarry barreled through the door, joining the other three men at the foot of the bed. "Abbey, sir, I'm sorry. C.J. needed a moment."

"I'll bet she did," Bartlet grumbled from the bed, wincing as Hackett poured the saline over his palm. It didn't hurt as much as he'd feared. The local must have started kicking in. An odd, creeping numbness seemed to be spreading slowly up his hand. "Spinning this is gonna be fun. How far did the commotion carry anyway?"

The Chief of Staff shrugged in no small dismay. "If the crowd I glimpsed outside reception was any indication, at least as far as the Communications bullpen." He shook his head, determined to keep the President's questions at this point to the bare minimum. "Never mind that, sir. We'll worry about it later."

"Yeah, 'cause the press are always really patient and understanding about waiting for their explanations and daily feedings." Bartlet's mouth twisted and he squirmed slightly as Hackett delicately withdrew a fragment from a particularly deep incision. "They're not stupid, Leo. I'm sure the rumor mill has already kicked in. We certainly can't tell them what really happened. Although that shouldn't be too hard, because I sure as hell don't know what did happen exactly."

"Ron?" McGarry swung around to his sometime associate and partner in presidential baby-sitting. "How soon..."

"I'll have a preliminary report for you within twenty minutes." The Security Chief's finger seemed to be permanently jammed to his earpiece and he looked up with a scowl of concentration. "Mr. President, if you'll excuse me?"

"Go." Bartlet waved his free hand to give permission. "Oh, and don't forget to..."

"... keep Admiral Fitzwallace and the NSA informed," Butterfield completed briskly. "Yes, sir." The senior agent quickly strode out of the room, gathering his subordinates as he went and issuing instructions for a full detail to be posted right outside the bedroom doors.

Relieved that he had lost at least part of the audience for his present incapacitated state, the President returned his attention to his Communications Director. "Toby, any ideas on how we should handle this?"

Ziegler cleared his throat uncomfortably; awkward at witnessing the frantic first aid currently being carried out on his Chief Executive. "Frankly, sir, no. It's a PR nightmare. Unlike the NTSB report, we can't keep this under wraps. And we certainly can't tell the truth. We've got to come up with a plausible story to account for..."

"... this?" Bartlet's gesture encompassed both his face and arm. "Yeah, it's pretty visible damage."

"And rather extensive." McGarry was feeling a little punchy with shock-induced adrenaline. "We might be able to conceal the hand, but the face..."

"Conceal the hand?" Ziegler was openly skeptical, not to mention dumbfounded at the simplistic suggestion. If only... "Leo, the President is one of the most photographed and observed people in the world. How on earth could we conceal that he doesn't have the use of his left hand?"

"I don't know. In his pocket maybe?" Shock was definitely setting in; the Chief of Staff was never this scattered. Seeing his friend on the hospital gurney after Rosslyn had been bad enough, but this? "Or maybe, you know..." thrusting his own hand into the breast of his jacket.

The President stared at his Chief of Staff incredulously. "Do I look like Napoleon to you, Leo?"

"Well, the height..."

"Leo!" The White House Chief of Staff wasn't the only one starting to feel a little punchy.

"Jed, shut up a minute, will you?" demanded his exasperated wife, who had been endeavoring to assess a particularly deep cut just under his chin.

Her husband complied meekly. Besides, he was starting to feel increasingly woozy, the old familiar fatigue washing over him in gentle waves. Maybe it was the absence of pain from his hand; he couldn't be sure. The effort to focus both his attention and his eyes on his two advisors was becoming increasingly wearisome.

He was jerked back to full attention as Hackett, having finally finished his probing, briskly swabbed at the open wound that was his palm with the practiced heavy-handedness characteristic of the professional medic. It didn't exactly hurt, but Bartlet still flinched with sufficient vim to yank his chin out of Abbey's equally firm grasp. Hackett tightened the grip on his wrist as well.

Dazedly, he wondered how many of the bruises that would undoubtedly be appearing on the morrow would be able to be laid down to the explosion, and how many might be traced to his two overly conscientious physicians.

"Jed, stop wriggling." Abbey was in full doctor mode. Not that he didn't enjoy the attention, but her husband usually preferred to deflect her focus away from his health as rapidly as possible, generally to more... recreational pursuits. He hated having his physical condition at the center of attention. He couldn't avoid it this time, though.

Although, observing the increasing glaze to his eyes, she rather doubted that he had the energy to attempt to distract her just now.

"Robert..." She recaptured her errant spouse's chin and tilted his head back. "... there's this cut here, just below the jaw line, and another at his left eyebrow that need a couple of stitches. Other than that, I don't think any of the other puncture wounds are sufficiently deep to warrant stitching."

"I agree." Hackett squinted at the underside of the President's chin as the First Lady angled their patient's head. "We'll dress some of the deeper wounds, but I think the rest should be disinfected and left open to breathe."

Not at all happy about being on display, or being talked over like he wasn't there, Bartlet still managed to hold his tongue. From the look in his wife's eye, he knew she was waiting for him to start something and right now, as much as he loved her, he didn't feel like giving her the satisfaction of being right. Not this time. Perversely it seemed, while his hand had gone blessedly numb, the all-consuming ache seemed to have migrated to the rest of his body.

Hackett had turned his attention to a more serious concern, drawing Abbey's attention to her husband's hand. "It's hard to see, but there is a severe laceration in the center of the palm. Only the one, mind you, but it's going to be difficult to stitch because of the explosive damage. Fortunately, as we've already seen, none of the major tendons or muscles have been compromised, but the skin and subcutaneous tissues of the palm and fingers have been pretty much flayed. There is some second degree charring as well, from the heat of detonation."

Oblivious to the empathic wincing of both McGarry and Ziegler at his action, he carefully manipulated the hand and fingers in illustration for his equally engrossed, though obviously still worried colleague. Young, who had retreated behind the First Lady to hold the small bowl into which she and Hackett had been depositing the foreign materials extracted from the wounds, visibly tightened his grip on the rim. 

Not even three local anesthetics were going to stand up to that. Bartlet pulled his hand away with a tortured hiss and glared balefully at his physicians through pain-filmed eyes. Much to his annoyance, they didn't even glance his way. So much for being the leader of the free world.

Instead, Abbey effectively interrupted the composition of a rather superior biting comment about whether they'd be happier if he just left them his hand and quit the room - because they certainly didn't seem to need him - by applying what had to be the most vicious antiseptic in the pharmacopoeia to the first of his facial abrasions.

He was damn sure she had planned it that way, too.  

Hackett in turn was threading a long, curved silver needle. The sight of it caused McGarry to gulp quietly, and the visibly edgy Ziegler eyed the rapidly greening Chief of Staff askance. An uneasy silence reigned for some minutes, broken only by the occasional low grunt of protest from the President as the two doctors worked on his facial injuries. 

Eventually, both drew back, satisfied with their immediate efforts. Surgical dressing adorned the President's face at several points, and Hackett's neat stitching was almost invisible under the hair of his eyebrow, and more or less concealed under the point of his chin.  The other cuts and scratches stood out in vivid red relief against the clammy paleness of his skin, and his left eyelid was slightly swollen and puffy, his lips lacerated and raw.

It wasn't a sight to gladden C.J. Cregg's heart (her personal sentiments aside, of course), but both medical experts knew how much more serious it could have been. The damage was really only cosmetic after all.

Unfortunately, the same couldn't be so easily said for Bartlet's left hand. Hackett frowned down at the maimed palm as he threaded a fresh needle. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to make such a tidy job of the stitching here," he commented to his colleague. "There's practically no skin left, and the subcutaneous tissue is pretty much pulped in places.  It's going to be difficult to anchor the stitches in places. We're just going to have to forget about appearances and settle for closing it as best we can."

"Yes." Abbey nodded her agreement. "And stabilize the hand, of course."

"Stabilize it?" Bartlet regarded them suspiciously. "What's that going to involve?" His lips tightened slightly in irritation as once again his question passed right by the engrossed doctors. 

Noticing this, Ziegler stepped forward, coughing apologetically and selflessly entering the lion's den. "Excuse me, ma'am?"

Abbey looked up from her work, giving the Communications Director her somewhat irritated attention. "Yes, Toby?"

"The President just wondered... that is... what will stabilizing his hand involve?"

Bartlet shot his Communications Director a glance of mingled surprise and gratitude, causing Ziegler to color slightly and step back beside McGarry. Observing the way each man surreptitiously glanced at the other, then snapped away as if afraid to make eye contact, he wondered once again just what the hell was going on with those two. 

Abbey was answering Ziegler. "We're not going to splint his hand, Toby or put it in a sling..."

"That'll cheer C.J. up," the President interjected, trying vainly to gain some control of the proceedings.

"... but we are going to have to immobilize it as much as possible." Abbey steamrolled over her husband's attempt to impose himself effortlessly and with practiced ease. "Otherwise, there's a risk he could tear the stitches or reopen the wound. So, it'll be heavily bandaged. He'll also have to try to keep the hand elevated as much as possible."

"Anything else he should know?" Bartlet was getting increasingly testy. This was one reason he disliked attending doctors. Even the best of them, his wife included, tended to forget the person and see only the problem. And he hated being defined that way.

Also, the nervous energy of earlier had given way to a cranky tiredness. Much more of this attention and prodding and he feared his temper really would snap. Right now, he just wanted them all to go away and leave him in peace to regroup and gather what was left of his rapidly waning resources.

Although the searing, burning pain in his hand had mercifully dulled, he wasn't sure if the uneasy hollow numbness that replaced it was much of an improvement. And he was becoming increasingly aware of the raw tenderness of his face. "You could just tell me, you know. I am still here."

"Funny, Jed." Abbey wasn't going to snap out of professional mode so easily. She couldn't afford to. It was the only thing that had kept her hands from shaking as she tended her husband and reflected on what had happened, what could have happened. "Robert? Do we have enough bandages here? We're going to need to wrap the wrist and lower forearm as well in order to give enough support."

Hackett looked up briefly from lining up the needle to make its first incursion into the President's palm. "No, I'm going to need at least another couple of rolls, and some more Hibitane as well."

"What's Hibitane?" McGarry's question was inspired less by curiosity and more by a need to distract himself from Hackett's preparations. 

"Prevents infection." The First Lady explained briskly. "Especially effective on open wounds that are still bleeding. I'll go get what we need from medical supplies myself, Robert. Quicker than writing the details down for one of the agents or the stewards." And, to be fair, Hackett was the attending physician.  It made more sense for her to go. "Charlie? Come help me?"

"Yes, ma'am." Young was only too thankful to be able to do something practical to help at last. The need to do something, anything, was overwhelming. He rather suspected this same need to keep busy was part of the reason behind the First Lady's proposed excursion. He didn't blame her, could hardly stand still himself. He followed her towards the door.

"Abbey?" The President's voice sounded slightly strained. "While you're getting that stuff, have a look at Charlie's cheek, will you?"

Young half-turned, startled and touched that the man could remember the relatively insignificant cut his aide had acquired, considering his own condition. "Sir, that's not necessary. Really, I'm fine."

Abbey patted the young man affectionately on the arm. "Don't worry, Jed. I'll look after him." Linking her arm through his, she steered Young through the bedroom doors and past the bevy of agents grimly congregated outside, her own detail falling in behind her.

To be continued…