PART TWO
Parking lot 10.50 PM
The noise level in the pizzeria was almost painful, Sam thought as he was going back to his car. It was one of the employee's birthday, and they were having a small party, the music as loud as they could possibly make it.
Sam came out of the place, whistling softly on the tune that was on the CD player inside, his arms full with his food boxes - he had bought two pizzas, hoping that Toby would be able to make it. It was too late for the game, but maybe he could talk his boss into a late-night speechwriting session. The smell coming out of the boxes made his stomach growl. It had taken longer than he'd expected to come back and dock the boat - "I must be out of practice," he thought, deploring the fact. He hadn't eaten all day either, since he hadn't planned to spend so much time on the water. But the water had been so calm, the day so beautiful, that he had suddenly felt unable to deny himself that joy. Then he had spent some more time on the darkened boat, after he'd docked, listening to the silence and the faint lapping of the waves on the boat, enjoying the quiet.
"Should teach me to take a sandwich next time," he thought. He was beginning to have a headache, as usual when he was too hungry.
Coming close to his car, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys and unlocked the door on the passenger's side to put the boxes on the passenger's seat. His stomach growled again, and he sighed. He'd better hurry, or he was going to stop and eat it, right here, on the parking lot.
He slammed the door, went around his car, and opened his door.
He was about to climb inside when something cold pressed on the base of his skull.
"Don't turn around," he heard.
He froze, feeling as if his heart had stopped beating.
"Get out and put your hands on the roof," the voice ordered again.
He did as he was told, his mind insisting on bringing back images he had thought long gone - the crowd clapping, the sound of gunfire, Toby's scream, and CJ crying on Air Force One.
He fought the urge to chase away the gun with his hand - the feeling of the cold metal on his skin was almost unbearable.
"Don't move. Your wallet?" the man said.
"In my coat's pocket," he said hoarsely, not daring to move.
He tried not to grimace when his assailant's hand began to search him, and retrieved the wallet.
"Your watch, too," the man said.
Sam made a move to unlock the strap and take it off, but the pressure of the gun increased and he heard the man snarl, "I didn't tell you to move."
Sam froze again, closing his eyes. He felt his aggressor fumble with the wristwatch and take it away, and he tried not to think that it was a gift from his mother. He'd buy a new one, she'd understand. But he loved that thing, a remnant from days when his family was still intact and his father still a giant who could make things better just by being there.
"The keys are already inside?" the man asked.
He almost nodded but stopped short, the command not to move still all too clear in his mind. "Yes," he whispered.
The man's hand grabbed his shoulder, and made him move away from the car, then he spun him toward the parking lot's exit, never allowing him to turn back and see his face. Sam began to breathe again, telling himself that it was a good thing - if the guy didn't allow him to turn, that meant he didn't want to be identified later, and that meant he was planning to keep him alive.
He hoped so.
"Take five steps," the man said, his voice still low against Sam's ear. "Then, stop. And don't turn around."
Sam did exactly as he was told, forcing his legs to move. They had all the consistence of melted butter, and he was covered with cold sweat. He also had a hard time to keep his thoughts from blanking so he focussed on all the statistics that said that they didn't shoot when you did as they said, thinking that most robbers didn't want to be prosecuted for murder if they were caught, thinking that maybe the guy would just climb into the car, start it up, and go away with it.
He was so busy muttering to himself "pleasepleasepleaseplease" that he didn't even hear the sound of the gunshots.
* * * * *
Hospital 1.15 AM
The man in scrubs went straight to Toby, the receptionist next to him. He looked drained, his features set in a hard mask. How many relatives did he see every day, how many friends waiting inside these walls, how many times had he had to tell a mother that her daughter was dead?
Was he going to have bad news to deliver tonight?
"You know mister Seaborn?" he asked without preamble, the receptionist touching his arm briefly and nodding to the reception desk. He gestured at her to go, and Toby saw her squeeze his arm slightly before she went away.
"Yes, I know him," Toby said as the young woman took her place near the phone again. "How is he?"
"May I ask who you are to him?"
"His boss. His friend."
"I see. Does he have family in town?"
Toby almost screamed "Yes, damn it, he has us" but it didn't seem like a good time to argue semantics.
"He's from California. I'm the closest thing right now, so how is he?"
"He was wheeled up into surgery half an hour ago. He suffered a gunshot wound in the back. He lost quite a lot of blood on the scene before he was found, and the kidney was hit. He . The surgeon who's working on him is excellent."
"But," Toby pressed, torn between the need to be reassured and the need to know, exactly, what they were up to this time - what Sam was going to have to fight.
"We don't think . We think we may have to remove it."
Toby gulped and stared at the doctor, who looked almost apologetic.
"He can live with just one kidney," the doctor hurried to add, "but its still quite serious to - "
"I get it," he snapped, cutting him off.
He got it. If they had to remove it, Sam would have to be careful all his life. He would have to accept restrictions, and he'd be at the mercy of a malfunction of his other kidney.
He didn't want things to come to that. Not after all they'd been through, not after the history they had with weapons, not after Josh, and Simon, not after the years of struggling they had just survived through. Sam was young, incredibly healthy, and this was all he got for his trouble?
"Come on, Sir," the doctor said, "I'll have a nurse show you the waiting room upstairs. The surgeon will come talk to you soon."
"Thanks. I'll also have to make a few phone calls."
"There'll be a phone there," the man assured, and Toby nodded, already dreading the calls he was going to have to place.
Fifteen minutes later, he was hanging up after speaking to CJ. He had begun with Leo, who had offered to speak to the President. That one had been relatively easy. It was easy to forget that Leo loved Sam very much, thanks to the gruff manners of the man, and his ability to think straight in situations like this. It had made him a lot easier to tell the bad news.
CJ had been more difficult to warn. He had tap danced around the subject for quite some time, hating to have to bring it up at all. She'd finally asked what he'd called for, and he had spat "Sam's been shot," her short intake of breath making him berate himself for his lack of tact - an unusual occurrence.
She hadn't said much after that, only that she was going to get dressed and she would be there in a good half hour. He knew he was going to have to send her back to the White House, but he also knew that she would never accept going to work before she knew how Sam was.
He sighed, looking at the phone in his hand.
He didn't want to be the one to call Josh.
Someone had to, but he would rather have it be someone else.
He hoped for a moment that Leo would have called him himself, then frowned at his cowardice. Leo was already going to have to warn the president, who had taken so badly the fact that one of his staff had been hurt last time. He'd have enough on his plate containing Bartlet's rightful fury.
He dialed up. After six rings, a sleepy voice answered him.
"What?"
Better not waste time on subtleties, he figured. Nothing in the world would ever make it easier.
"Josh I need you to come - "
"No, Toby," Josh whined, "don't ask me to come to the office. I've just gotten to bed, I've had an awful day, Donna is mad at me and no one wants to me explain to me why, this damn bill isn't handling itself, I'm wiped out, I want to sleep."
A feminine voice said something and Toby sighed again, closing his eyes. At least, Josh wasn't alone, because he was going to make his life even worse than it already was.
He really wished he didn't have to play the messengers tonight. And while he was indulging in some wishful thinking, he really wished his deputy wasn't undergoing surgery right now, instead of being home, watching the game, drinking beer. But this useless hoping wouldn't help.
He opened his eyes again, took a deep breath, and began. "Josh, we have a problem. It's Sam."
* * * * *
Forty minutes later, Donna stopped at the entrance of the room where Josh was hiding. He was sitting, looking through the window. He must have felt her presence, because he said, without turning back, "It wasn't supposed to happen again. It wasn't supposed to happen the first time, actually, but . Twice, Donna? Three, if you count Simon, four with Mrs Landingham, and in less time than it took us to complete a term?"
She didn't know what to say, but he didn't seem to want an answer. She approached him and wasn't surprised to find out that he was rubbing his scar.
He looked up at her. "I was complaining about my day," he whispered. "Because it's been bad and then Amy dragged me at this stupid party, and ."
He trailed off and she leaned down to hug him. Nothing she would say would make him feel any better, she knew that from experience, but she could at least be there, like Sam, and Toby, and CJ, had been there for her after Rosslyn.
CJ poked her head in, and Donna grimaced compassionately when she saw the dark smudges under the eyes of her friend.
"We're all in the main room," CJ said, and went away without waiting for an answer.
Josh and Donna shared a look and Josh got up. As they were leaving the room, Josh whispered "Thank you, Donna."
She squeezed his hand and followed him out.
Parking lot 10.50 PM
The noise level in the pizzeria was almost painful, Sam thought as he was going back to his car. It was one of the employee's birthday, and they were having a small party, the music as loud as they could possibly make it.
Sam came out of the place, whistling softly on the tune that was on the CD player inside, his arms full with his food boxes - he had bought two pizzas, hoping that Toby would be able to make it. It was too late for the game, but maybe he could talk his boss into a late-night speechwriting session. The smell coming out of the boxes made his stomach growl. It had taken longer than he'd expected to come back and dock the boat - "I must be out of practice," he thought, deploring the fact. He hadn't eaten all day either, since he hadn't planned to spend so much time on the water. But the water had been so calm, the day so beautiful, that he had suddenly felt unable to deny himself that joy. Then he had spent some more time on the darkened boat, after he'd docked, listening to the silence and the faint lapping of the waves on the boat, enjoying the quiet.
"Should teach me to take a sandwich next time," he thought. He was beginning to have a headache, as usual when he was too hungry.
Coming close to his car, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys and unlocked the door on the passenger's side to put the boxes on the passenger's seat. His stomach growled again, and he sighed. He'd better hurry, or he was going to stop and eat it, right here, on the parking lot.
He slammed the door, went around his car, and opened his door.
He was about to climb inside when something cold pressed on the base of his skull.
"Don't turn around," he heard.
He froze, feeling as if his heart had stopped beating.
"Get out and put your hands on the roof," the voice ordered again.
He did as he was told, his mind insisting on bringing back images he had thought long gone - the crowd clapping, the sound of gunfire, Toby's scream, and CJ crying on Air Force One.
He fought the urge to chase away the gun with his hand - the feeling of the cold metal on his skin was almost unbearable.
"Don't move. Your wallet?" the man said.
"In my coat's pocket," he said hoarsely, not daring to move.
He tried not to grimace when his assailant's hand began to search him, and retrieved the wallet.
"Your watch, too," the man said.
Sam made a move to unlock the strap and take it off, but the pressure of the gun increased and he heard the man snarl, "I didn't tell you to move."
Sam froze again, closing his eyes. He felt his aggressor fumble with the wristwatch and take it away, and he tried not to think that it was a gift from his mother. He'd buy a new one, she'd understand. But he loved that thing, a remnant from days when his family was still intact and his father still a giant who could make things better just by being there.
"The keys are already inside?" the man asked.
He almost nodded but stopped short, the command not to move still all too clear in his mind. "Yes," he whispered.
The man's hand grabbed his shoulder, and made him move away from the car, then he spun him toward the parking lot's exit, never allowing him to turn back and see his face. Sam began to breathe again, telling himself that it was a good thing - if the guy didn't allow him to turn, that meant he didn't want to be identified later, and that meant he was planning to keep him alive.
He hoped so.
"Take five steps," the man said, his voice still low against Sam's ear. "Then, stop. And don't turn around."
Sam did exactly as he was told, forcing his legs to move. They had all the consistence of melted butter, and he was covered with cold sweat. He also had a hard time to keep his thoughts from blanking so he focussed on all the statistics that said that they didn't shoot when you did as they said, thinking that most robbers didn't want to be prosecuted for murder if they were caught, thinking that maybe the guy would just climb into the car, start it up, and go away with it.
He was so busy muttering to himself "pleasepleasepleaseplease" that he didn't even hear the sound of the gunshots.
* * * * *
Hospital 1.15 AM
The man in scrubs went straight to Toby, the receptionist next to him. He looked drained, his features set in a hard mask. How many relatives did he see every day, how many friends waiting inside these walls, how many times had he had to tell a mother that her daughter was dead?
Was he going to have bad news to deliver tonight?
"You know mister Seaborn?" he asked without preamble, the receptionist touching his arm briefly and nodding to the reception desk. He gestured at her to go, and Toby saw her squeeze his arm slightly before she went away.
"Yes, I know him," Toby said as the young woman took her place near the phone again. "How is he?"
"May I ask who you are to him?"
"His boss. His friend."
"I see. Does he have family in town?"
Toby almost screamed "Yes, damn it, he has us" but it didn't seem like a good time to argue semantics.
"He's from California. I'm the closest thing right now, so how is he?"
"He was wheeled up into surgery half an hour ago. He suffered a gunshot wound in the back. He lost quite a lot of blood on the scene before he was found, and the kidney was hit. He . The surgeon who's working on him is excellent."
"But," Toby pressed, torn between the need to be reassured and the need to know, exactly, what they were up to this time - what Sam was going to have to fight.
"We don't think . We think we may have to remove it."
Toby gulped and stared at the doctor, who looked almost apologetic.
"He can live with just one kidney," the doctor hurried to add, "but its still quite serious to - "
"I get it," he snapped, cutting him off.
He got it. If they had to remove it, Sam would have to be careful all his life. He would have to accept restrictions, and he'd be at the mercy of a malfunction of his other kidney.
He didn't want things to come to that. Not after all they'd been through, not after the history they had with weapons, not after Josh, and Simon, not after the years of struggling they had just survived through. Sam was young, incredibly healthy, and this was all he got for his trouble?
"Come on, Sir," the doctor said, "I'll have a nurse show you the waiting room upstairs. The surgeon will come talk to you soon."
"Thanks. I'll also have to make a few phone calls."
"There'll be a phone there," the man assured, and Toby nodded, already dreading the calls he was going to have to place.
Fifteen minutes later, he was hanging up after speaking to CJ. He had begun with Leo, who had offered to speak to the President. That one had been relatively easy. It was easy to forget that Leo loved Sam very much, thanks to the gruff manners of the man, and his ability to think straight in situations like this. It had made him a lot easier to tell the bad news.
CJ had been more difficult to warn. He had tap danced around the subject for quite some time, hating to have to bring it up at all. She'd finally asked what he'd called for, and he had spat "Sam's been shot," her short intake of breath making him berate himself for his lack of tact - an unusual occurrence.
She hadn't said much after that, only that she was going to get dressed and she would be there in a good half hour. He knew he was going to have to send her back to the White House, but he also knew that she would never accept going to work before she knew how Sam was.
He sighed, looking at the phone in his hand.
He didn't want to be the one to call Josh.
Someone had to, but he would rather have it be someone else.
He hoped for a moment that Leo would have called him himself, then frowned at his cowardice. Leo was already going to have to warn the president, who had taken so badly the fact that one of his staff had been hurt last time. He'd have enough on his plate containing Bartlet's rightful fury.
He dialed up. After six rings, a sleepy voice answered him.
"What?"
Better not waste time on subtleties, he figured. Nothing in the world would ever make it easier.
"Josh I need you to come - "
"No, Toby," Josh whined, "don't ask me to come to the office. I've just gotten to bed, I've had an awful day, Donna is mad at me and no one wants to me explain to me why, this damn bill isn't handling itself, I'm wiped out, I want to sleep."
A feminine voice said something and Toby sighed again, closing his eyes. At least, Josh wasn't alone, because he was going to make his life even worse than it already was.
He really wished he didn't have to play the messengers tonight. And while he was indulging in some wishful thinking, he really wished his deputy wasn't undergoing surgery right now, instead of being home, watching the game, drinking beer. But this useless hoping wouldn't help.
He opened his eyes again, took a deep breath, and began. "Josh, we have a problem. It's Sam."
* * * * *
Forty minutes later, Donna stopped at the entrance of the room where Josh was hiding. He was sitting, looking through the window. He must have felt her presence, because he said, without turning back, "It wasn't supposed to happen again. It wasn't supposed to happen the first time, actually, but . Twice, Donna? Three, if you count Simon, four with Mrs Landingham, and in less time than it took us to complete a term?"
She didn't know what to say, but he didn't seem to want an answer. She approached him and wasn't surprised to find out that he was rubbing his scar.
He looked up at her. "I was complaining about my day," he whispered. "Because it's been bad and then Amy dragged me at this stupid party, and ."
He trailed off and she leaned down to hug him. Nothing she would say would make him feel any better, she knew that from experience, but she could at least be there, like Sam, and Toby, and CJ, had been there for her after Rosslyn.
CJ poked her head in, and Donna grimaced compassionately when she saw the dark smudges under the eyes of her friend.
"We're all in the main room," CJ said, and went away without waiting for an answer.
Josh and Donna shared a look and Josh got up. As they were leaving the room, Josh whispered "Thank you, Donna."
She squeezed his hand and followed him out.
