Chapter 1 Under the Shadow of the Pyramid
"He's got them eating out of the palm of his hand," Josh Lyman raised his voice so it could be heard over the cheering crowd while static crackled over the line. He retreated into the first hall of the backstage labyrinth.
"Of course," Donna Moss straightened the picture on her desk, telephone receiver pinned between ear and shoulder. "When will you be back?" Her fingers lingered over the image of his face.
"Late. The President said something about a rope line," she imagined him trying to pull out his schedule with his cell phone pinned between his ear and his shoulder.
"I'll reschedule your morning," she chuckled.
"I wish," he sighed. "Leave it . . ." His breath hitched.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he lied, rubbing his hand gently over his Rosslyn scar while backing against the wall.
"You had caffeinated coffee, didn't you?"
He tipped his head back and tried to smile. "Yeah."
"And now you have heartburn . . ."
"Yeah." He tugged at his tie, which felt tighter than usual.
"Josh," she dragged one into three syllables, "you've got to start taking care of yourself."
"I will," he grimaced, "I promise." His breath ran short. "I've got to go, Donna. See you tonight."
Without waiting for her retort he disconnected and tried to slip the phone into his pocket but it clattered on the concrete. His knees buckled and he slid toward the floor. A face appeared-some local Democrat who'd been granted a backstage pass.
"Are you in pain?" she asked, strong hands controlling his downward slide.
"Pressure," he panted. "Can't breathe."
She disappeared for an instant and more people materialized.
"Josh Lyman?" she asked and he nodded. "I'm Doctor E. H. Taylor, Josh," she slipped the oxygen mask over his face while a paramedic slit his shirt and coat sleeves and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm. He pumped the rubber bulb a few times then called out the numbers before repeating the process on the other arm.
"Have you taken any medication today other than those prescribed for you?"
He shook his head. "What's wrong with me?" he panted.
She smiled that doctor smile. "Too soon to tell. We're gonna need the Wing," she glanced at the paramedic who spoke into the microphone on his shoulder. "Breathing any easier?"
"How're you doing, kid?" Leo McGarry's craggy face appeared behind the doctor before Josh could answer.
He grimaced as he was strapped into a basket litter and the litter was strapped to a stretcher. He slipped his hand from beneath the restraint.
"Donna," Josh Lyman panted, clawing until the oxygen mask dangled slackly below his chin, "she was the one, Leo." Face as pale as the white sheets on the stretcher, the Deputy Chief of Staff coughed again between gasps. "Tell her." He coughed again, lips fading to blue. "Promise."
Leo McGarry mustered a deathbed smile. "You can tell her yourself . . ."
Josh Lyman's fingers seized at the older man's lapel. "Promise."
Wordlessly, McGarry clutched Josh's cold hand between his own and nodded as the fire in Lyman's eyes began to fade.
"We have to go," the physician prompted.
"Yeah," McGarry obeyed, limping behind the gurney through the corridors and down the ramps to the wind-swept heliport beside the absurd golden pyramid on the banks of the Mississippi.
"I swear to you, Noah, I've offered myself in his place a thousand times. I've begged God to take me instead," Leo McGarry muttered as the son of an old friend was slipped through the belly doors and the helicopter ascended into the golden sunset. Hobbling back into the building, he barked into his cell phone, "Margaret, put Donna on the next flight to Memphis."