Chapter 7

The ride back was as quiet as the ride there. He glanced at her through the rearview mirror occasionally, but she just stared out the window. There could've been a thousand people in that minivan, and she wouldn't have noticed. Still, he was certain she could just as easily command a room as she could sink into it. She reminded him of his wife that way. Wallpaper and completely unnoticeable if she wanted to be, but the center of attention and the one everyone looked at if that's what she wanted.

And stubborn. She was like his wife there too; there was no getting around it. This woman would not be stopped. He briefly wondered if he'd have to physically restrain her once they got to he park, and if he was prepared to do that. What if she started off towards that pavilion? Was he going to stop her?

He thought back to Helen and the gleam in her eyes when they were standing outside that minivan. When had this chicken fighter gotten his wife on her side? They hadn't even officially met. Still, he couldn't be mad. He'd missed that gleam. She hadn't had it much since they'd been on the campaign trail. She wasn't sold on it. Any of it. She wasn't sold on his ability to get elected, wasn't sold on what he'd have to do and the compromises he'd have to make to get elected, wasn't sold on a possible move to Washington DC, wasn't sold on the time away from the kids, and she certainly wasn't sold on Josh Lyman. But thinking back to the gleam in her eyes, she sure seemed to be sold on this Donna woman.

He glanced back to Donna again. She and his wife were a lot alike. Helen's loyalty never surprised him and never failed to leave him in awe of her. As unsold as she was on this Presidential thing, she'd been there for every step of it. He briefly pictured himself in that pavilion. No wonder Helen liked this woman; she was doing exactly what Helen would've been doing.

And Josh… here was this man he'd spent fifteen hours a day with for the last three months. How was it he didn't know this about his campaign manager? Not necessarily who he was dating; he was telling the truth when he'd said he didn't care who Josh dated. But, that he had a personal life at all. Matt had never even heard him tell a joke before, much less talk about a movie or a date or a woman named Donna. How was he supposed to know Josh ever thought of anything other than politics? That he was in love. That there was someone he was willing to die for.

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"He's not answering his phone," she mumbled. Ned looked back at her, but she ignored him and dialed again. Again, his voicemail picked up. "He's not answering his phone," she said louder.

"He probably can't hear it ring," Ned said.

"He keeps it on vibrate. He always has it on vibrate. Always."

"They're probably pulling him out of there right now. Or he's out and he's giving them a statement," Matt said hopefully.

"He always answers when I call," she said. "He knows I worry. He always answers when I call," she said again.

She tried again and the voicemail picked up. Tears sprang to her eyes and she harshly wiped them away. "Josh, call me. You're scaring me. I've called three times. Call me."

She saw Matt look over at Ned with what looked like a worried expression on his face. "Can you drive faster, please?" she asked calmly.

"We're almost there," he replied, stepping on the gas a bit as Donna dialed again.

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"What do you know about Donna?" she asked Ronna as they sat in the Santos' room waiting on news.

Ronna shrugged. "Nothing. Josh introduced me to her once." She went into the bathroom and washed her face. She wasn't sure why, but she felt icky and sweaty.

"She seems tough," Helen said, more to herself than to Ronna.

"She seems worried about Josh," Ronna replied while drying her face with a hand towel.

"Did you see how she handled my husband out there?"

Ronna smiled. "Why does it make me happy to think she must handle Josh like that?"

Helen laughed. "It'd be like getting a Christmas present to watch that."

"Yes it would."

"Matt likes him," she said, standing up and walking towards the restroom herself.

"He's very good. I like him. I just… I don't know."

Helen nodded. "We wouldn't have made it past the first primary without him. But he… have you ever even seen the man smile?"

Ronna smiled and shook her head. "I bet he smiled when she told him she was in the van with us."

"Yeah."

"I like her," Ronna said.

"Me too."

"You know, and this is just off the top of my head, but if we get the nomination, we're going to need a bigger staff, including a press secretary."

"If we get the nomination, I'm going to need a chief of staff," Helen said with a smile before shutting the bathroom door.

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"How you doin'?" he asked her when he picked up the phone.

"Toby, Josh isn't answering his phone. Have you heard from the police? Do they have him out of there yet?" She was speaking very quickly, and he could tell she was barely holding it together.

He looked over at Mike Casper. "Hold on. Mike Casper's here. I'll see what he knows."

He scribbled 'Josh?' on a piece of paper and handed it to Mike, who was on the phone with the FBI on the scene. He took the paper from Toby, scribbled 'not yet, soon' on it, and handed it back.

He continued staring at Mike for a few seconds, until he looked up at him. 'You sure?' he mouthed. Mike nodded. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before picking his cell back up.

"Donna. According to Mike, they're going in to get him soon."

"Soon?" she yelled.

He closed his eyes and ran his hand over the top of his head. "They're doing the best they can, Donna," he said quietly.

"I don't give a shit about their best! He's not answering his phone Toby! Something's happened!"

"You don't know that," he said slowly.

"He's not answering his phone!" she screamed. "Why doesn't anyone understand that he's not answering his fucking phone?"

"Maybe he can't hear it over the noise," he answered lamely. He knew that wasn't the case, knew she wouldn't buy it, but he had nothing better to say to her.

He could hear her sobbing, gasping for breath. Several seconds went by before she whispered, "Toby," with a quivering voice.

"I know. I'm gonna call the police on the scene and tell them to get the hell in there."

"Please hurry, Toby."

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He knew. The second it happened, he knew. He was in the restroom with the door shut, where the noise, although still loud, wasn't deafening. He was sitting there, still holding Donna's day runner, when the door was broken in. And without looking out into the main room, he knew. He was no longer alone, it wasn't the police, and he was no longer safe. And the very next thought that went through his head was 'thank You God, thank You for getting Donna out of this.'

He stood up slowly, shaking inside and out. His breathing shallow, his jaw set hard, his grip tight on the toilet bowl brush. He had to move, had to go, had to go now. He felt his cell vibrate on his hip, and he was thankful the ringer wasn't on.

He took a deep breath; at least he tried to, and then opened the door. The first thing he saw was a man flying through the air. He hit the corner of one of the picnic tables and then landed on the floor with a thud Josh knew must've been loud because he could hear it over the noise.

Two other men walked up to the first man and began hitting him over and over with night sticks while screaming at him in Spanish. He watched as something flew off the end of one of the nightsticks as a hugely built man swung it up and over his head before swinging it back down and hitting the man on the floor again. He looked over to the wall and saw blood splattered on it. Holy shit, he thought, where did they get night sticks? That's when he looked closer at the man on the floor. A police officer.

Of course he didn't notice at first. He was too engrossed by the man's face, bloody and swollen, the sound his head made when he hit the corner of the picnic table before landing harshly on the cement floor. But now, as he looked closer, he saw the blue uniform, the empty gun holster on his hip, the badge over his heart. He was a police officer and they were beating him to death.

As soon as it started, it stopped. The two men stood up, spit on the officer and kicked him hard in the stomach a few times. Just as they turned around, Josh ducked behind the bathroom door, hoping they hadn't noticed it was closed when they came in.

He waited a minute; counted slowly to sixty before tentatively looking back into the main room. The two men were gone, only the officer remained. He looked to the door; it was hanging open, swinging lightly and probably squeaking, although he couldn't hear it. He looked back to the police officer, lying still on the cement ground, and ran to him. The phone in his pocket began vibrating again, but he'd have to worry about that later.

There seemed to be blood everywhere, his neck, his shirt, his arms, and as Josh began feeling for a pulse, he fought the image of his hand on his own stomach as he leaned against a cement wall bleeding. Fought the image of bloody gauze on a hospital room floor, fought the vomit that came up in his mouth. There was no time for that.

He couldn't be sure he was feeling in the right place for the right thing, depending on years of watching St. Elsewhere and before that, Emergency. Since the shooting, he hadn't watched any television shows like that, couldn't really, so he hoped he was doing it right. He moved his fingers around several times before he felt a faint pulsing against his index finger. At least, if felt faint to him. He had no idea what a normal pulse felt like, but this seemed slow. He was sure his heart was beating at least twice that fast.

The man's head had landed at an odd angle, and Josh very carefully tried to move it. He put his hands on either side of his head and slowly shifted it. His hands hit something warm, and when he pulled them out from behind the man's head, they were covered in blood and something else…something glossy. He barely turned his head in time to miss the man when he vomited.

Don't move him. That was the only thought of about a thousand in the three or four seconds he thought about it that seemed to stick. He could've hurt his spine, broken his back, his neck. Don't move him. He cursed himself; he'd just moved his head. What if... he shook his head. He couldn't think about that now. He had to get him out of there.

He stood quickly and looked around the small room. He'd paced it about a hundred times that morning before the rally had started, but still he looked for something now, anything, having no idea what, but knowing he needed something. Finally, he pulled one of the picnic tables over, trying to block the man from view, then went to the corner where he'd long ago tossed his suite jacket and brought it over to him, carefully placing it over his torso both to keep him warm and to hide the fact that he was a police officer from anyone who happened upon him, and then went to the door.