POV: Donna
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Most of these characters are not mine.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Ten A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Donna wasn't sure how long she had sat by the bed, her measurement of time reliant upon the regular and frequent visits by nurses and doctors. They checked IV lines, monitored the EKG, even tucked in sheets that had not been disturbed. She saw the concern in their eyes, and it wasn't just worrying about the President of the United States being lost on their watch. They cared for the man himself.
"Mrs. Bartlet?"
She looked up at the kind smile of a young woman in a colorful version of scrubs. Maybe she had seen her before. There had been so many people in and out.
"How are you doing, ma'am?"
Donna answered automatically. "Fine."
"We're all – we're all pulling for him," she said gently.
"Thank you."
"I mean, I know he's your husband, and I can't imagine what you're feeling right now, but he's, well, he's my President and I just think he's – " She stopped and looked straight at the bed. "He makes us proud, Mrs. Bartlet." She flushed as if she realized maybe she had gone too far for etiquette.
It was hard sometimes when you were too removed from the ordinary, the everyday lives that most Americans led, to realize the impact of one man. Donna had felt it when she was simply Donna Moss, senior assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff, but as First Lady she had lost some of that outsider's awe, that perception of the aura, the magic that surrounded the leader of the free world. Of course, it was even better knowing the man as she did now. But it surprised her a little, warmed her a great deal, to hear and see the affection people had for him.
She took the young woman's hand and squeezed once. "Thank you."
"I can't imagine anyone wanting to ki – " The nurse bit her lip, cleared her throat roughly and continued. "I just want you to know, ma'am, how much we all admire the President and how hard we are all working to make sure he recovers."
Donna smiled back, appreciating the praise and assurance.
"He's the only President I've ever voted for," the nurse continued, glancing tentatively toward the bed.
"Really?"
"His first election was my first election. And, of course, I voted for him again the second time. I wish he could run again."
"I wish he could hear you say that," Donna told her. "He'd probably have you introducing a bill to amend the Twenty-second Amendment." And she made a mental note to tell him about this young woman if – when – he woke up.
The nurse grinned. "Yes, ma'am. I'd do it." After smoothing the already smooth covers and checking the monitors, she turned back to Donna. "If I can get you anything Mrs. Bartlet – "
"I'm fine. Thank you."
Then she was alone again. No, she corrected herself, not alone. Jed was there. Her eyes fell on her husband and she felt again the tightness grip her throat. He was alive. Thank God he was alive. But Ellie's words still hung in the air.
"Memory loss. Permanent weakness on one side of the body – "
Maybe, she reminded herself. Maybe. They wouldn't know until Jed woke up, and he still showed no signs whatsoever of even a subconscious attempt.
He lay completely still, left arm at his side, the IV feeding a wide array of medicines into his veins in an attempt to control whatever reaction the MS might throw at them. His right arm crossed over his abdomen. A white bandage bound his head, thicker over the wound itself, insufficient, however, to keep the thick hair from sprouting up over it. His brow swelled underneath the gauze, even into the tender tissue around his eye. A flush burned his cheeks, evidence of the low-grade fever he had been running for several hours. She leaned closer and brushed her fingertips over the knuckles of his right hand. He didn't stir.
"Hey," she said, stroking gently along the backs of his fingers. "See, here's the thing. I miss you." God, how she missed him. Missed the richness of his laugh, missed the warmth of his teasing, missed the passion of his kiss, missed the security of his touch.
The machine beeped its even patterns, the only answer his body gave her.
"J.T. misses you," she told him quietly. "Margaret's helping with him, but I think he wants his daddy back." She didn't mention what Margaret had told her that morning. That J.T. was fretting, resisting his bottle, as usual – he wanted mom's skin, not Playtex. That Margaret had little success in calming him until a clip of the President came on television, accompanying yet another aspect of the shooting. At the sound of his father's voice, J.T. had fallen still and turned his head toward the t.v. It tore at her heart to think that Jed's son might never know his father.
The weight of the room closed over her suddenly, pushed her down until she wasn't sure she could even breathe. A wave of inexplicable anger toward her husband swept a red haze across her face. She couldn't explain it, but there it was. The words fell out before she could stop them.
"Don't you leave him, Josiah Bartlet," she ground out. "Don't you dare leave him." Then just as suddenly the feeling was gone and the last word caught in her throat. She let out a shuddering breath, fighting against the sob that pushed upward.
Taking his hand and pressing it to her face, she whispered, "Don't leave me. Please, Jed, don't leave me."
For a second, she thought she felt a twitch from the limp fingers she held and pulled away to watch. But it didn't happen again, so she drew them back to her face and leaned into his touch, wondering if he felt her presence, if he heard what she said. If he would wake and stare at her blankly, his past locked away by his own mind.
She shook away the terrifying image and tried to impose on it a more idyllic scene of those days after J.T.'s birth, when there was no threat, there was no violence. There was only happiness and contentment with her husband and child. Could she ever have that again? She had to hope so. There was nothing else she could do.
"C.J.!"
The crowd of reporters clambered outside the hospital, hands pushed to the sky in hopes of being called on by the press secretary. As usual, she presented a picture of poise and control, but Donna knew this was eating her up, too. She knew how C.J. felt about Jed, knew they had always had a special relationship.
"Steve," she recognized, pointing to the veteran reporter.
"Has the President regained consciousness at all?"
She had already made a simple statement, already given a sparse rundown of his condition, but it provided only a little more information than they already had. The President was still alive, in stable, but serious condition. The vice-president had assumed control under the provisions of the 25th Amendment, but had not taken over as Acting President.
"No." A simple answer to a complicated situation.
"Follow up?" Steve asked again.
C.J. nodded.
"Do the doctors expect him to regain consciousness?"
"The doctors are hopeful, Steve. According to them, the next few hours are the most important ones."
"C.J.!"
"Sandy?"
The slender woman rose. "Are there any leads on the gunman?"
"I can't give out any information that might jeopardize the investigation, Sandy, but I can tell you that the President's injuries have provided several clues as to the location of the shooter. They have also identified the type of weapon from the bullet that was lodged in a partition behind the stage. Ballistics reports indicates it was an M1 rifle. I have some information here about the M1. It was adopted by the military as standard issue rifle in 1932, and has been refined constantly since then. A 'sniper version' was created and became known as the M1C and later another model, the M1D was also introduced. The M1D is a .30 caliber rifle with an eight- round internal box magazine. It is frequently used with a M84 telescope, which the FBI believes was used in the shooting of the President." She couldn't suppress a wince at the blunt statement.
Clearing her throat quickly, the press secretary managed to continue. "The M1C became the Marine Corps standard issue sniper rifle in 1951 and was used extensively in the Korean Conflict."
Leo stood near Donna, looking intensely at the television, nodding with tight lips as the information came across.
"Is that true?" Donna asked him. "Do they have a lead?"
One look from him told her that C.J.'s report was an optimistic spin on a not-so-optimistic situation.
"Why? Why tell them that? Why not say we have no idea who did this."
"Well, for one thing, that scares people. The President of the United States has been shot. We can't let them think someone can get away with that."
She stepped toward the chief of staff, suddenly angry, frustrated. "Is someone getting away with it? What if you never catch him? What are you going to do? Find a Lee Harvey Oswald to pin this on and let the real assassins roam free? Forty years from now will they still be discussing 'who shot Bartlet'?"
"Donna – "
"No! Someone shot my husband. I want to know who. I want to see the bastard found and punished for what he did." She was shaking now. "I want to know! Do you understand?"
She felt a hand at her elbow, let Jed's best friend lead her away from the sympathetic eyes of the others in the room. "Donna," he said softly as they leaned against a pale blue wall, "there's a chance that – that this person might try again."
It was as if he had doused her with cold water, and her anger drained out with it. Dear God! Hadn't this been enough? "What – why – "
"If he really wanted to kill the President, and if he thinks the President is in such a condition that it might be easy to finish the job, he could take a chance, get careless."
"So you are setting him up. And Jed is the bait?" Her stomach churned. How could they do this? How could they risk the life of the President of the United States? But even as she asked herself that, she knew it was the only life that would work, that would draw the murderer out.
"Donna?"
The familiar voice caught her attention and she turned to see her brother standing a few feet away, forgiven by the Secret Service under the circumstances.
"Gino!"
He opened his arms, and she fell into them, hugging him hard. She had talked with him since his unfortunate intrusion and resulting banishment, but they had not seen each other.
"Donna, I know I'm not supposed to – well, I had to come – "
She nodded, smiling at him through the tears. "Of course. I'm glad you came. I knew you would. I told them to let you in when you got here."
"How is he?"
"Stable."
"I'm so sorry, Donna. For everything. I wish – "
"I know," she told him simply and touched his face. "Mom and Dad are giving Margaret a break with J.T. right now but they'll be here later. Do you want to go to the White House?"
He shook his head. "I'll stay here with you if that's all right."
She nodded, grateful for his presence, for someone she didn't have to impress with her strength and strong demeanor as First Lady. Still holding his hand, she turned to watch the end of the press conference.
C.J. was wrapping up. "We hope to have a spokesman here for the FBI later today. I believe she will be taking questions regarding security in and around the D.C. area."
"Will she have more information on the shooting?"
"You'll have to ask her that." The press secretary shifted slightly, slipping her glasses on. "Now if you'll bear with me for just a minute, the First Lady has given me a statement to read to you."
Donna swallowed, going over the words again in her head, words that Will and Toby had crafted for her, words that she edited, words that she felt with all her heart.
The silence was even clear over the airwaves. "'My fellow Americans and world friends, our family would like to express our appreciation for the emails, the calls, the telegrams, and especially the prayers. This is a difficult time for all of us. This is a complex world, and even though we try, we don't always understand the course of events. In this time, we must draw upon every bit of grit and determination that we have. Our nation must stand firm and continue as a beacon of freedom for everyone and show the world that we cannot be bullied, that we cannot be distracted from our goals. We must put our faith in God and trust in His omnipotent wisdom. My husband is an optimist, and so am I. I look forward to the day when Jed and I can both stand before you to deliver our thanks personally. Please continue with your prayers for him and for our country.'" The press secretary looked up briefly, her eyes moist. She wasn't the only one. "Thank you," she finished, gathering her notes and stepping from the podium almost in the same move.
Gino squeezed her hand. "That was good."
"Toby wrote most of it. And Will."
"I heard some of you in there, too."
"A little," she admitted.
"Listen, I'm gonna stay here, all right? If I get kicked out this time, Jed's gonna have to wake up and do it himself."
She smiled. "That I want to see." And she sat for a long time with her brother on the couch, hand in hand, as they waited.
Night had descended again and Jed still slept in his private world, refusing to let her in, to let anyone in. She began to wonder how long it would last, if it were possible that he might never come out of it. The dressing had been changed, the bulky bandage replaced by a more streamlined one that covered only the direct wound. It gave her a better view of the bruising and she winced every time she looked at it.
She was tired, physically, mentally, and emotionally. But she would not leave him. They had brought J.T. to the hospital for her to feed and nurture, but it was no place for a baby, and her parents had taken him back to the Residence. She missed him, but at the moment, her place was with Jed.
"Donna?"
Hell, she hadn't heard the door open. Wiping at her eyes, she angled her head enough to catch a glimpse of the visitor. Josh Lyman stood just inside the door, his body hunched a little, waiting for her to greet him or send him away.
"Hey," she said, managing a painful smile.
"You okay?"
"Dandy."
"Yeah." He tilted his head toward the bed. "How's he doin'?"
Donna got a better view of her former boss as he stepped farther into the room. His pale face stared at the President's still form. He winced at something, the bandage or the swelling or just the sight of Jed Bartlet stripped of his greatest strengths: his keen mind, his sharp wit, his compassionate warmth.
"Holding his own," she told him. It was all she knew.
"That's good, right?"
"Better than not."
"Yeah."
They were quiet for a moment, her sitting in the chair, him standing. Then he took a deep breath and said, "I wish I could – "
"Yeah." She wasn't sure what he was going to say. Maybe he wasn't either, but the sentiment was enough. She knew how he felt, about her and about the President.
"You need anything?"
She shook her head and took his hand, squeezing it gratefully.
"Okay. I just thought maybe you'd want to talk or something." He ran his other hand through the wild hair.
She smiled at the characteristic gesture. "I've been talking."
At his frown, she nodded toward the bed.
"Ah." He smiled a little. "No answer?"
Projecting as much confidence as she could, she assured him, "Not yet."
"You want me to bring you somethin' to drink? A Coke, maybe?"
Those walls contracted a little more and she shook her head. "I'll go out with you. I need to take a breath, myself."
Surprise crossed his face, but he wasted little time stepping to offer his hand as she rose. "Sure. That's a good idea."
With a lingering glance toward the bed, she thought, "Don't start without me," and followed her former boss out the door.
Pushing through the doors, they literally almost ran into Mikki, Josh's assistant. She jerked, startled, then smiled.
"I brought the files you wanted for Mister McGarry, Josh," she said, holding them out to him.
"It's late," he said. "You should be home."
"No problem."
"Thanks." He wasn't even looking at her, still focused on Donna.
"You going out?"
"Just getting Mrs. Bartlet something to drink."
Donna looked back at the door with a last minute worry that Jed would wake up while she was gone. She wished now she hadn't insisted that Gino step to the cafeteria to grab a bite. Mikki followed her gaze.
"Do you want me to stay?" she asked.
"What?" Donna hadn't realized she was so transparent.
"Do you want me to stay with the President?" Mikki repeated. "While you're gone."
Then at least, if he woke up he wouldn't be alone. "You don't mind?"
"Not at all," she assured her.
Just for a few minutes. It wouldn't hurt. "Thanks. I'll be right back."
The assistant smiled. "Take your time, Mrs. Bartlet. I'll take care of the President."
Josh took her elbow, guiding her down the hall. "It'll be okay, Donna. Just for a few minutes."
"Sure." If he said so.
As they stepped into the outer waiting room, she saw Leo and Ron hunched over something, photograph perhaps. Her heart pounded. Oh God, don't let it be another one of those. Don't let them be looking at Jed and me –
But the expressions on the two when they looked up did not show embarrassment for her. They were hard, as if they had been concentrating. Leo turned slightly, a move that served sufficiently as a greeting.
"Something?" she asked, hoping it was and also hoping it wasn't.
"Maybe," Ron answered, extending the glossy picture to her.
She took it in trembling fingers and was relieved to see it was simply an official photo of some group of people. On closer inspection, she could tell they were mostly Asian and must have been part of a relatively important organization in their country. The central focus was a man about fifty. Surrounding him were people of various ages, some carrying cameras, some with notebooks. It appeared to have been an impromptu click of the shutter to commemorate some gathering. From a quick count she made out fifteen people, some smiling, some presenting their best stoic faces to the camera. She recognized none of them.
Glancing up, she shrugged. "What is this?"
Leo said, "It's a publicity shot of advisors and aides to the president of North Korea."
"Okay."
"We found it in an album of photographs in Tony Fahrwell's apartment," Ron explained. "Part of a collection apparently to show off his work."
"But you knew he photographed the Korean president, didn't you?" she wondered.
"We are looking at every lead," Ron told her.
Nodding, she handed back the photograph and stood near the window. Josh appeared in a moment with a Fresca.
"How did you know I liked Fresca?" she asked, surprised.
He grinned. "One evening a while back, the President was turning the Mess upside down trying to find you one."
She smiled, remembering that night. She was probably six months pregnant and had a sudden craving for the drink. Jed had disappeared for half and hour and returned, out of breath, but victorious, with the green can held high.
Wishing her husband were the one offering it to her again, she said, "Thanks," and took it.
They stood together, staring out the window, content to remain silent as she sipped the tangy beverage. After a while, Josh slipped an arm around her shoulder and she leaned into him gratefully.
"Your secretary was kind to stay with Jed."
"Mikki? I'm sure she didn't mind."
"She's doing a good job?"
"Yeah."
"I still think it's odd that someone who attended the Naval Academy and served in the Marines is working as an assistant."
He shrugged. "I couldn't pass her up. You should see her vita."
"Impressive?"
"Her list of medals goes for half a page."
"And that qualifies her as your secretary?" Pushing back a pang of jealousy, she teased him. He didn't seem to mind.
"Actually, she also served in communications, in the journalism division."
Donna fell into the conversation more, enjoying the chance to talk about something other than the event that dominated every other discussion in the nation. "A woman of many talents? Any others you're familiar with?"
He smirked. "I knew you'd be jealous. Well, you made your choice, Missy."
"Missy?"
But he wasn't deterred. "Yep. You'll just have to live with it. If the best you could do was the President of the United States – "
He faltered, the gravity of the situation suddenly sucking away his humor. "I'm sorry, Donna," he said. "I'm so – "
"It's okay," she assured him, turning in his arms. "I know. So, she's a journalist?"
"What?"
"Mikki. She's a journalist?"
"Oh. Yeah. But I think she just took the pictures mostly. Somebody else wrote the stories."
"Took the pictures?"
An impossible idea flashed into her brain. Impossible. The bizarre scenario that she considered couldn't be right. She tried to push it down. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridic –
"Donna?" Josh was staring at her, his eyes sharp.
"What?"
"You look – what are you thinking?"
How could she tell him that? It was impossible. Right? "I don't know. It's nothing. It's ridiculous. She's a photographer, but that doesn't mean – "
Suddenly, she saw the same ridiculous idea in Josh's eyes. "My God, Donna. You don't think that – surely she couldn't – "
"What were some of those medals for, Josh? Could you tell?"
His arms fell to his side and he stepped back. "I don't – let me think. There was one for some kind of mission completion with distinction."
"Marksmanship? Was there one for marksmanship?"
"I – maybe. I'm not – "
Ron Butterfield appeared next to them, his strong instincts apparently sensing something, the photograph still in his hand. Donna turned and jerked it from him.
"Look at this, Josh," she demanded. No time for courtesy anymore.
He took it, studied it briefly, then gasped.
"Josh?" Leo asked, voice quickening as he approached.
"I just – I think – " he stammered, unable to pull the words together.
"You think what?" Ron demanded.
"Mikki."
Running cold, her blood slogged through her veins. Her ears pounded. "Is it?" But she didn't really need him to repeat it.
He pointed to a figure in the back row, her delicate features marred by the harsh glare from under those dark brows, the camera strap just visible across her left shoulder. "That's Mikki. I'm sure of it."
Before he could finish, the picture had been snatched from his hands by the President's head of security. "Show me," he urged, and Josh pointed again.
"This is your secretary?"
"Assistant."
"She has access to areas of the White House?"
His voice sounded sick when he answered. "Yeah."
"Ron," Donna groaned, "she could have taken those pictures." She swallowed, feeling sick again. "She was a Marine. We trained her. We trained her to kill – "
"Where is she now?"
Where is she? Oh God!
Josh pointed back the way they came. "She's with – she's in – "
But Ron was gone, flying down the hallway toward Jed's room. Donna raced behind him, still unbelieving. How could they have been so blind? How could they not have seen it? Dear God, please keep him safe! Please stop her!
"Mrs. Bartlet! Stay back!" Someone called to her, but she ignored it.
Her breath came in gasps. Chaos had broken lose in the corridors, with agents sprinting behind them. If anyone thought to hold her back physically, they either had other jobs or they knew it would do no good. She was right at Ron's heels.
Please God! Please!
They pounded down the hallway, a frantic group, picking up alarmed doctors and nurses every step. They had to be almost there. He would be okay. There would be nothing to this.
Please God! Please!
Ron barked orders to clear the path before them. People leapt against the walls, trays flew from the hands of startled orderlies, empty gurneys sailed across checkerboard tiles, pushed away by racing bodies.
Almost there. Surely they were almost there.
And then they were. She saw the double doors ahead, prayed harder that they were in time, that nothing had happened yet. Ron was skidding to stop himself before he passed the entrance, bunching up the crowd that hurled behind him.
Thank you, God! Thank You for –
The powerful echo of the gunshot shattered her prayer in mid-praise.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Ten A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Donna wasn't sure how long she had sat by the bed, her measurement of time reliant upon the regular and frequent visits by nurses and doctors. They checked IV lines, monitored the EKG, even tucked in sheets that had not been disturbed. She saw the concern in their eyes, and it wasn't just worrying about the President of the United States being lost on their watch. They cared for the man himself.
"Mrs. Bartlet?"
She looked up at the kind smile of a young woman in a colorful version of scrubs. Maybe she had seen her before. There had been so many people in and out.
"How are you doing, ma'am?"
Donna answered automatically. "Fine."
"We're all – we're all pulling for him," she said gently.
"Thank you."
"I mean, I know he's your husband, and I can't imagine what you're feeling right now, but he's, well, he's my President and I just think he's – " She stopped and looked straight at the bed. "He makes us proud, Mrs. Bartlet." She flushed as if she realized maybe she had gone too far for etiquette.
It was hard sometimes when you were too removed from the ordinary, the everyday lives that most Americans led, to realize the impact of one man. Donna had felt it when she was simply Donna Moss, senior assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff, but as First Lady she had lost some of that outsider's awe, that perception of the aura, the magic that surrounded the leader of the free world. Of course, it was even better knowing the man as she did now. But it surprised her a little, warmed her a great deal, to hear and see the affection people had for him.
She took the young woman's hand and squeezed once. "Thank you."
"I can't imagine anyone wanting to ki – " The nurse bit her lip, cleared her throat roughly and continued. "I just want you to know, ma'am, how much we all admire the President and how hard we are all working to make sure he recovers."
Donna smiled back, appreciating the praise and assurance.
"He's the only President I've ever voted for," the nurse continued, glancing tentatively toward the bed.
"Really?"
"His first election was my first election. And, of course, I voted for him again the second time. I wish he could run again."
"I wish he could hear you say that," Donna told her. "He'd probably have you introducing a bill to amend the Twenty-second Amendment." And she made a mental note to tell him about this young woman if – when – he woke up.
The nurse grinned. "Yes, ma'am. I'd do it." After smoothing the already smooth covers and checking the monitors, she turned back to Donna. "If I can get you anything Mrs. Bartlet – "
"I'm fine. Thank you."
Then she was alone again. No, she corrected herself, not alone. Jed was there. Her eyes fell on her husband and she felt again the tightness grip her throat. He was alive. Thank God he was alive. But Ellie's words still hung in the air.
"Memory loss. Permanent weakness on one side of the body – "
Maybe, she reminded herself. Maybe. They wouldn't know until Jed woke up, and he still showed no signs whatsoever of even a subconscious attempt.
He lay completely still, left arm at his side, the IV feeding a wide array of medicines into his veins in an attempt to control whatever reaction the MS might throw at them. His right arm crossed over his abdomen. A white bandage bound his head, thicker over the wound itself, insufficient, however, to keep the thick hair from sprouting up over it. His brow swelled underneath the gauze, even into the tender tissue around his eye. A flush burned his cheeks, evidence of the low-grade fever he had been running for several hours. She leaned closer and brushed her fingertips over the knuckles of his right hand. He didn't stir.
"Hey," she said, stroking gently along the backs of his fingers. "See, here's the thing. I miss you." God, how she missed him. Missed the richness of his laugh, missed the warmth of his teasing, missed the passion of his kiss, missed the security of his touch.
The machine beeped its even patterns, the only answer his body gave her.
"J.T. misses you," she told him quietly. "Margaret's helping with him, but I think he wants his daddy back." She didn't mention what Margaret had told her that morning. That J.T. was fretting, resisting his bottle, as usual – he wanted mom's skin, not Playtex. That Margaret had little success in calming him until a clip of the President came on television, accompanying yet another aspect of the shooting. At the sound of his father's voice, J.T. had fallen still and turned his head toward the t.v. It tore at her heart to think that Jed's son might never know his father.
The weight of the room closed over her suddenly, pushed her down until she wasn't sure she could even breathe. A wave of inexplicable anger toward her husband swept a red haze across her face. She couldn't explain it, but there it was. The words fell out before she could stop them.
"Don't you leave him, Josiah Bartlet," she ground out. "Don't you dare leave him." Then just as suddenly the feeling was gone and the last word caught in her throat. She let out a shuddering breath, fighting against the sob that pushed upward.
Taking his hand and pressing it to her face, she whispered, "Don't leave me. Please, Jed, don't leave me."
For a second, she thought she felt a twitch from the limp fingers she held and pulled away to watch. But it didn't happen again, so she drew them back to her face and leaned into his touch, wondering if he felt her presence, if he heard what she said. If he would wake and stare at her blankly, his past locked away by his own mind.
She shook away the terrifying image and tried to impose on it a more idyllic scene of those days after J.T.'s birth, when there was no threat, there was no violence. There was only happiness and contentment with her husband and child. Could she ever have that again? She had to hope so. There was nothing else she could do.
"C.J.!"
The crowd of reporters clambered outside the hospital, hands pushed to the sky in hopes of being called on by the press secretary. As usual, she presented a picture of poise and control, but Donna knew this was eating her up, too. She knew how C.J. felt about Jed, knew they had always had a special relationship.
"Steve," she recognized, pointing to the veteran reporter.
"Has the President regained consciousness at all?"
She had already made a simple statement, already given a sparse rundown of his condition, but it provided only a little more information than they already had. The President was still alive, in stable, but serious condition. The vice-president had assumed control under the provisions of the 25th Amendment, but had not taken over as Acting President.
"No." A simple answer to a complicated situation.
"Follow up?" Steve asked again.
C.J. nodded.
"Do the doctors expect him to regain consciousness?"
"The doctors are hopeful, Steve. According to them, the next few hours are the most important ones."
"C.J.!"
"Sandy?"
The slender woman rose. "Are there any leads on the gunman?"
"I can't give out any information that might jeopardize the investigation, Sandy, but I can tell you that the President's injuries have provided several clues as to the location of the shooter. They have also identified the type of weapon from the bullet that was lodged in a partition behind the stage. Ballistics reports indicates it was an M1 rifle. I have some information here about the M1. It was adopted by the military as standard issue rifle in 1932, and has been refined constantly since then. A 'sniper version' was created and became known as the M1C and later another model, the M1D was also introduced. The M1D is a .30 caliber rifle with an eight- round internal box magazine. It is frequently used with a M84 telescope, which the FBI believes was used in the shooting of the President." She couldn't suppress a wince at the blunt statement.
Clearing her throat quickly, the press secretary managed to continue. "The M1C became the Marine Corps standard issue sniper rifle in 1951 and was used extensively in the Korean Conflict."
Leo stood near Donna, looking intensely at the television, nodding with tight lips as the information came across.
"Is that true?" Donna asked him. "Do they have a lead?"
One look from him told her that C.J.'s report was an optimistic spin on a not-so-optimistic situation.
"Why? Why tell them that? Why not say we have no idea who did this."
"Well, for one thing, that scares people. The President of the United States has been shot. We can't let them think someone can get away with that."
She stepped toward the chief of staff, suddenly angry, frustrated. "Is someone getting away with it? What if you never catch him? What are you going to do? Find a Lee Harvey Oswald to pin this on and let the real assassins roam free? Forty years from now will they still be discussing 'who shot Bartlet'?"
"Donna – "
"No! Someone shot my husband. I want to know who. I want to see the bastard found and punished for what he did." She was shaking now. "I want to know! Do you understand?"
She felt a hand at her elbow, let Jed's best friend lead her away from the sympathetic eyes of the others in the room. "Donna," he said softly as they leaned against a pale blue wall, "there's a chance that – that this person might try again."
It was as if he had doused her with cold water, and her anger drained out with it. Dear God! Hadn't this been enough? "What – why – "
"If he really wanted to kill the President, and if he thinks the President is in such a condition that it might be easy to finish the job, he could take a chance, get careless."
"So you are setting him up. And Jed is the bait?" Her stomach churned. How could they do this? How could they risk the life of the President of the United States? But even as she asked herself that, she knew it was the only life that would work, that would draw the murderer out.
"Donna?"
The familiar voice caught her attention and she turned to see her brother standing a few feet away, forgiven by the Secret Service under the circumstances.
"Gino!"
He opened his arms, and she fell into them, hugging him hard. She had talked with him since his unfortunate intrusion and resulting banishment, but they had not seen each other.
"Donna, I know I'm not supposed to – well, I had to come – "
She nodded, smiling at him through the tears. "Of course. I'm glad you came. I knew you would. I told them to let you in when you got here."
"How is he?"
"Stable."
"I'm so sorry, Donna. For everything. I wish – "
"I know," she told him simply and touched his face. "Mom and Dad are giving Margaret a break with J.T. right now but they'll be here later. Do you want to go to the White House?"
He shook his head. "I'll stay here with you if that's all right."
She nodded, grateful for his presence, for someone she didn't have to impress with her strength and strong demeanor as First Lady. Still holding his hand, she turned to watch the end of the press conference.
C.J. was wrapping up. "We hope to have a spokesman here for the FBI later today. I believe she will be taking questions regarding security in and around the D.C. area."
"Will she have more information on the shooting?"
"You'll have to ask her that." The press secretary shifted slightly, slipping her glasses on. "Now if you'll bear with me for just a minute, the First Lady has given me a statement to read to you."
Donna swallowed, going over the words again in her head, words that Will and Toby had crafted for her, words that she edited, words that she felt with all her heart.
The silence was even clear over the airwaves. "'My fellow Americans and world friends, our family would like to express our appreciation for the emails, the calls, the telegrams, and especially the prayers. This is a difficult time for all of us. This is a complex world, and even though we try, we don't always understand the course of events. In this time, we must draw upon every bit of grit and determination that we have. Our nation must stand firm and continue as a beacon of freedom for everyone and show the world that we cannot be bullied, that we cannot be distracted from our goals. We must put our faith in God and trust in His omnipotent wisdom. My husband is an optimist, and so am I. I look forward to the day when Jed and I can both stand before you to deliver our thanks personally. Please continue with your prayers for him and for our country.'" The press secretary looked up briefly, her eyes moist. She wasn't the only one. "Thank you," she finished, gathering her notes and stepping from the podium almost in the same move.
Gino squeezed her hand. "That was good."
"Toby wrote most of it. And Will."
"I heard some of you in there, too."
"A little," she admitted.
"Listen, I'm gonna stay here, all right? If I get kicked out this time, Jed's gonna have to wake up and do it himself."
She smiled. "That I want to see." And she sat for a long time with her brother on the couch, hand in hand, as they waited.
Night had descended again and Jed still slept in his private world, refusing to let her in, to let anyone in. She began to wonder how long it would last, if it were possible that he might never come out of it. The dressing had been changed, the bulky bandage replaced by a more streamlined one that covered only the direct wound. It gave her a better view of the bruising and she winced every time she looked at it.
She was tired, physically, mentally, and emotionally. But she would not leave him. They had brought J.T. to the hospital for her to feed and nurture, but it was no place for a baby, and her parents had taken him back to the Residence. She missed him, but at the moment, her place was with Jed.
"Donna?"
Hell, she hadn't heard the door open. Wiping at her eyes, she angled her head enough to catch a glimpse of the visitor. Josh Lyman stood just inside the door, his body hunched a little, waiting for her to greet him or send him away.
"Hey," she said, managing a painful smile.
"You okay?"
"Dandy."
"Yeah." He tilted his head toward the bed. "How's he doin'?"
Donna got a better view of her former boss as he stepped farther into the room. His pale face stared at the President's still form. He winced at something, the bandage or the swelling or just the sight of Jed Bartlet stripped of his greatest strengths: his keen mind, his sharp wit, his compassionate warmth.
"Holding his own," she told him. It was all she knew.
"That's good, right?"
"Better than not."
"Yeah."
They were quiet for a moment, her sitting in the chair, him standing. Then he took a deep breath and said, "I wish I could – "
"Yeah." She wasn't sure what he was going to say. Maybe he wasn't either, but the sentiment was enough. She knew how he felt, about her and about the President.
"You need anything?"
She shook her head and took his hand, squeezing it gratefully.
"Okay. I just thought maybe you'd want to talk or something." He ran his other hand through the wild hair.
She smiled at the characteristic gesture. "I've been talking."
At his frown, she nodded toward the bed.
"Ah." He smiled a little. "No answer?"
Projecting as much confidence as she could, she assured him, "Not yet."
"You want me to bring you somethin' to drink? A Coke, maybe?"
Those walls contracted a little more and she shook her head. "I'll go out with you. I need to take a breath, myself."
Surprise crossed his face, but he wasted little time stepping to offer his hand as she rose. "Sure. That's a good idea."
With a lingering glance toward the bed, she thought, "Don't start without me," and followed her former boss out the door.
Pushing through the doors, they literally almost ran into Mikki, Josh's assistant. She jerked, startled, then smiled.
"I brought the files you wanted for Mister McGarry, Josh," she said, holding them out to him.
"It's late," he said. "You should be home."
"No problem."
"Thanks." He wasn't even looking at her, still focused on Donna.
"You going out?"
"Just getting Mrs. Bartlet something to drink."
Donna looked back at the door with a last minute worry that Jed would wake up while she was gone. She wished now she hadn't insisted that Gino step to the cafeteria to grab a bite. Mikki followed her gaze.
"Do you want me to stay?" she asked.
"What?" Donna hadn't realized she was so transparent.
"Do you want me to stay with the President?" Mikki repeated. "While you're gone."
Then at least, if he woke up he wouldn't be alone. "You don't mind?"
"Not at all," she assured her.
Just for a few minutes. It wouldn't hurt. "Thanks. I'll be right back."
The assistant smiled. "Take your time, Mrs. Bartlet. I'll take care of the President."
Josh took her elbow, guiding her down the hall. "It'll be okay, Donna. Just for a few minutes."
"Sure." If he said so.
As they stepped into the outer waiting room, she saw Leo and Ron hunched over something, photograph perhaps. Her heart pounded. Oh God, don't let it be another one of those. Don't let them be looking at Jed and me –
But the expressions on the two when they looked up did not show embarrassment for her. They were hard, as if they had been concentrating. Leo turned slightly, a move that served sufficiently as a greeting.
"Something?" she asked, hoping it was and also hoping it wasn't.
"Maybe," Ron answered, extending the glossy picture to her.
She took it in trembling fingers and was relieved to see it was simply an official photo of some group of people. On closer inspection, she could tell they were mostly Asian and must have been part of a relatively important organization in their country. The central focus was a man about fifty. Surrounding him were people of various ages, some carrying cameras, some with notebooks. It appeared to have been an impromptu click of the shutter to commemorate some gathering. From a quick count she made out fifteen people, some smiling, some presenting their best stoic faces to the camera. She recognized none of them.
Glancing up, she shrugged. "What is this?"
Leo said, "It's a publicity shot of advisors and aides to the president of North Korea."
"Okay."
"We found it in an album of photographs in Tony Fahrwell's apartment," Ron explained. "Part of a collection apparently to show off his work."
"But you knew he photographed the Korean president, didn't you?" she wondered.
"We are looking at every lead," Ron told her.
Nodding, she handed back the photograph and stood near the window. Josh appeared in a moment with a Fresca.
"How did you know I liked Fresca?" she asked, surprised.
He grinned. "One evening a while back, the President was turning the Mess upside down trying to find you one."
She smiled, remembering that night. She was probably six months pregnant and had a sudden craving for the drink. Jed had disappeared for half and hour and returned, out of breath, but victorious, with the green can held high.
Wishing her husband were the one offering it to her again, she said, "Thanks," and took it.
They stood together, staring out the window, content to remain silent as she sipped the tangy beverage. After a while, Josh slipped an arm around her shoulder and she leaned into him gratefully.
"Your secretary was kind to stay with Jed."
"Mikki? I'm sure she didn't mind."
"She's doing a good job?"
"Yeah."
"I still think it's odd that someone who attended the Naval Academy and served in the Marines is working as an assistant."
He shrugged. "I couldn't pass her up. You should see her vita."
"Impressive?"
"Her list of medals goes for half a page."
"And that qualifies her as your secretary?" Pushing back a pang of jealousy, she teased him. He didn't seem to mind.
"Actually, she also served in communications, in the journalism division."
Donna fell into the conversation more, enjoying the chance to talk about something other than the event that dominated every other discussion in the nation. "A woman of many talents? Any others you're familiar with?"
He smirked. "I knew you'd be jealous. Well, you made your choice, Missy."
"Missy?"
But he wasn't deterred. "Yep. You'll just have to live with it. If the best you could do was the President of the United States – "
He faltered, the gravity of the situation suddenly sucking away his humor. "I'm sorry, Donna," he said. "I'm so – "
"It's okay," she assured him, turning in his arms. "I know. So, she's a journalist?"
"What?"
"Mikki. She's a journalist?"
"Oh. Yeah. But I think she just took the pictures mostly. Somebody else wrote the stories."
"Took the pictures?"
An impossible idea flashed into her brain. Impossible. The bizarre scenario that she considered couldn't be right. She tried to push it down. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridic –
"Donna?" Josh was staring at her, his eyes sharp.
"What?"
"You look – what are you thinking?"
How could she tell him that? It was impossible. Right? "I don't know. It's nothing. It's ridiculous. She's a photographer, but that doesn't mean – "
Suddenly, she saw the same ridiculous idea in Josh's eyes. "My God, Donna. You don't think that – surely she couldn't – "
"What were some of those medals for, Josh? Could you tell?"
His arms fell to his side and he stepped back. "I don't – let me think. There was one for some kind of mission completion with distinction."
"Marksmanship? Was there one for marksmanship?"
"I – maybe. I'm not – "
Ron Butterfield appeared next to them, his strong instincts apparently sensing something, the photograph still in his hand. Donna turned and jerked it from him.
"Look at this, Josh," she demanded. No time for courtesy anymore.
He took it, studied it briefly, then gasped.
"Josh?" Leo asked, voice quickening as he approached.
"I just – I think – " he stammered, unable to pull the words together.
"You think what?" Ron demanded.
"Mikki."
Running cold, her blood slogged through her veins. Her ears pounded. "Is it?" But she didn't really need him to repeat it.
He pointed to a figure in the back row, her delicate features marred by the harsh glare from under those dark brows, the camera strap just visible across her left shoulder. "That's Mikki. I'm sure of it."
Before he could finish, the picture had been snatched from his hands by the President's head of security. "Show me," he urged, and Josh pointed again.
"This is your secretary?"
"Assistant."
"She has access to areas of the White House?"
His voice sounded sick when he answered. "Yeah."
"Ron," Donna groaned, "she could have taken those pictures." She swallowed, feeling sick again. "She was a Marine. We trained her. We trained her to kill – "
"Where is she now?"
Where is she? Oh God!
Josh pointed back the way they came. "She's with – she's in – "
But Ron was gone, flying down the hallway toward Jed's room. Donna raced behind him, still unbelieving. How could they have been so blind? How could they not have seen it? Dear God, please keep him safe! Please stop her!
"Mrs. Bartlet! Stay back!" Someone called to her, but she ignored it.
Her breath came in gasps. Chaos had broken lose in the corridors, with agents sprinting behind them. If anyone thought to hold her back physically, they either had other jobs or they knew it would do no good. She was right at Ron's heels.
Please God! Please!
They pounded down the hallway, a frantic group, picking up alarmed doctors and nurses every step. They had to be almost there. He would be okay. There would be nothing to this.
Please God! Please!
Ron barked orders to clear the path before them. People leapt against the walls, trays flew from the hands of startled orderlies, empty gurneys sailed across checkerboard tiles, pushed away by racing bodies.
Almost there. Surely they were almost there.
And then they were. She saw the double doors ahead, prayed harder that they were in time, that nothing had happened yet. Ron was skidding to stop himself before he passed the entrance, bunching up the crowd that hurled behind him.
Thank you, God! Thank You for –
The powerful echo of the gunshot shattered her prayer in mid-praise.