TUESDAY FEBRUARY 26, THE WHITE HOUSE - 1430 HRS

Gary had dim recollections of waking to find a tube in his throat, and hearing voices murmuring somewhere close by.  That episode had been very brief, thankfully, as it was also accompanied by incredible pain in his shoulder and throat.

He had awakened to a sense of movement sometime later.  Gary had been groggily aware of being loaded into some kind of van.  An ambulance, maybe?  He wasn’t sure at the time.  His world was still consumed by pain.  Gary must have communicated this to someone, because he soon felt an all too familiar warmth as consciousness faded once more.  His next moment of awareness came as he was transferred to a much softer bed.

It was so hard to breathe!  That was the first thing that Gary was aware of as he swam his way back to consciousness once more.  His throat hurt terribly, and his breath rasped painfully through his swollen larynx. He stifled a groan, as the pain escalated rapidly with even that slight movement.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Blinking rapidly, Gary gingerly turned his head toward the sound of that familiar, throaty voice.  He was surprised to find himself in a much different bed than he had passed out in.  The all too familiar IV pump still stood nearby, as well as the machine that monitored his vital signs.  But he was now in a king-sized four-poster bed, and the monitor sat on an ornately carved nightstand.  He was also in a much more opulent room than before.  Sitting in a brocaded wingback chair was a woman who appeared to be in her late forties, perhaps older, but still quite lovely.  She had thick, dark red hair, and a pleasant, if detached, smile.

“M-Mrs. B-Bartlett?” Gary rasped hoarsely.  Puzzled, he looked beyond her, trying to figure out just exactly where he was.  

“You’re in one of the many unused rooms of the Residence,” Abigail Bartlett told him.  “How do you feel?”

Gary rubbed his throat gingerly.  “Hurts,” he admitted.  “Wh-why . . .?”

“Why did those maniacs try to kill you?” she shrugged.  “I’m afraid you know more about that than I do, although it might have something to do with fouling up their plans.  Why are you here?  Easy.  One of the bastards got away.  One pulled a gun on your guard, shots were exchanged, he
died, the strangler that is, and the other dove out your window.  Some bushes broke his fall and he left a bloody trail out to the parking lot.  Too bad he didn’t break his neck,” she grumbled, her head bent to look over the chart in her hand.  “They really worked you over, didn’t they?”

“Um, yeah,” Gary mumbled.  “S-so . . . why’m I here?”

Abigail Bartlett raised her head to give him a puzzled look to match his own.  Then her eyes widened, and her mouth opened in an ’O’ of understanding as she perceived his bewilderment.  

“Oh!  Why are you . . .here?” she repeated, one manicured finger pointed at the floor.  “Well, you did save the lives of the Vice President, his family, the Speaker of the House, several cabinet members, half of the White House Press Corps, as well as the Secret Service agents and train crew.  Not to mention all the people aboard that express.  Don’t you think it would be a bit . . . well, churlish of us to leave you and your parents out in the cold, so to speak?  We had you moved here as soon as you were stabilized.”  She stood and stepped up to the bed, taking a seat on the edge.  “They had to do some repair work on your shoulder and you’ve been pretty much out of it for the last few hours.”  Leaning in close enough that Gary could smell her perfume, she pulled out a penlight and flashed it into one of Gary’s eyes, then the other.  “Pupils are equal and reactive,” she noted as he blinked to clear his vision.  “I think you’re going to be fine.”

“A-are you . . . m-my doctor . . . now?” Gary asked.  His voice was harsh and raspy, little more than a whispering croak.

“No,” Mrs. Bartlett chuckled.  “I’m just noting my observations for when your doctor gets here.  I gave up my license for the duration of Jed’s presidency.  That doesn’t mean I can’t keep notes.”

“M-my folks . . . okay?” Gary asked, his brows knit in an expression of concern.  “N-not . . . not hurt or . . . or worried . . . ‘bout me?”

Abby laughed at this, a warm throaty laugh to match her voice.  “Jed warned me about that.  He said your mother said you’d be asking about someone before the first ten minutes were up.  She told Jed we could bank on it.  Yes, they’re both fine.  We sent someone to pick them up while you were being transferred.”  She gave Gary a speculative look.  “They say your mother was already wide awake.  Said she had a dream you were in trouble.  Has that happened before?”

“C-couple times,” Gary replied with a slow nod.  Any motion sent shafts of pain shooting through his whole body.  Was there anything left that didn’t hurt?  “Y-you said . . . one d-died.  Wh-who?”

“Not this Marley character you’ve been mumbling about, I’m afraid,” she sighed.  “From the description your guard gave, he wasn’t the one who escaped, either.  So,” she added brightly, patting his good shoulder, “do you feel up to company?  Your parents are worried sick about you.”

“S-sure,” Gary smiled wanly.  He was pretty sure neither of his parents would rest until they had assured themselves he was okay.  And, truthfully, he wanted the same assurances in regards to them.  With another gentle pat, the First Lady rose and crossed the huge room, it was bigger than his loft, and opened the door.  She spoke to someone standing just outside, then resumed her original seat.

“We, your doctor and I, have been going over your medical records,” she mused, picking up a rather weighty folder.  “You’ve had a rough time of it these last few years, haven’t you?  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a file this thick on someone so young who wasn’t dying.  Which, thank God, you don’t seem to be.  Not of any natural causes, anyway.”

Gary was saved from having to respond to this dry statement by a knock on the door.  A young black man stuck his head into the room.

“The Hobson’s are here,” he murmured softly.  “And the President would like to know if you’ll be having dinner with him, or should he go ahead without you?”

“Show them in, Charlie,” Abigail told the President’s Aide.  “And tell my husband I’ll be down in a few minutes.”  She stood to greet the Hobsons as they practically ran into the grandly appointed room.  “Mr. and Mrs. Hobson.  It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said, flashing them a warm smile.  

“Oh, my,” Lois gushed, her cheeks reddening as she took the First Lady’s hand.  “I’m honored!  This is all . . . Oh, my!”

“I think she means it’s a pleasure to meet you, too, ma’am,” Bernie grinned, as he also shook hands.  “How’s our boy doing?”

“Just fine,” Abigail Bartlett replied with a throaty chuckle.  She indicated the figure on the bed.  “He’s been asking about you.  If you’ll excuse me, my husband is waiting dinner on me, and I’m sure the three of you have much to talk about.  If you’re free for lunch tomorrow, perhaps you’ll join me and we can chat.”  As she gathered Gary’s records, the First Lady flashed Gary an impish smile.  “Behave yourself, Mr. Hobson,” she said.  “Your doctor should be in to check on you within the hour.  In the meantime, we’ll try to keep visitors to a minimum.  Good day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gary murmured hoarsely.  “And . . . thank you.”

The door had barely closed after the First Lady before Lois was brushing a lock of hair from Gary’s forehead and checking for a fever.

“Oh, Gary,” she sighed, after assuring herself that he really was safe and alive, “I had this terrible dream!  You were being buried alive, and you were trying to scream, but no sound was coming out!  And you couldn’t move!  It was . . .!”

“J-just a d-dream,” Gary rasped haltingly.  “‘M okay.  H-hurts . . . t’ talk, though.”

Bernie put a finger under his son’s chin and tilted it up a little, emitting a shrill whistle of surprise as he saw the livid bruising around Gary’s throat.  They very clearly showed the imprints of a thumb and four fingers on each side.

“Those guys really did a number on you, Kiddo!” he exclaimed softly.  “No wonder you can’t talk!  So, you just lie back and listen.  Let us do the talking.”

For the next hour, Gary lay helplessly as his parents expounded vociferously on the excitement of meeting so many powerful people in the government, of being the absolute center of attention because their only son was such a hero, of how beautiful the White House was, and wouldn’t all those people who had ‘said all those terrible things about you just die!’

Gary held his hand up at this last statement, finally halting their exuberant babbling.  He cleared his throat painfully a couple of times before he could get the words out.

“D-don’t,” he stammered, his voice harsh and raspy.  “D-don’t . . . need t’ tell . . . anyone.  Please?”

“I don’t see how we can hide it forever, hon,” Lois reasoned.  “There’s already been so much publicity, and it’s only a matter of time before someone connects you to what happened.  Especially after you were whisked to the White House in the middle of the night.  Face it, sweetie.  You’re now, officially, a hero.”

*************

THURSDAY FEBRUARY 28, THE WHITE HOUSE - 1200 HRS

Gary had been confined to bed for another day before the doctor would allow him to try something close to solid foods.  He was also allowed to walk, with assistance, as far as the bathroom and back.  Which was as far as Gary’s trembling legs would take him.  Still, it was a relief not to have to call someone in to help him with a bedpan!  The activity, limited as it was, went a long way to restoring his sense of dignity.

He sank back on the bed with a sigh, his back propped up against the headboard, as his mother set the serving tray across his lap.  Gary looked down at an assortment of pureed and blended foods with a grimace.  He had to admit, though, that he still had some difficulty swallowing, and that the dressing was probably the closest he would get to solid food for a while.  At least it was better than the broth and gelatin he’d been restricted to for the last couple of days.

“I’m sorry this has messed up your plans,” he told his mom as she prepared to spoon a bite of something that had once been turkey into his mouth.  He had tried to convince her he could feed himself, now.  The swelling was completely gone from both hands, although he still couldn’t use his left.  She had listened politely, as she continued to feed him.  “Did you have to . . . to reschedule your party?”  He still had a little trouble with his voice.  His dad said he sounded like he had swallowed Kermit the Frog.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” Lois told him.  “We were able to get in touch with everyone, including your paramedic friends, and let them know it had been set back a week.  We should be home by then, I’m sure.  My, this smells good, at least,” she commented as she dipped up a spoonful of what she thought might be green beans.  The look on her face said she had her doubts.  “The important thing is to get you back on your feet.  And to catch the man who did this to you.  Has anyone said anything?  Do they think he’s . . . he’s still in this area?” she asked nervously.

“No one’s, umph.”  He had to take a moment to swallow before he could continue.  “Mom, how can you expect me to answer if you keep shoving that spoon in my mouth?  No.  No one has said anything, but I don’t . . . I don’t think Marley’s in this area anymore.  There’re too many people looking for him.  He was probably long gone before those guys snuck into my room.  I-I think that was just a diversion, to make the police think he’s still hanging around somewhere.”

“You could be right,” Bernie said from his seat by the French doors.  He was reading a copy of the Washington Post.  As soon as he had learned Gary was acquainted with one of the reporters, Bernie had decided to get to know her through her writing.  Since Gary had pleaded with them not to find her and ‘dredge up painful memories,’ he figured it was the only way he had of finding out what had pushed them apart.  “It says here that he’s been spotted in six different states.  Including Alaska.  Face it, that bozo could be anywhere.”

Gary was saved from having to answer by a knock on the door.  That was one thing he had yet to get used to.  Everyone treated him and his parents as if they really were visiting royalty.  No one simply barged in.  Everyone knocked.  Except the President.  He had someone else knock for him.

Sam Seaborn, Deputy Communications Director to the President, stuck his head around the edge of the door at Bernie’s invitation.

“Ah!  Good!  You’re awake,” he said in his clipped, energetic tones.  Sam quickly stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.  “The President has asked me to see if you’re ready to make a statement to the Press, yet.  Or, if you like, we could construct a statement for you.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Gary murmured, fending off another spoonful of . . . something yellow.  “Y-you’ll ‘construct’ a statement for me?  You make it sound like building a house.  Mom, please!”

“You have to get your strength back, sweetie,” Lois gently scolded him.  “To do that, you need to eat.”

“This isn’t eating,” Gary croaked miserably.  “You could just give me a straw and let me drink it.  C-couldn’t I just have something cold to drink?  One of those diet supplements or something?”  He gave Sam a pleading look.  “This looks awful!”

“I’ll see what we can find,” Sam chuckled, seeming a little more at ease.  That was one thing Gary had noticed about the smaller man, the few times they had met.  He always started a conversation as if he were in a hurry.  Sometimes he held that level of energy until the business was concluded.  Sometimes, when things were of a less political nature, he would seem to relax.  But there was always an . . . undercurrent was the best he could describe it.  A hidden well-spring of energy just waiting to be tapped.  “About that statement . . .”

“I don’t know,” Gary sighed, running his good hand through his hair nervously.  “I-I don’t think I did anything that anyone else wouldn’t have done, u-under the circumstances.  I-I was just . . . i-in the right p-place at the r-right time.”  He was secretly thankful that no one had noticed that he had a copy of the Sun-Times every morning.  The cat had been very discreet.  So had his parents.

“Mr. Hobson,” Sam sighed, “what you did was extraordinary.  You could’ve been killed!  The dispatcher stated that you barely got out of the way in time.  One second more and we could . . .”  He paused, seeming to realize that Gary’s parents were hanging on his every word.  “Um, anyway, we need to give the Press some type of statement or they’ll never leave you alone.”

Gary let his head drop back with a sigh.  “I just didn’t want another September 11th,” he murmured wearily.  “Why does it have to be such a big thing to prevent a disaster?  You’d think anyone with a heart would want to stop something like that.”

“Some of us just have more ‘heart’ than others,” Sam replied, speaking softly.  He stepped closer to the bed, his hands busily fussing with a notepad.  “We, all of us in the President’s staff, can’t thank you enough for what you did.  John Hoyne is a good man, with the country’s best interests in mind, even when he makes an unpopular decision.  If something, God forbid, should happen to the President during his term, then I kind of like the idea that he’ll be the one taking up the reins of government.”

“Me, too,”  Bernie nodded sagely.  “I heard a rumor that they wouldn’t let that ‘Internet Education’ bill pass until he took his name off of it.  That had to cost him, clout-wise.”

“It did,” Sam admitted.  “It means we can’t use it as a campaign issue, but the bill passed.  To him, that was the important thing.  He and President Bartlett really care about this country and its citizens.  It’s not a ‘power thing.’  They honestly care.”

“You don’t have to convince us, hon,” Lois said with a light-hearted chuckle.  “We voted for them the last time.  Remember?  We take this country’s best interests to heart, too.  Now, can you help me convince my hard-headed son that he needs to eat?  I know it looks like goop, but he needs nourishment!”

**********

Gary closed his eyes and turned his head, trying not to wince, as the IV catheter was slowly withdrawn from his right forearm.  It always gave him a creepy feeling to have things pulled out of his flesh.  

“There you go,” the nurse murmured as she taped a thick piece of gauze over the tiny wound.  She was a matronly, middle-aged woman with a pleasant, professional demeanor.   Her name was Veda.  “Now, lean up a bit and let’s get that pajama top off.  I need to change your bandages.”

Reluctantly, Gary allowed her to remove the garment, exposing the yards of gauze that swathed much of his chest.  He sat still as she unwound the bandages, removing the loose padding that covered each of his lesser injuries.  She was unable to stifle a wince, herself, at the number of small cuts and burns she exposed.  The blisters on his back seemed especially deep.

“These all seem to be healing well,” she reported as she cleaned a thin crust of blood from a row of stitches.  “Are they giving you any problems?  Pain or itching, I mean.”

“A-a little,” Gary admitted.  “Not much, though.  The Toradol takes care of most of it.”

“Good,” Veda murmured.  “If you need anything stronger, don’t hesitate to ask.”  She finished cleaning the neat rows of stitches, keeping up a light hearted dialogue as she applied antibiotic ointment and burn cream, then covered each of them with new gauze.  “Now, let’s see that shoulder.  Oh, my!” she exclaimed softly, as she peeled away the thick pad.  “Don’t tell me that doesn’t hurt!  Can you feel your hand and arm, yet?”

“Oh-ho-ho, yes!” Gary chuckled grimly.  “Throbs like a son of a . . . Um, I have plenty of feeling, thank you.  I just can’t seem to move it, yet.  Is it too soon, do ya think?”

“It’s only been a few days since you were shot,” Veda nodded with clinical detachment.  “Give it a little more time.  From the looks of things, you’ve been this route before, so you pretty much know what to expect.  What about your hand?  Can you move your fingers?”

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Gary slowly wiggled his fingers by way of answer.  Even that slight movement caused a fine sheen of sweat to break out across his forehead.  God!  It hurt!

“Th-that’s the best I can do,” he gasped as he let the hand relax back into his lap.  “I d-don’t . . . don’t remember having this much trouble . . . before.”

“You may still have some swelling in there,” she mused, carefully cleaning the wound.  “Those . . . people . . . reopened the wound when they struck you.  The surgeons had to repair the vein again and drained a large hematoma.  That set you back to square one.  There!  All nice and clean.  I’m going to leave this uncovered for the moment so the doctor can take a look.  He’s waiting right outside.”  She stood and walked to the door.

“He didn’t want to see the rest of ‘em?” Gary asked, his expressive eyes showing his confusion.  “Th-the cuts and burns?”

“Those are painful,” Veda told him with a detached smile, “but hardly serious unless they become infected.  His concern is with the gunshot wound to your shoulder.  He also wants to see that crease over your right ear, which is why I left that uncovered, as well.”  She opened the door and leaned out, gesturing to someone.

A stout, gray haired man followed her back into the room.  He was the same doctor that Gary had seen several times in the hospital, and that very room, since he had first awakened.  

“And how are you feeling today, Mr. Hobson?” Dr. Michaels asked as he perched on the edge of the huge bed.  None of that royal ‘we’ stuff with this guy.  He always got straight to the point.

“Not too bad,” Gary replied with a noncommittal nod.  He had finally learned not to shrug.  “It hurts, but nothing the Toradol can’t handle.”

Dr. Michaels gave a dry chuckle as he examined the shoulder first.  “You must see yourself as one tough customer,” he commented.  

Gary drew back with a look of startled amusement.  “Me?” he snorted.  “I’m a wimp!  Ask her!  I couldn’t even look when she took the needle out!  I’m about as tough as marshmallows.”

“Then why do you keep refusing something stronger for the pain?” the physician asked pointedly.  “Your mother has said you’ve been having trouble sleeping and that you can’t seem to rest.  If you need morphine . . .”

“No!” Gary snapped, his eyes widening in an expression of near panic.  “No morphine, no Demerol, no narcotics of any kind.  Don’t . . .”  He paused a moment to get his voice, and his emotions, under better control.   “Please don’t ever tell my parents any of this, but the hospital overdid the morphine when I had an accident a couple of years ago.  A-at least they did in my opinion.  I know they just didn’t want me to be in any pain, but they had me so doped up I couldn’t think!  S-so, as soon as I could string two thoughts together, I told them not to give me anymore.  By that time, I was already pretty dependent on the stuff and, well, it wasn’t easy, but I got through it.  A few months later, I was sh-shot for the first time and suffered some m-major trauma to my left wrist.  Again with the morphine.  Kicking it wasn’t any easier the second time around, believe me.  I know that your only concern right now is whether or not I’m suffering.  I’m not gonna lie, it hurts like hell most of the time.  But not as bad as going through withdrawal.  So, please, don’t bring it up again.  I’d almost rather lose the arm than go through that a third time.”

Dr. Michaels looked at the lines of pain around his patient’s eyes, the determined set of his jaw, and knew he meant what he’d said.  His own eyes softened in understanding as he considered the pain this man had put himself through in order to lead something close to a normal life.

“Very well,” the doctor nodded as he returned to his examination.  “We’ll stick to the Toradol for a while, and I’ll see what else we can give you to help you sleep.  Something mild.  Now, let me look at that hard head of yours.  Um-hmm.  That’s healing nicely.  We should be able to remove those stitches by some time tomorrow.  You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Hobson.  Less than an inch separated you from an early grave.”

“Not the first time that’s happened,” Gary sighed.  He turned his head to show them a hairline scar behind that same ear, just above the base of his skull.  “You know, I really don’t like guns.”

**************

FRIDAY MARCH 01, THE WHITE HOUSE - 0230 HRS

The White House never really seemed to sleep, in Gary’s opinion.  Even as isolated as he was in the central part of the Residence, he could sense the ceaseless activity in the West Wing of the White House.  Sam had confided that, on many occasions, the President’s staff would go for weeks with just an hour or two of sleep a night.  That was one of the things that made it so hard for him to sleep.  Back home, even though the streets were never truly empty, there was usually quiet within his own space.  Here . . . there was always a sense of . . . others.

‘Mr. Hobson.’

Not all of those . . . others . . . were among the living.

‘Mr. Hobson.’

Gary tried to find a comfortable position which, considering the nature and variety of his injuries, wasn’t easy.  Lying flat on his back was fine, as soon as the pain subsided.  Any movement, though, aggravated the burns and made the rows of stitches itch like crazy.  Rolling onto his right side brought similar discomfort, and the left was out of the question.  

‘Mr. Hobson.  Gary.’

Then there were his nightly visitors.  They had started showing up that first night after he had awakened in the ornate bedroom.  At first, he had thought it was a dream.  When he’d realized what was actually going on, he was too weak and tired to be frightened.  He found that he was really more annoyed than anything.  Why couldn’t they just let him sleep?  Two of them he could actually see, after a fashion.  Shimmering specters, more light than substance.  So long as they manifested themselves outside of his skull, Gary found that he could handle their august presences.  It was the others, the ones he could feel, but not see, that bothered him.  The ones whose presences were always just on the edge of his awareness.  It was like having a cocktail party constantly going on inside his head.  It was something he had been afraid to discuss with anyone else, for fear that they would think he had been ‘unhinged’ by his recent experiences.

‘Please, Gary.  We must speak.’

He was beginning to think they might be right.  Oh, God!  How he wished Peter were there to counsel him.  He wondered how much experience the Shaolin had had with the residents of the hereafter.

‘Gary.’

“Go away,” Gary groaned.  “I’m trying to sleep!”

‘It’s important, Gary,’  the deep, hollow voice intoned.  The voice had a deep timber with what sounded like a mid-western accent.  ‘Please, believe me.  I would not disturb your rest if what I had to say was not of grave consequence.’

With a sigh of frustration, Gary struggled to sit up.  Each movement cost him in renewed pain.  ‘If this keeps up,’ he thought to himself, ‘I may have to re-evaluate my stand on drugs.’  

“Okay,” Gary sighed, as he propped his back up against the headboard.  “I’m awake.  What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

‘Please,’ the hollow voice chuckled.  ‘Call me Abe.  Or Mr. Lincoln, if you must be so formal.’

“Mr. Lincoln, then,” Gary acceded.  “Now, what’s so important that you had to . . . well, y-you know.”

‘This is awkward for you, I know,’ the former President conceded.  ‘But, of all the visitors who have seen me, you have been the only one who could also hear me so clearly.  You must return home soon.  The Paper cannot protect you here.  Marley has confederates everywhere.  Even within this august edifice.  Do not let the Secret Service relax their guard upon you.  Use my name, if you think you will be believed, but get them to post a guard within your room.’

“No offense, sir,” Gary sighed, “but I don’t think that telling the President of the United States that a former President, who has since passed away, is worried about my health comes under the heading of ‘Good Ideas.’  I’m really not ready for the ‘rubber room.’  Not yet, anyway.”

‘We are talking about more than just your health, Gary,’ President Lincoln gently chided him.  ‘There are forces after your very soul, not to mention, your life.  Precautions must be taken to protect both.’

Gary wiped his good hand over his face in a weary gesture, sighing as he wondered if there were not some ‘precautions’ he could take to protect his sanity.

“I-I’ll . . . I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” he promised.  “Do you have any, well, personal messages you’d like passed on?”

‘Yes,’ said another voice in a distinctly New England accent.  ‘Tell him that Jack Kennedy is proud that another hard-headed New Englander is at the helm.  And tell Josh Lymon that he’s blind if he doesn’t realize that his assistant, Donna, is in love with him.’

“Whoa!”  Gary protested, sitting straight up with a pained hiss.  “You can’t expect me to say something like that!  Th-they’ll know I’m crazy!”

‘Then tell Sam Seaborn how pleased I am that he forgave his father,’ the specter of John Kennedy amended.  ‘He’s not the first man to find fulfillment outside of his marriage vows.  If anyone should know that, I would.’    

“Oh, this just keeps getting better,” Gary moaned, ignoring the pain as he slid under the covers.  “Never mind Marley.  Josh and Sam are gonna kill me.”

***********

Lois Hobson eased into her son’s room to find him stirring fitfully in his sleep.  Quietly, she stepped up to the side of his bed and peered down at his pale features with open concern.  Dark smudges under his eyes told of another restless night.  With the covers pulled up to his chin, he looked so young and vulnerable.  The only visible sign of injury was the strip of gauze encircling his head, contrasting sharply with his thick, dark hair.

Wordlessly, she lowered herself to a seat on the edge of the four-poster bed.  The movement brought a murmur of protest from Gary, but failed to awaken him.  When Lois brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, however, his eyes flickered open for a moment.

“Hi, sweetie,” she crooned.  “How’re you feeling this morning?”

“Tired,” he admitted, his voice hardly louder then a whisper.  “Couldn’t sleep last night.”

“Do you need something stronger for the pain?” she asked in concern.  “Is that why you can’t sleep?”

“Partly,” was Gary’s raspy reply.  “Too many ghosts here.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lois asked, not sure she had heard him right.  “Did you say ‘ghosts?’  As in ‘things that go bump in the night?’  That kind of ghosts?”

Gary nodded sleepily, his eyes drifting shut.  “Um-hmm,” he murmured.  “This place is full of ‘em.  They talk all night long.”

Openly worried, now, Lois put a hand to Gary’s forehead.  He didn’t look feverish, but she thought he felt a little too warm.  Could he have picked up an infection, she wondered?

“I’m not sick, Mom,” Gary sighed, not bothering to open his eyes.  It was just too much effort.  He haltingly explained about the nightly visitations from the two illustrious specters.  “They’re worried ‘bout me,” he added drowsily.  “Some o’ the others are, too.  Can’t see ‘em, though.  Lord, if they’d just let me sleep!”

Lois tenderly caressed her son’s cheek as she considered what might be happening.  Either Gary was hallucinating, or he was indeed able to see and hear the ghosts that were reported to be roaming the historic Residence.  Just two years ago, she would have been sure of the former.  Recently, however, Gary had been inundated by forces beyond his control.  Sometimes those forces had names.  Like poor Tony Greco, or the tragic spirits of their own ancestors, Gary and Amanda Chandler.  All had used, or maneuvered Gary to their own ends.  True, their intentions had been good, even honorable.  But Gary had suffered horribly, nonetheless.

“Are any of them here, now?” she asked, unable to keep the worry from her voice.  “Can you see, o-or hear them?”

“Unh-uh,” Gary replied sleepily.  “Only come out . . . after midnight.  They le’ me ‘lone ‘n daytime.”  He stirred fitfully, nuzzling his face against the warmth of her palm.  “Nice,” he murmured.  “Soft.  Love you, Mom.”  He was asleep once more.

Lois decided not to try and awaken him again.  At that moment, she figured he needed rest a lot more than he needed food.  She would just tell everyone that he’d had a restless night, which was true, and shouldn’t be disturbed until lunchtime.

She sat there a moment longer, watching him sleep.  What he had said worried her.  If he was once more being used by . . . ‘others’ was the best term she could come up with, then he could be in for even more pain and suffering.  Apparently, Gary had again come to the attention of forces none of them understood, but that he could sense in some way.  It seemed unfair of them to seize upon him at a time when he was too weak to resist.  But that seemed to be when he was the most accessible.  

Rising slowly, so as not to disturb him, Lois stood to go.  As she crossed the spacious room she made up her mind to call Peter Cain.  She had a feeling that something like this was more up his alley than Gary’s.

As her hand reached for the door, Lois paused, looking around uncertainly.  For just a second she had felt a chill, prickly sensation on the back of her neck.  It left her feeling frightened and . . . unclean.  With a shiver, she snatched open the door and practically fled the room.  Yes, she was definitely going to call Peter!

The door clicked shut behind her.  On the king-sized bed, Gary squirmed uncomfortably, moaning in his sleep.  He mumbled incoherent words of protest as the dreams returned.  Nightmares of an event that had taken place almost six years before mingled in with the torments of the past week.  He struggled to wake up, but exhaustion kept him chained in a Morphean Hell.

Two voices, one male, one definitely female, filled the otherwise empty room with the sounds of cruel, humorless laughter.

***********

Gary finally dragged himself up from swirling shadows of Stygian darkness and barely glimpsed horrors when a firm hand gently shook his uninjured shoulder.  His eyes fluttered open to see a blurred face hovering over him.  Startled, he flinched back, squeezing his eyes shut as the motion sent an electric shock of pain throughout his body.  He bit back a soft moan as he once more opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to bring things into sharper focus.

“Hi, Doc,” he finally murmured.  Now that he was, for the most part, awake, Gary could see that the doctor was not alone.  Next to him, trying not to look as anxious as they felt, were the President, his parents, and a man that he had yet to meet, but who looked strangely familiar.  Gary’s brow knit into a puzzled frown as he tried to place this new face.  

“You look terrible,” the doctor commented without preamble.  “Aren’t you getting any rest at all?”

“Some,” Gary admitted.  “Not much.  Can’t seem to sleep at night.”

“And not very well during the day, either, it appears,” Dr. Michaels observed.  “I think we need to change your medication.  You’ve already been on the Toradol longer than recommended.  Any longer and we take a serious risk of ulcers.  I know your objections to morphine . . .”

“I won’t take anything that might be addictive,” Gary was quick to say.  “Or that interferes with my ability to function.”

“And how well are you functioning, now?” the irritated physician snapped.  “There’s a time-released morphine that you take every twelve hours in a pill form.  It’s slow to take effect, but it should afford you the rest you need.  I’m only going to prescribe one per day, in your case.  You’ll get your first dose right after supper.  It should take effect by bedtime.  We can try a moderate dose of about 60mg to start with.  If you do well on that, we’ll maintain that for a couple of days, then start to reduce it gradually.  Which is what your doctors should have done on those previous occasions.  There will be no withdrawal symptoms, this time, if we do this right.”

Stung, Gary shot his parents a startled glance.  To his bewilderment, they showed no surprise at the doctor’s bald statement.

“Did you think we hadn’t noticed, kiddo?” Bernie shrugged, his eyes full of sympathy.  “You were like a different person, a stranger, for almost two weeks.  If you’d been able to get out of bed, you’d ‘ve been climbin’ the walls.”

“And that was only after being on it a little over a week,” Lois added, fighting back tears.  “Let us help you this time, sweetie.  We’re not going to let you go through this alone.”

“That shoulder is going to give you a lot of pain over the next few weeks,” Dr. Michaels reminded him.  “You’re going to need some kind of relief in order for it to heal.  Being stubborn is only going to extend the recovery period.”

“Let the man help you,” President Bartlett urged.  He flashed Gary a sudden smile.  “We might need the bed for a visiting dignitary.”

Feeling trapped, Gary turned a pleading look on the scowling physician.  “Isn’t there anything else you can give me?”

“There’re a lot of things I could give you,” Dr. Michaels replied, his stern expression softening a little as he sensed victory.  “Each of them just as addictive as the straight morphine.  Or with even greater risk of side-effects.  I’m not going to let you leave here a drug addict, Mr. Hobson.  I can promise you that.  My biggest fear right now is that, if you don’t get some rest, you could be setting yourself up for some serious complications.  Stress weakens the body’s defenses.  You could end up with a respiratory infection, staph, or any of a hundred minor ailments that could turn critical in your condition.”

“You guys aren’t playin’ fair,” Gary murmured dismally, “ganging up on me like this.  L-like an ‘intervention’ in reverse.  Y-you wanna make me take drugs, instead of . . . of giving them up.”  He turned his head away, trying unsuccessfully to hide the bitterness at what he saw as a betrayal.  “Alright.  I’ll take the damned drugs.  Happy?”

“Gary . . .” Lois murmured.

“I said I’ll take the drugs,” Gary repeated angrily, not looking at them.  “Just don’t expect me to be happy about it.  The f-first dose is for after supper, right?”

“Yes,” Dr. Michaels replied, suddenly uncertain of just how much of a victory he had won.  “It needs to be taken in time for it to take effect by bedtime.”

“Mind if I have a little time alone ‘til then?” Gary asked.  ‘I’d like a little time to say good-bye to my mind,’ he thought, but he wasn’t bitter enough to say it out loud.

“O-of course, sweetie,” Lois stammered, unable to conceal the pain his words, and his tone, had caused her.  “We’ll be back to have lunch w . . .”

“I’m not hungry,” he quickly replied, cutting her off.  Finally turning back to face them, he let his expression soften, not wanting to cause her any more pain, but unsure how to take back his harsh words.  “P-please?  I-I’m really not hungry.  I just . . . just need to get my head straight, that’s all.”  ‘While I still can,’ he added to himself.

“Harumph!”  Everyone turned to face the President, who had been looking for a graceful exit from this painful scene.  “Perhaps we should grant his request.  Besides, you were going to show me a copy of that picture your son found.”  He stepped between Lois and Bernie, putting an arm around each of their shoulders as he guided them from the room.  “You, too, Leo.  Doctor.  From what they describe, it’s a marvelous picture, taken on the day President Lincoln was shot.”

“I’ll just be a minute, Mr. President,” the one he had called Leo replied, as the others trouped out.  The President turned his head to give Leo a questioning glance.  “Just a couple of things need clearing up.”

As soon as the door closed, Leo McGarry turned to face the man on the bed.  Gary looked back at him with open curiosity, but no hostility at the intrusion.  He simply looked defeated.  Leo was genuinely sorry for what he was about to do, but he could not stand back and let this man be ruined by his own self-doubts.

“Quite a performance,” Leo remarked as he lowered himself to a seat on the edge of the bed.  “Are you always that rude or is this a special occasion?”

“I’m sorry about that,” Gary murmured dismally.  “I guess I was just feeling . . . L-look, you . . . Who the hell are you, anyway?  Where do I know you from?”

“Sorry,” Leo chuckled, holding out his hand.  “Leo McGarry, White House Chief of Staff.  I forgot that you were a little out of it when they brought you in.”

“McGarry,” Gary mused.  “You had that press conference a coupla years ago.  S-something about . . . time in rehab.”

“Yes, I’m an alcoholic,” Leo nodded.  “So I know something of what you went through.  And I know what you’re afraid of.  You’re thinking, ‘If I let them give me morphine, am I going to become an addict?’  I got news for you, kid.  You’re already an addict.  The first couple of times, you licked it on your own.  You’re afraid you won’t be strong enough the next time.  Or the next.  You’re afraid . . . “

“Period,” Gary told him.  “Which is nothing new,” he continued acidly.  “Over the last coupla years I’ve opened whole new chapters on fear I’ve never even considered before.  I’m afraid for myself, my family, my country . . . hell, I’m almost afraid to open my front door some mornings!  I’m afraid for the guy down the street that might get hit by a bus before I can pull him out of the way.  Or the woman jogging in the park who doesn’t know about the rapist hiding in the bushes.  O-or the homeless guy . . . sleeping in a tool shed on . . . the roof of a building where I can’t stop a damned fire!  I’m scared to death of wanting to lose control!”  Gary let his head fall back with a grimace as he realized that he was close to shouting.  Tears rolled from the corners of his eyes as he fought back a pain that had nothing to do with his injuries.  “Is that what you wanted to hear?” he asked in a strained voice.  “Wh-why you needed to talk to me?”

“Partly,” Leo admitted.  “I also wanted you to know you aren’t alone in this.  That other people know, and can relate, to what you’re going through.  Talk to people, Gary.  You have a therapist back home?  Good,” he continued after Gary’s reluctant nod.  “Let him know you need an appointment.  What about a support group?  No?  Then I suggest you find one.  Or start one.  You should have meetings on a scheduled basis.”

“I wish it were that easy,” Gary murmured hoarsely.  “There is so much . . . insanity . . . going on in my life.  I can’t even plan a dinner date.  You have no idea how tempting it is t-to just . . . just wash my hands of everything and slink off with my tail between my legs.  Blame it on booze, or drugs, or stress and just say ‘I quit!  Find yourself another patsy!’  But I can’t.  Every time I’d hear a siren, or about someone getting hurt in an incident that I could’ve prevented . . . or that some kid disappeared, or was killed, or . . . I-I just can’t walk away from that,” he sniffed, the tears flowing freely, now.  “I can’t.  I’ve tried and I can’t.”

It was now Leo’s turn to be speechless.  He had no idea what kind of forces ruled this young man’s life, and he suddenly realized he didn’t want to.  So he did the only thing he could do.  Leo gently lifted the injured man upright, injured in spirit as much as body, and let Gary Hobson lay his head on his shoulder.  Hesitantly, Gary put his good arm around the other man, clinging to him for much needed support.  In more ways than one.

For the next few minutes, they wept together.

“You tell anyone we did this,” Leo quipped a moment later, “and I’ll deny everything.”

“Don’t worry,” Gary replied with a chuckling snort.  “I still have my own ‘macho image’ to protect.”

“Feel better?” Leo asked when he felt enough time had passed.  Gary just nodded, too choked up to speak.  Leo helped him lie back, careful of his various injuries.  “Have you tried talking to your parents about any of this?  Or just your dad?  Sometimes, it helps to get it all out with another guy.”

“I-I don’t know,” Gary murmured hesitantly.  “Dad’s a great guy.  Th-the best dad you could ask for.  B-but I don’t know how much of this he’d understand.  H-he thinks it’s great that his son is considered, by some, to be a hero.  He’s never heard th-the ’flip side.’  The cries of ‘crackpot,’ ‘delusional,’ and ‘psychopath.’  N-not until recently, anyway,” he amended.  “As for Mom . . . Lord, no!” he winced, his face reddening in embarrassment.  “I can talk to her a-about a lot of things, but not this!  I’ve scared the hell outta both of them so many times over the last coupla years . . . And Dad still looks at it as a-an adventure, sometimes.  Almost a game.  I try not to keep secrets from them, but . . . sometimes things happen that even I can’t believe!  How can I expect anyone else to?  Even them.”

“All the same,” Leo advised him, “I think I’d give it a try, if I were you.  Sometimes, the best support you can find is within your own family.  Think about it,” he added as he stood to go.  “And get some rest.  You look terrible.”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” Gary nodded.  His eyes already felt as heavy as lead.  Then it hit him.  “Now I remember.  There was a reporter on the Sun-Times a few years ago.  Howard Banner.  He retired about four or five years ago.  You two could be twins.”

“We’re not,” Leo assured him with a dry chuckle.  “But our mothers were.  He’s my cousin.  That explains why your name seemed so familiar.  He said some busybody named Gary Hobson kept him from ruining his life, and helped him make some very hard decisions.  He retired with his reputation, and his honor intact, thanks to you.  He’s now lounging on the beach in Waikiki, writing a book.”

“That’s good,” Gary murmured.  He felt like he could rest, now.  Maybe regain a little of the strength he always seemed to lose whenever he was ‘visited.’  “He’s a good man.  Tell my folks that I’m sorry I was such a jerk, and I may be feeling better by lunchtime.  I-if they still wanna join me, that is.”

“I have a feeling they might,” Leo replied with a knowing smile.  “Sleep well, Mr. Hobson.”

*********

“Are you sure you can’t come down, Peter?” Lois said into the phone.  “Gary could really use a friend, right now.  A friend wh-who can help him with . . . things.”

“Let me guess,” Peter sighed.  “Would it be anything like what happened in Texas a few months ago?”

“Pretty close, I think,” Lois admitted.  “I’m sure you know the, um, the reputation of the place where we’re staying now.”

“Oh, yeah,” the young Shaolin replied.  “The other residents.  Lois, you’ve gotta get him outta there.  For a normal person, that may be the ultimate ‘safe house.’  Not for Gary.  Each and every one of those . . . They’re draining the life right out of him, Lois.  Look, I can’t come down for obvious reasons.  Someone has to stay here and take care of business.  What if I send a couple of pinch-hitters?  I’m sure Jake would be willing to come, and I’m surprised we haven’t heard anything from Polly.  She usually keeps pretty close tabs on Gary.”

“Check the hospital,” Lois sighed.  “Don’t ask how I know, but I’m willing to bet that she had some kind of seizure or something last Saturday.  She’s probably out of her mind with worry, right now.”

There was a moment of silence in which Lois could almost see Peter recalling the empathic link the stocky, middle-aged imaging technologist shared with Gary.

“Christ!” he murmured.  “I forgot all about that.  It may take me a few hours to spring her, but she’ll be there by tomorrow morning, I promise.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Lois sighed gratefully.  “I’ll make sure they have no problems getting in to see Gary.  Oh!  I almost forgot!  There’s a therapist, or psychiatrist Gary goes to see once a month.  Dr. William Griner.  Could you drop by his office and see if he’s willing to come down here for a few days?”

“Sure thing,” Peter replied.  “Do you have his number?”  Lois quickly gave him the information from a card she found in Gary’s wallet.  “Good.  I’ll call him as soon as I hang up.  How’s Gary holding up?”

“Not good,” she informed him.  “He looks as if he hasn’t slept in a week.  And it almost destroyed him when we ganged up on him this morning.  But he has to take something for the pain, or he’ll never get any rest!”

“He’s probably scared of getting addicted again,” Peter mused.  “There’s also the possibility of the drugs weakening whatever defenses he has left against these . . . others.”

 “Oh, dear,” Lois murmured distractedly.  “I hadn’t thought of that.   I’ll talk to Mr. McGarry about possibly moving him right away.”

“Do it soon, Lois,” Peter urged.  “Make it someplace relatively new, with no history of violence.”

“Peter, this is Washington, D.C.!” Lois reminded him.  “Where am I going to find a place like that?”

**********

“I really think you should talk to him alone,” Lois murmured as they approached the door to the bedroom where Gary was, hopefully, resting.  “Share a little ‘guy talk,’ if you know what I mean.  He might say some things to you that he’s too embarrassed to say in front of me.”

“Lois,” Bernie sighed, “he’s always embarrassed!  He gets nervous every time we walk in the room.  If he’s conscious, that is.”

“Um.  That’s true,” Lois mused.  She paused at the door, one finger thoughtfully tapping her lower lip.  “Look, why don’t you go ahead and check on Gary, while I go talk to Mr. McGarry.  Peter’s afraid that these . . . these ghosts may be draining him, making him even weaker.  I don’t even pretend to know what he’s talking about, but I do know that Gary’s not getting any rest here.  And . . . well . . .”

“You’re feeling guilty about gangin’ up on him,” Bernie nodded.  “He might feel a little less intimidated with only one of us.  Okay, I’ll see if I can’t get him to open up a little.  Poor kid.  He’s been raked over the coals so many times, he’s starting to look a little singed around the edges.”

As Lois set out to find the White House Chief of Staff, Bernie gently rapped on the bedroom door.  Receiving no answer, he eased the door open and peeked in.  

Gary was stirring fitfully, his handsome features twisted in a grimace of pain.  His lips moved soundlessly, as if he were talking in his sleep.  Bernie slid quietly into the chair closest to the bed, listening intently to try to catch what his son was saying.  The best he could catch was a name.  Marley.  A chill went down Bernie’s spine as he pictured what must be going through Gary’s mind.  He was reliving the cruel treatment he had received at the hands of the villainous assassin.

“Hey, Gar,” Bernie whispered, trying not to startle his son.  “C’mon, kiddo.  It’s time to wake up.  They’ll be bringin’ your lunch soon.”

Gary’s head turned toward the sound of his father’s voice, and his eyes blinked open.  “Hi, Dad,” he murmured.  His voice was weak, barely audible.  “Sorry ‘bout gettin’ so mad b’fore.  Shouldn’t ‘ve done that.  Ya’ll were only tryin’ t’ help.”

“S’okay, kiddo,” Bernie smiled.  “We were pushin’ ya into a corner.  You were just tryin’ to defend yourself, like I taught ya when you were just a kid.  Remember?”

“Mm-hmm,” Gary nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  “ I ‘member.  Broke Mom’s lamp.”

It took Bernie a moment to catch on, until he, too, remembered that ill-advised boxing lesson he had given Gary when he was eight.  It had resulted in Bernie being knocked on his butt, and the lamp Lois had inherited from her paternal grandmother had ended up in about fifty pieces when his elbow hit the end-table it was standing on.

“Um, yeah,” he chuckled.  “We both caught hell for that.  So, are ya feelin’ any better, Gar?  You still look kinda . . . out of it.”

“I know,” Gary sighed.  “Don’ un’erstan’ it.  I sssleep, but can’t sseem to rest.  Ssso tired.”

Bernie noted, with growing alarm, that the dark smudges under Gary’s eyes seemed even more pronounced than they had just a few short hours ago.  He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.  He recalled how wasted Gary had been after that episode with the ill-fated Tony Greco.  Lois said he had gone through a similar trial with her and Gary’s ancestor, Gary Chandler.  The White House was rumored to have a number of ghostly residents!  Could they all tap into Gary’s life force?  Bernie was the first to admit that he was leery of all the talk of ‘doppelgangers’ and ‘restless spirits,’ but there was no denying that his son was getting weaker by the hour.  Even as he watched, helplessly, Gary was drifting off to sleep once more.  Desperately Bernie tried to keep him awake.

“C’mon, Gar,” Bernie urged in a near whisper.  “Try to stay with me, here!  You’ve gotta wake up and fight back!”

“F-fight who, Dad?” Gary murmured drowsily.  “With what?  ‘Ve only seen two.  Sso many I can’t sssee.  Ussually only feel li’l tired when . . . when they’re . . . they’re here.  Nnot here alla time.  Why’m I s’ tired, Dad?”

“I don’t know, son,” Bernie sighed, wishing that Lois were there.  She might know something, or someone who could help.  “Talk to me,” he urged.  “Tell me about earlier, when you were so torn up about the drugs.  You know we won’t let the doctor do anything that might hurt you.  And we are definitely not gonna let ‘em turn you into a junkie.  Don’t you trust us to look out for you?”

“Trus’ ya w’ muh life, Dad,” Gary replied.  “Y’ know that.”  Was his voice getting weaker?  Gary dug deep within himself, trying to find the strength just to stay awake, to think.  “N-need t’ get outta here.  T’day.”

Looking at his son’s pale, almost bloodless features and red-rimmed eyes, Bernie had to agree.  Gary desperately needed to be in a hospital.  If they didn’t get him out of there soon, he could end up needing a mortician!

************

“I don’t understand it,” Dr. Michaels grumbled as he listened to Gary’s heart through his stethoscope.  “He was doing so well yesterday, except for not being able to sleep.”  Gary moaned softly in protest as the physician gently peeled back one of his eyelids.  The exposed pupil reacted sluggishly on exposure to light.  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost swear he was drugged to the gills.  Other than yourselves and Mr. McGarry, has anyone been alone with him today?”

“Not a living soul,” Lois assured him.  “One of us, or the nurse, is in the next room at all times and except for the balcony, there’s no other way in.”  Unconsciously, she rubbed her sleeves, hugging herself as if she were cold.  Why did she always feel such a chill in this room, she wondered?

Bernie noticed her discomfort and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.  To him, the room seemed much too warm.  The heat had been turned up that morning when Gary, too, had complained of the cold.

“Well,” the doctor sighed, “we are most definitely going to have to move him back to the hospital.  His blood pressure is dangerously low, his respirations are slow and shallow and he’s become almost totally unresponsive.  He needs to be hooked back up to the IV, and we need to do some blood tests.  I’d also recommend a CT scan or an MRI of his brain.  There has to be a rational cause for this.”

‘Fine,’ Lois thought.  ‘You look for a ‘rational cause.’  Just so long as you take him somewhere else to look for it.’  Secretly, she believed that Gary was once more the victim of ‘other worldly’ tormentors.  Whether the spirits in question meant to harm her son, or not, wasn’t the point.  The damage they were doing to him was.  

‘It doesn’t matter where they take him,’ Kathleen chuckled evilly.  ‘We can follow.  By this time tomorrow, you’ll have your revenge.’

The dark angel stood unseen next to a grimly smiling specter.  He was lounging in the brocaded wing-backed chair that Abigail Bartlett had occupied on Gary’s awakening just a few days before.  His deceptively gentle pale blue eyes drank in the scene centered around his enemy with an open hunger.  Reaching a hand out toward the figure on the bed, his eyes closed as a look of ecstasy softened his lean features.

‘Wonderful,’ the shade of J. T. Marley sighed.  ‘I can almost taste victory.  When I first met him, I had no idea he had such . . . energy.  Once the last of it is mine, I’ll be able to leave this damned place and speak with my son, as you promised.  Then we can go looking for Crumb.’  He leaned back with a groan of pleasure.  On the bed, Gary tossed his head as he uttered a matching groan.  Of pain.  ‘Too bad he has to die so quickly.  It might’ve been fun to stretch it out.  Make him suffer before I steal the last of his essence.  You know, I’ve often said that I’ve borrowed souls when I needed one.  This is the first time I’ve ever consumed one.  Delicious.’  

‘It’ll be the last time, too, you vindictive, soul-suckin’ hellspawn.’

Kathleen spun around with a low, animal-like snarl as one corner of the room filled with a brilliant white radiance.  Marley sprang to his feet, angered at this interruption of his ‘feeding.’

‘We can’t permit this to happen,’ a soft voice spoke up in a lilting Irish brogue.  ‘You know the rules, Kathleen,’ Monica admonished.  ‘Unless the son is ‘gifted,’ he cannot possibly ‘receive’ communications from beyond the veil.’

‘Nor can Mr. Marley Sr. follow Gary from this place,’ the stout black woman spoke up in her strong southern accent.  ‘He’s permitted to appear in only one of two places.  No more.’

‘The place where he died,’ the third figure explained, ‘or here, where he was once respected and honored for his ‘devotion to duty.‘’  This last was said in a slightly mocking tone.

‘How dare you,’ Kathleen hissed at the three angels.  ‘You have no right to interfere in a matter of retribution!’

‘This ain’t retribution, honey child,’ Tess snorted.  ‘This is just plain ol’ cussedness.  Now, your side lost the wager fair and square.  Gary Hobson has proven the purity of his soul.’

‘He was willing to die so that others, complete strangers, so far as he knew, might live,’ Monica reminded them.  ‘He even ignored the implied peril to his own soul, trusting in God’s forgiveness, with no inkling as to whether or not you spoke the truth.’

‘Once he’s removed from this place,’ Andrew added, speaking directly to Marley, ‘you can’t touch him.  Nor will you be able to communicate with any living creature.  You’ve both far overstepped your bounds.’

‘You, um, you may influence mortals,’ the mousy looking fourth angel finally spoke up hesitantly, ‘but you can’t do anything to directly harm, or aid, them without direct permission from, um, Him.’  Wincing, she pointed towards the heavens.  ‘You have to go through channels, just like the rest of us.’

Fuming, Marley spun on his co-conspirator.

‘You assured me we couldn’t fail!’ he snapped.  ‘That no one could stop us!  That I could leave this . . . this torment behind me!  All the secrets I’ve learned, all the power I could give my son over these pathetic fools!  Now, they tell me I’m trapped here forever!’

‘Not forever,’ Monica told him with a stern frown.  ‘As we told you, there is another place you may go, but it will mean you can never return here.  The thirteenth floor of the Randolph Building.  In the office where you died.  Where you committed such heinous crimes.’

‘Even then,’ Andrew reminded him, ‘you can still redeem yourself.  Just ask God to forgive you.  It’s not that hard.’

‘I’d rather rot in Hell,’ Marley snapped.  

‘That can be arranged, too,’ was Tess’ ominous response.

‘Damn you all,’ Kathleen snapped, her dark eyes seething with hatred.  ‘I will yet prove that any soul can be corrupted!  Even his!’  She flung a hand out in an imperious gesture, her finger pointing directly at the feebly rousing figure on the bed, as she disappeared.

Marley was left alone with the four messengers of God.  Sputtering angrily, he asked what they had meant about a ‘wager.’

‘Millennia ago,’ Monica explained, ‘the Fallen One made the statement that no soul, no matter how pure, could resist corruption.  The Lord God made no reply, at first, feeling secure that he had created more than one perfect soul.  Finally, he realized that Lucifer was not one to take anything on faith.  So, a wager was struck.  A soul is chosen, each generation, to endure terrible hardships.  Job was one.  He almost failed.  The soul which now resides within Gary Hobson has been singled out repeatedly.  He has lost faith in himself many times, but never in God.’

‘Nor has any lapse of faith kept him long from his duties to his fellow man,’ Tess added.  ‘Simply put, he’s a good, caring man.  He’d even try to help you, if he could.’

This observation failed to make a favorable impression on the vengeful spirit.  Furious, he threw his arms wide and expelled all the life energy he had stolen from Gary in a prolonged burst of destruction.  Pictures toppled from the walls, eliciting a startled cry from Lois and the nurse.  Windows shattered.  Curtains were ripped from their rods and fluttered around the room.  A lamp sailed from the desk and smashed against the headboard, showering a groggily protesting Gary with bits of shattered glass and other debris.  The stethoscope yanked itself from the doctor’s neck and wrapped itself around Gary’s, sinking deep into his flesh!  Bernie leaned in and snatched the rubber tubing from around his son’s throat as Gary began to make choking sounds.  The fallen pictures flew up and, one at a time, propelled themselves toward their helpless target!

Bernie knocked the first couple of pictures away easily, deflecting them from Gary’s weakly struggling form.  A small bud vase got past his guard, though, striking his son’s wounded shoulder.  Gary cried out as the sudden increase in pain finally pierced the lethargic fog which had been creeping across his mind all day.  He groggily opened his eyes to find that his father was trying to shield him with his own body.

“D-Dad?” he murmured in bewilderment.  “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Just be still, son,” Bernie grunted softly, as something struck his back.  “You’re gonna be okay.  We’re getting you outta here as soon as the a-ambulance . . . Jesus!  Enough, already!  Don‘t these spooks ever give up?”

‘That’s enough!’ Tess snapped.  With a wave of her hand, the remaining projectiles fell harmlessly to the floor.  ‘You’re behaving like a spoiled child, Mr. Marley, Sr.  It’s time to take your punishment like a man.  Now, you were given the choice of either staying here, where you are reminded every day of what you once were, or going to the place where you died.  Where that man you are tryin’ to destroy tried to stop you before it was too late.  Which is it gonna be, you soul suckin’ vampire?’

‘Get me the hell out of here,’ Marley growled.

‘Done,’ Andrew said.  Marley vanished.  

The four angels all shifted their gaze over to where Bernie was cautiously raising his head and looking around, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was over.  Gary was blinking back tears of pain as he grasped his injured shoulder with his good hand.

‘Is he going to be okay?’ the mousy angel, Gloria, asked.

‘Eventually,’ Tess assured her.  ‘Gary’s a lot tougher than he thinks he is.  No matter what life throws at him, he always manages to hang in there.  Time for us to go, children.’

All four of them vanished.

“Someone wanna tell me wha’s goin’ on?” Gary asked through gritted teeth.  Something trickled down his face, startling him.  He brushed at his cheek, giving voice to a tiny hiss as something sliced his finger and his face at the same instant.  He looked at the blood oozing from his finger in amazement.

“Don’t move,” the doctor warned him.  “There’s broken glass everywhere.  Let us help you over to this chair, so we can get this mess cleaned up.  Easy,” he admonished as Bernie gingerly took his son by the hand.  “He’s covered in tiny slivers of the stuff.”  Dr. Michaels pulled the covers aside, trying to keep any more glass from falling back on Gary, then helped the injured man swing his legs over the side of the bed.  “Just sit there a moment until the dizziness passes.”

“I-I’m okay,” Gary murmured, still clearly puzzled by what had just happened.  Feeling more than a little dazed, he let his parents help him to the wing-backed chair, which the nurse had quickly thrown a sheet over, hoping to trap any fragments before they got into the fabric.  Once he was safely settled, Gary looked around at the evidence of willful destruction and winced.  The room looked like a tornado had ripped through it!  Stunned, he turned his puzzled gaze on his dad.  “Did I miss something?”

“Not much,” Bernie replied with a shrug.  “Just a little poltergeist activity.  You know, flying vases and lamps, things breaking.  That kinda stuff.”

Gary’s mind was still fuzzy on a lot of things, but he clearly remembered his father shielding him with his own body.  Gratitude and love shown from his eyes as he took his father’s hand and murmured, “Thanks, Dad.”

“Any time, son,” Bernie smiled, patting his son’s good shoulder carefully.  “Any time.”

************

It took the better part of an hour before they were sure Gary was clean of broken glass.  His mom pulled out one of her makeup brushes and gently removed tiny slivers from his face, being especially careful of his eyes.  At the same time, the nurse picked and combed fragments from his hair.  Gary endured all this attention stoically, still feeling somewhat detached.  Even with his parents supporting him on each side, it had been as much as he could do just to make it across the few feet separating the bed and the chair.  He roused enough to lodge a protest, however, when the two women started removing his pajamas.

“We have to make sure none of the glass fell into your clothing, hon,” Lois tried to reason with him.  “You don’t want to turn over and find we missed a piece.”

“Depends on how far down you want to look!” Gary told her, his face starting to redden.  

“Most of it was probably trapped by the gauze bandages,” the nurse chuckled.  “Your father and Dr. Michaels will take care of anything lower than that.”

“Oh,” Gary murmured, somewhat mollified by her statement.  “I-I guess that’s okay.”  He looked over to where the President and Leo were staring around in wide-eyed amazement at the destruction.  The housekeeping staff had been called and were in the process of stripping the bed, being extremely careful to avoid getting cut, themselves.  “Sorry ‘bout the mess.”

“That’s okay,” President Bartlett replied, waving a hand dismissively.  “I’ve always heard the tales of Lincoln’s ghost, but I never knew he had such a temper!”

“Wasn’t Mr. Lincoln,” Gary corrected him, glancing over at a figure only he could see standing by the window.  “H-he, they tried to warn me, but I never got the chance to act on it.  He, um, Mr. L-Lincoln, that is, says that it’s gone now.  That it should be okay f-for me to stay, if you, um, if you could post a guard inside the room,” he added, wincing.  He couldn’t believe he was relaying suggestions from a President who had died almost one hundred and forty years before.  How could he expect President Bartlett, or Leo, to believe it?  Gary squirmed uncomfortably as everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at him.  “He says that M-Marley h-has informers inside th-the White House, and that he might . . . might use one of them to get at me.”  He gave the President a wry smile that fell far short of his eyes.  “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

“Of course it does,” Josiah Bartlett snorted.  “But it makes sense.  Marley strikes me as being a little too aware of our activities.  The man either has an informant on our staff, or he’s clairvoyant.  Going by recent events,” he added, glancing around at the mess, “I’m reserving judgment.  A guard inside your door would definitely seem to be in order.  Leo, do you think we could arrange a little something?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” the Chief of Staff shrugged.  He, too, was impressed by the amount of debris.  “I’m afraid he’ll only be able to defend you against, um, more mundane assassins.”

“We have some friends coming that may be able to help with the other kind,” Lois assured them as she helped remove the gauze encircling Gary’s chest.  She ignored the sympathetic hiss one of the men gave vent to as they got their first look at the injuries her son had suffered.  They could only imagine the pain that he’d had to overcome in order to stop Marley’s heinous plot.

“Were you able to get a message to Peter?” Gary asked, wincing as a shard of glass nicked him.  Lois gently snagged it with a corner of the gauze before it could inflict more damage.  

“Yes, dear,” Lois replied.  “He can’t come, but he’s sending reinforcements.  Jake and Polly should be here in the morning.  Oh, and they’re going to see if Dr. Griner can come, too.  You missed an appointment for this week, anyway, so maybe they can talk him into it.”

“I dunno, Mom,” Gary murmured.  “That’s an awful long way for just an hour’s talk.”

“It’s therapy, sweetie,” Lois reminded him.  “With all the stress you’ve been under; lately, you can’t afford to let a session slide for long.  I’m sure he’d be honored to visit the White House.”

“I doubt that he’ll be as impressed with the building as he will be with the people,” Gary chuckled.  His parents had never met Dr. Griner and knew nothing of his special circumstances.  He briefly debated telling them, then decided to let them be surprised.

***********

Once everything was cleaned up and Gary was safely back in bed, the doctor examined him one more time and pronounced him fit to remain where he was.  For the time being.

“I’m not going to pretend to believe what just happened,” Dr. Michaels stated as he packed his instruments away, “but it’s hard to deny the evidence of your own eyes.  So long as you continue to regain strength, you should be all right.  If you should feel yourself start to backslide . . .”

“I promise to tell someone,” Gary assured him.  “I’m not all that anxious to die, Doc.  Trust me on that.”

Dr. Michaels gave him a steady look, then nodded his head as if he had decided to believe him.  He reached into his bag and withdrew a small pill bottle.  He twisted off the cap and shook out a single orange pill.

“MS Contin,” he explained, placing the pill in Gary’s hand.  “We’ll start with 60 mgs, a moderate dose.  It should kick in by the time you’re ready to go to sleep.  If this helps you, we’ll leave it at that for a couple of days.  By next Tuesday, we should be able to half that.  When you’re ready to go home, we should have you down to 15 mgs.  After that, you’ll be able to take care of the pain with over-the-counter remedies.”

“No, um,” Gary licked lips that had gone suddenly dry at the sight of the tiny pill.  “N-no withdrawal?”

“That usually only happens if you’ve been on it a prolonged period of time,” the physician assured him.  “Why you started having symptoms after only a few days of use, I can’t explain.  That’s why I’m not giving this to you twice a day, as recommended.  Your body already seems to have a . . . well, a susceptibility to certain drugs.  So your reticence earlier is not only understandable, now, it’s laudable.  You’re one of those people who must exercise iron-willed control over your body.  Addiction is a very real danger for you, Mr. Hobson.”

Gary studied the tiny pill, wishing that there was some other way for him to get relief from the throbbing pain in his shoulder.  Not to mention all the smaller agonies from the wounds left by Marley’s torture session.  

“Wh-what if I decide to, um, to tough it out?” he asked, unable to hide his nervousness.  “I mean, well, s-sometimes the pain isn’t so bad.”

“And how often is that?” Dr. Michaels asked in return.  His voice was gentle, now that he understood his patient’s objections a little better, but firm.  “When you first wake up?  Maybe two, three times a day when it’s a little less agonizing than it was an hour before?  I’ve warned you that stress can weaken you.  It can leave you wide open to any number of secondary infections.  Now, we can restart your IV, pump you full of antibiotics, but even high doses of those, over a prolonged period, carry a certain risk.  They can irritate the veins to the point of collapse, for one thing.  For another, you could develop a bacterial infection that is resistant to the medication.  Oral antibiotics can tear up the digestive tract.  I can guarantee that a bad case of diarrhea won’t give you any rest, but it might take your mind off of the pain.”

Gary flashed the doctor a sideways grin, letting him know that he got the joke.  He then heaved a sigh of defeat, quickly popping the orange tablet into his mouth and washing it down with a big gulp of water, before he could think of anymore objections.  When it was done, his mother set his supper tray in front of him.  Gary just looked at the globs of pureed foods and made a rueful face.

“I’m really not hungry,” he murmured.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” the doctor reminded him.  “The morphine hits a lot harder on an empty stomach.”

“Then get me a milkshake, or something,” Gary grumbled.  “Even broth and gelatin is better than this!”

“I knew you’d say that,” Bernie chuckled.  He stepped to the door and waved at someone.  A moment later, a paper bag was handed through.  Bernie murmured a thank you, then returned to the group around the bed.  “One of the security guys said there was this great deli downtown.  So I sent out for a few things.  Let’s see,” he mused, peering inside the bag.  “We got cream of broccoli soup and a pineapple shake.  Will that do?”

“Aww, bless you, Dad!” Gary sighed, eagerly accepting the container of soup.  He let his Mom remove the plastic lid, drinking the steaming soup straight from the cup.  “This is more like it!  I could care less about broccoli, but this is great.”  Setting the cup down, he took the spoon and fished out a chunk of the green vegetable, popping it into his mouth before anyone could object.  It was so tender, it fell apart in his mouth, but he didn’t care.  At least it was solid for a moment!  He closed his eyes in an expression of purest bliss, causing more than a few snorts and snickers, but Gary ignored them.  ‘Today, broccoli,’ he thought to himself.  ‘Tomorrow, French fries.  I hope.’  “Have I told you, lately, that you guys are the best mom and dad in the world?”

“Not in so many words,” Bernie chuckled.  “No, but we got the message.”

************

As soon as Gary’s attention was diverted by food that actually looked like what it was supposed to be, Dr. Michaels gently, but firmly, took Bernie by the arm and led him into the next room.  The elder Hobson started to protest, but kept his silence when the physician put a finger to his lips.  They both waited until the door had closed between them and the others before speaking.

“What’s wrong, Doc?” Bernie asked, casting a worried glance back toward the door.  “He’s gonna be okay, isn’t he?  He already looks stronger.  What . . .?”

“Gary’s fine,” Dr. Michaels hastened to assure him.  “Or at least showing a marked improvement.  You’re the one I’m worried about, right now.  Take off your shirt.”

Bernie tried to bluff his way out of it, giving the doctor a ‘startled’ look.  “Come again, Doc?” he chuckled, a hand unconsciously going to his shoulder.  “I’m fine.  Gary’s the one that’s hurt.”

“Gary’s not the one who got pelted by flying brick-a-brack,” the doctor remarked acidly.  “Please, let me see your back.”

Grumbling in defeat, Bernie grudgingly complied.  Dr. Michaels studied the assortment of bruises and abrasions with a clinical eye.  Probing gently, he found more than a few suspicious areas.

“Make up some story,” he told Bernie.  “Some excuse for you to disappear for a few hours.  We should get an x-ray of those ribs.  We’ll also get you something for pain.  Nothing as strong as Gary needs, but a mild narcotic to help you rest tonight.”

“Is all that necessary?” Bernie groused.  “It’s just a few bruises.  I’ve been hurt worse ‘curling.’”

“I can see where your son gets his stubborn streak,” Dr. Michaels sighed.  “Do you want me to have to explain to your widow the possible consequences of an undiagnosed rib fracture?  I didn’t think so.  Now, make your excuses so we can get this taken care of.  Immediately.”

With a martyred sigh, Bernie eased back into his shirt, not bothering to stifle a few grunts and groans now that the secret was out.  His biggest worry was what to tell Lois.  She had enough to worry about with Gary.

**************

As promised, the pain eased and Gary started feeling drowsy a few hours after supper.  The man assigned to guard him helped him to get settled into a comfortable position as he finally drifted off to sleep.  His dreams were happy ones, at first.  Disjointed scenes of home, his family and friends.  Of places he loved, things he enjoyed doing.  Of people he loved doing them with.  

The guard checked on him a couple of times before stretching out on a cot lying in front of the boarded up French doors.  Each time, he noted how relaxed and content the injured man looked.  As he sank onto his temporary bed, the guard heard the faint sound of footsteps as two sentries passed below the balcony.  No one could get into the White House without being seen, the only weak point being the shattered doors.  If anyone were to attack Hobson, it would have to be someone already on the inside.  Which was why two other agents were playing cards in the next room.  

Having drifted off into a light doze, himself, the guard was unaware at what point his charge began to moan softly in his sleep.  The first he knew of any trouble was when he was awakened by a choked cry of pain.  Instantly alert, the guard rolled out of bed and was at Gary’s side in less than a second.

Gary was tossing his head from side to side fitfully, squirming around as if he were unable to get comfortable.  His features were twisted in pain as he fought the demons within his own mind.

~~~~~~~~~~

Gary strained against the steel cuffs in a futile effort to win free, and stop Marley from carrying out his insidious plot!  He watched helplessly as the canny assassin loaded the rifle and lined up his sights on the doorway across the street.  Once again, he tried to argue the renegade into giving up his plan.  To no avail.  He shouted, screamed, cajoled, anything to distract Marley from his evil purpose!  He jerked his head around as Crumb and his detectives burst into the room . . .

And found himself chained to his wheelchair!  Savalas had one hand tangled in Gary’s hair, yanking his head back painfully.  The rogue cop laughed in his face, then slammed his head forward before straightening up to land a solid kick in his stomach and ribs!  Gary fought to subdue his rebellious stomach, only to lose that battle, too.  Cold steel bit deeply into his left wrist as . . .

He dangled from the stout crossbeam, both arms stretched painfully above his head as the metal cuffs bit deep into his wrists.  Behind him, he could hear the dry straw crunch with each step of Jaggs Neff’s angry pacing.  Heard the rattling clink of the chain as the escaped murderer ran it through his hands.  Gary tensed as he heard the swish of the chain swinging in to . . .

“Quiirr-rrr-owrr?”

What the . . .?  

“Quiirrr-rrr-owrr?”

Startled, Gary looked around to find that the nightmare scene had vanished.  He was back in his loft, in his own bed.  The cat was butting its orange-striped head against his chin and making purring noises.  Dazed, and a little confused, Gary reached down with his left hand to stroke the animal’s soft fur.

“Hey, fella,” he murmured.  “How’d we get here?”  Gary then noticed which hand he was using, and realized that he must still be dreaming.  “Oh.  Well, I like your dream a lot better than mine,” he told the cat, scratching him behind the ears.  “Ya mind if we hang out here for a little while, hmm?”

~~~~~~~~

Startled, the guard reared back a step as the orange-striped feline jumped up onto the bed.  How the hell did that get in here, he wondered?  He started to grab the cat away from his charge, only to draw his hand back when the tabby flattened its ears to its skull and growled deep in its chest.  The cat snuggled up close to Hobson’s injured side and glared at the guard, as if daring him to try anything.  Amazingly, as the cat settled in, Hobson seemed to settle down.  His face lost that pained, almost panicked look, and a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as if he had finally found a comfortable position.  

The guard decided that the cat presented no danger to Hobson.  In fact, it seemed that they, the cat and the guard, had a shared purpose.  Protecting Gary Hobson.  While the guard and his associates guarded his physical body, however, the cat was looking after the one thing that they couldn’t.

His peace of mind.

**********

SATURDAY MARCH 2, THE WHITE HOUSE - 0800 HRS

It was the banging that woke Gary up.  That and the sudden influx of bright sunlight pouring in where the workmen had just removed the damaged French doors.  Blinking reflexively, he shaded his eyes with his right hand as he looked toward the source of all the noise.  The men were fitting new doors in place of the ones damaged by the minor tempest that had hit his room the day before.

The door leading to the outer room swung open, admitting a waiter pushing a cart, followed by Gary’s parents.  Lois was holding the Paper, while Bernie carried the cat in both arms.  One hand was idly scratching the satisfied feline under the chin.  

“Oh, good,” Lois said, smiling as she spied her son.  “You’re awake.  How do you feel,  sweetie?”

“B-better,” Gary admitted hesitantly.  He cast a dubious eye at the tray on the cart.  “There better not be pureed bacon under that thing.”

“You’re in luck, Gar,” Bernie chuckled a he placed the cat on the bed.  He helped Gary to sit up and slide back until his spine was propped against the headboard.  When the waiter set the lap tray across the patient’s legs, Bernie whipped the cover off with a flourish.  “Scrambled eggs, toast, and hash browns.  With a side of gravy.”

“Are you kidding me?”  Gary stared at the steaming dishes, a big smile spreading across his pallid features.  “Aw, man!  Real food, at last!”  He eagerly snatched up a piece of buttered toast and bit into it.  His face took on an expression of purest bliss as he savored the texture of solid food.

“The doctor wrote the orders last night,” Lois told him.  She pulled a chair up by the bed and picked up his fork.  Gary knew he could feed himself, now, but he willingly submitted to her attention.  “He said you need to eat in order to tone down the narcotic effect of the morphine.  And to get your strength back.  Since you objected so strongly to the extra-soft foods, he upgraded you a notch.  If you do well with this, you could be off restrictions by Monday night.”

Gary was only half way listening to his mother’s words.  He was too busy enjoying the best meal he had eaten since . . . a week ago!  Gary was astonished to realize that it was just a few hours short of a week since the shooting.  If not for the attack in the hospital room, he would be resting at home by this time.  Thinking back to that day with a shudder, Gary recalled being too nervous to eat, that morning.  By the time he had landed in the D.C. area, his only nourishment had been two cups of coffee.  Speaking of which . . .

As if on cue, Bernie handed his son a steaming cup, doctored just the way he liked it.  

“Thanks, Dad.  Mom,” Gary murmured, taking a sip.  “This is perfect.  Not too fast, Mom.  Now that I’ve finally got real food, I don’t wanna lose it.”  He gratefully accepted the fork so that he could eat at his own pace.  “Thish is wonnerful,” he mumbled around a mouthful of eggs.  He paused to look up at his parents, swallowing before he tried to speak again.  “You aren’t eating?”

“We had breakfast with the President and his wife earlier,” Bernie grinned.  “Just wait ‘til the guys back home hear about that!  And we got pictures to prove it!”

“Oh, and Jake called a little while ago,” Lois spoke up.  “He and Ms. Gannon should be here in time for lunch.”

“Did they talk with Dr. Griner?” Gary asked between bites.  “Is he coming?”

“Yes,” his mom assured him.  “Jake said that they would pick him up before going to the airport.  He said that Dr. Griner was anxious to see you.  He, Dr. Griner that is, was worried when you missed your appointment.”  She gave Gary a steady look.  “Exactly how much have you told him?”

“Not about . . . that,” Gary replied, glancing briefly at the Paper in her lap.  It was all he could do not to snatch it up and scan the headlines.  He was sure that his mother had already faxed Peter all the important stuff, anyway.  “That’s, well, a little out of his field.”

“Gary,” Bernie chuckled, “that’s a little out of anyone’s field!”

***********

After breakfast, the nurse dropped by to change Gary’s dressings.  Lois had stayed to assist her, and Bernie found himself at loose ends.  Excusing himself, he decided to take Toby Zeigler up on his invitation to tour the West Wing with the laconic Communications Director.  He had said to meet him outside the Pressroom, where C. J. Cregg would soon be giving a special report on the situation in Afghanistan.

********

The tall, angular, redhead tapped her notes together with a brisk gesture.  Staring out at the thirty or so faces before her, C. J. Cregg wrapped up her release with the usual.  “Questions?”  She nodded at the reporter for the United Press.  

“Can you tell us anything about the near collision of the Vice President’s train?” the woman asked.  “Was it random cyber sabotage, or a deliberate attempt on a political figure?”

“We have no new information on that incident,” C. J. replied.  “Next?  Dave?” she asked of the man from the New York Times.

“Any word on the gentlemen who stopped the collision?” he asked.  

Frustrated, C. J. laid the stack of notes on the podium and gripped the edges with both hands.  “What has any of this to do with the Afghanistan situation?” she asked them.  

“You’re evading the question, C. J.” the man persisted.

“The train incident is still under investigation,” she sighed.  “Two of the men involved in stopping the wreck were National Security agents, the third was a private citizen who had been abducted from a small airfield a few miles from the station.  I stress the word ‘private.’  The gentleman does not want to see his name in print.  Gwen?”  She indicated a reporter from a prominent London periodical.

“Pardon me for continuing this subject,” she smiled, “but this is so much more interesting than that bin Laden fellow.  The gentleman who was shot.  What is his condition, and why was it necessary to sequester him in the Residence?”

“He was moved into the Residence under medical supervision after an attempt on his life,” the Press Secretary replied, giving it up as a lost cause.  “It was either that or a ‘safe house,’ where he actually would have been in almost as much risk as he was in the hospital.  It also allowed us to extend the same protection to members of his family who flew in to be with him.  After a brief setback, his condition is stable and improving.  And that is all I can say on the subject.  Walter?”

The correspondent from CNN lowered his hand.  “Is there nothing you can tell us about this man of mystery?” he asked, his mouth twisted in a wry grin.  “Where he’s from?  Anything?”

“I can tell you that he doesn’t see himself as a hero,” C. J. replied.  “He thinks that any one of us would’ve done the same thing, given the circumstances.  Personally, I’d like to think he’s right.  I don’t think very many of us would’ve had the courage, but it would be nice if we all had the desire.  Anything else other than the mystery man?  No?  That’s a wrap, then, people.  Have a nice weekend.”

**********

Bernie had taken his time strolling toward the Pressroom.  Occasionally, he was questioned by one of the security personnel, but was ignored for the most part.  Most of the hustle and bustle was around the offices of the White House staff, leaving the corridor leading to his destination almost empty.  He wandered past the closed doors, not wanting to be in the way when everyone came out.  

A red ball came bouncing around the corner of the T-junction a few feet ahead of him.  It rebounded off of a planter and rolled to a stop against Bernie’s foot.  He bent down to pick it up, sure that the owner would be along any second.  Rapid footsteps told him that his guess was on the money.  Looking up, he almost dropped the toy ball as he fell backwards, landing flat on his butt on the soft carpeting, his jaw dropping open in astonishment.

A dark haired little boy of about four or five years of age came running around the corner.  He saw the ball in Bernie’s hand and stopped in his tracks.  The child watched solemnly as the strange man got to his feet.  He met Bernie’s stunned gaze with open curiosity, and a measure of caution.

“Can I have my ball back, mister?” he asked.  “Please?”

“Huh?  Oh, sure.  Here ya go, kid.”  Bernie returned the toy with a gentle underhand toss, which the child easily caught.  “What’s your name, kiddo?”

The boy studied the question a moment before deciding to trust this stranger.  “Geran,” he said in his clear, childish voice.  “What’s yours?”  

“My friends call me Bernie.  Where’s your mom and dad?”  Bernie noticed that the little boy made no attempt to approach him.  Someone had taught him to be wary of strangers.  Even friendly ones.

“Daddy’s sleeping,” Geran replied.  “He had to work all night.  Mommy’s in there,” he added, pointing at the Pressroom door.  “She’s a ‘porter.  Do you work here, too?”

“Nah,” Bernie shrugged.  “I’m just visiting.  My son is a guest of the President.  Have you met the President, yet?”

“Uh-huh!” the boy nodded eagerly.  “He showed me Santa.  And I helped him find East eggs last year!  He said I could help him this year, too!  Is your son famous?  The Pres’dent knows lots of ‘leberties.  Do you know any ‘leberties, Bernie?”

“One or two,” Bernie shrugged.  He couldn’t get over how much this child reminded him of Gary at that age.  Geran even had the same color eyes, that almost translucent shade of mud-puddle green that only Gary and his cousins shared.  

At that moment, the Pressroom door opened and people started pouring out into the corridor.  Looking back, Bernie spotted a familiar face.  A pretty woman, with a thick mass of auburn hair, was speaking to a fellow reporter as the two of them stepped thru the door.  Startled, Bernie recognized her from a picture he had seen just the other day.  It was right next to her by-line in the Washington Post.  Meredith Carson.  The woman Gary had called an ’old girlfriend.’ She didn’t notice either him or the child until Geran called out to her.  

“Mommy!” the boy shouted gleefully, running past Bernie.  “Mommy, can we go see the animals, now?  You promised we could.  Please?”

“Sure, Gary,” the woman replied, a big smile lighting up her face as she scooped up her child.  “Right after Mommy files her story.  Who’s your friend?” she asked, giving Bernie a suspicious look, while keeping up the cheerful tone.

Bernie’s heart had dropped into his stomach when she called her son’s name, and his face showed a strange mix of emotions.  Hesitantly, he stepped up to the mother and her child.

“My name is Bernie Hobson,” he said, his eyes holding hers for a heartbeat before shifting his gaze to the boy in her arms.  “I believe you know my son.  Gary.”

If someone had sucker-punched the woman, she couldn’t have looked more stunned, frightened, even.  Breathless, her face losing most of its color, she staggered back a step.  She looked quickly around, seemingly relieved to find that they were alone in the corridor, the other reporters already well down the hall, eager to file their own columns.

“H-Hobson?” she whispered fearfully.  “Y-you’re Gary’s f-father?”  At Bernie’s silent nod, Meredith took a cautious step forward.  “How is he, really?  I heard there were . . . problems.”

“He’s fine,” Bernie assured her.  He was finding it hard to look away from the little boy.  Tentatively, he held his arms out.  “Do you think I could just . . . just this once?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

Meredith seemed to think it over, glancing at Geran, who nodded eagerly.  The child seemed to sense something special about this stranger.  “He won’t hurt me, Mommy,” he told her.  “I think he’s a nice man.”

“Alright,” she sighed, as Geran, with a squeal of delight, held his arms out to Bernie.  “I guess we should go somewhere and talk about this.  In private.”

Holding his grandson for the first, and possibly last time, Bernie could only nod.  He hugged the boy tightly, careful not to squeeze too much, as tears rolled down his weathered cheeks.  Finally, he was able to find his voice.

“I, um, I think we’d better,” he agreed with a shuddering sigh.  “We have a lot to talk about.”

***********

It wasn’t hard to find an empty office on a Saturday.  Meredith set Geran to watching TV in the outer office while she and Bernie retreated behind closed doors.  They pulled up a couple of office chairs and sat facing each other in such a way that they could keep an eye on the boy in the next room.

“He doesn’t know?” Bernie asked, nodding his head towards the boy in the next room.

“I married not long after Geran was born,” Meredith explained, shaking her head with a wistful smile.  “His name is Edward Chisum, and he’s a Treasury Agent.  Specifically, he’s with the Secret Service.  Edward is the only father Geran has ever known.”

“When did Gary find out?” the older Hobson murmured.  He waved at Geran through the glass partition, forcing a smile.  “Or does he know?”

“He knows,” she sighed.  “We were on the train.  The first I realized what had happened was when the train made an unscheduled stop.  A lot of us got out to see what was going on, and to stretch our legs after several hours cooped up on that train.  Then the shooting started, and we saw Gary fall.  I wasn’t close enough to recognize him, at first.”  Meredith pressed both hands to her mouth as she replayed the scene in her mind, fighting back tears.  “Wh-when I saw him . . . lying there so . . . so pale a-and so much blood . . .”

Bernie took her by the hands, pulling them down to rest on her knees.  They were ice cold.  He held them in his larger, weathered hands, massaging them a little to warm them up.

“I know,” he told her.  “His mother and I . . . we found him . . . God!  It’s been almost two years ago, now.  He’d fallen down the stairs to his loft.”

“Loft?” Meredith interrupted, confused.  “He doesn’t live at the Blackstone anymore?”

“No,” Bernie sighed.  “He owns a bar, now.  McGinty’s.  Gary’s room at the Blackstone was destroyed in a fire and, um, he was given the bar shortly after that.”

“Let me guess,” Meredith chuckled dryly.  “He saved someone’s life, didn’t he?”

“Um, yeah,” Bernie nodded.  “We can catch you up on the last five years, later.  You were telling me how Gary found out about his son.”

“Yes,” she murmured.  “I’d left Geran with one of the porters, thinking to beat the rush to find out what was going on.  The shooting had already stopped, and I thought it was safe enough, so long as Geran was out of danger.  I was so . . . stunned to see Gary . . . I forgot to ask questions, or even have pictures taken.  Thankfully, my photographer remembered and was too busy to hear me say his name.  Gary was just barely hanging on, poor baby.  I know he was already starting to pass out when Geran came running up, yelling for me.  Gary took one look at him, and just knew.  When I saw him later, at the hospital, we agreed not to say anything.  Partly out of consideration for Geran.  He’s too young to understand any of this, just yet.  Also, Gary was terrified that the men who shot him might use a child to . . . to force him into doing something that . . . D-do you know about . . . the, um, ‘special edition’ he gets every morning?”

“Yyeeah,” Bernie sighed.  “From what he’s said, these bozos would enjoy watching him squirm for a while, then kill both of them when it stopped being ‘fun.’  The bastards.”

“I think that’s putting it mildly,” Meredith agreed.  “Gary’s afraid, no, terrified of them.  He knows that he’s pretty much confined to the Chicago area, but his enemies aren’t.  They can strike at Gary through anyone they see as being close to him.  Th-that’s why I haven’t been to see him, and it’s why you can’t tell anyone about Geran.  Don’t even let Gary know that you know.  He’s worried enough as it is.”

“Don’t worry,” Bernie assured her.  “He won’t find out from me.  It’ll be odd keeping a secret from him, for a change, but we can handle . . . um, I better not tell Lois, either.  She’s great at keeping a secret, too, but we’re talking about her only grandchild.  It’ll kill her, not being able to see him.”

“That’s one of the reasons he didn’t want either of you to know,” Meredith nodded sadly.  “To spare your feelings.  So, tell me how Gary got the title to McGinty’s, and what was it you were saying about a fall?”

*************

Lois had finally gotten to wondering at Bernie’s prolonged absence.  She was secretly afraid he might’ve found some way to get himself a one-way trip to Leavenworth.  

A gentleman she met in a downstairs hallway remembered having seen him in the corridor leading to the Pressroom, so she headed down that way.  Eventually, she could hear the sound of a ball bouncing.  Curious, Lois turned down another hallway leading to a suite of offices that she was sure should have been empty at this time of day on a weekend.  The rhythmic sound lured her there, as surely as if she were a fish, sniffing at a baited hook.  She finally reached the source.  Lois looked in through the glass partition at a little, dark-haired boy, standing with his back to her.  He was bouncing a red ball against the edge of one of the desks, catching it on the rebound.  A TV off to one side showed cartoons that, evidently, held no interest for the child.  Looking a little past him, Lois finally spotted Bernie seated in one of the inner offices, talking earnestly with a pretty, auburn haired woman.  Possibly the boy’s mother.  Lois tried waving, but the two were so engrossed in their discussion, neither of them noticed.  She tapped on the window to get their attention, not really wanting to barge in.

The noise did get their attention, as well as startling the little boy.  He missed his catch, turning to see what had caused the break in his concentration.  Looking up, he met her startled gaze through the translucent barrier.

Stunned, Lois had one hand to her mouth, the other to her heart, as she stared, transfixed, into those crystal clear, mud puddle green eyes.  They were framed by a face that would live in her heart forever, as would each second of her son’s life.  This was Gary.  Not the Gary she knew, now.  This was her Gary as he had looked when he was not yet five years old!  She was so shocked by the resemblance to the child her son had once been, Lois failed to notice that the couple beyond him were staring at her in dismay.

*********

“How long have you known?” Lois asked Bernie, her tone bordering on an accusation.  She had been quickly hustled into the inner office, after being introduced to Geran.  Giving him a restrained, but tearfully warm, embrace, Lois had noticed the tiny birthmark just in front of his right ear, confirming her suspicions.  “Why did he tell you, and not me?”

“He didn’t, Lo,” Bernie sighed.  “I found out by accident less than an hour ago.  Gary didn’t want either of us to know, to protect us and the boy.  He’s scared, honey.  Scared to death that the . . . ‘people’ who kidnapped and tortured him, who tried to kill him in the hospital, might go after the kid.  Use him to get to Gary.  He didn’t want us to know, because he didn’t want us worrying about a grandchild we might never get to see.  And,” he admitted ruefully, “he’s probably afraid that one of us might spill the beans.  Let the cat out of the bag, so to speak.”

“Oh, yes,” Lois mused, slightly mollified.  “I can see his point.”  She chewed absently at her thumbnail as she considered all the scenarios that must have gone through Gary’s mind at the discovery.  Her face paled as a couple of the more gruesome ones presented themselves.  “He did the right thing.  And for the right reasons, for once.  Oh, Bernie!  What are we going to do?  We can’t tell Gary that we know!  It’ll distract him from, well . . .”  She shot Meredith a worried glance.

“I know about the Paper,” Meredith told them.  “I was . . . pretty close to Gary for a while.  It was something a little hard to conceal, under those circumstances.  That’s another reason I never told Gary about Geran.  He had enough to worry about.”  She looked down at her hands, biting her lip in indecision before confessing.  “That, and I was angry at him.  The Paper proved too much of a temptation, for me.  I tried to use it for my own ends and almost died because of my stupidity.  That was when I took the job at The Post.  I wanted Gary to come with me, to give up the Paper and find a life with me, on my terms.  But I knew what he’d say before I even asked.  So, I didn’t tell him I was already pregnant with his child.  That would’ve been too . . . convenient.  It also would’ve killed him.  Not right away, but by slow degrees.  I knew that, for the child’s sake, he’d do anything I asked, give up everything.  But, eventually, every time he heard a siren, or read about someone he could’ve saved, or some disaster he could’ve stopped, if he had only known . . . he would start dying inside, and whatever love we shared would die with him, until there was nothing left but an empty husk.  I just couldn’t do that to him.  So I left.  I met Edward a few months later, the night Geran was born.  He’d been wounded in a training accident.  I never learned the details.  Anyway, we dated for a few months, and he finally proposed.  He’s been a wonderful father to my son, and a very loving husband.  In fact,” she added with a tentative smile, one hand going to her abdomen, “we’re expecting another child in about six months.”

“That’s wonderful,” Lois replied with genuine warmth.  “I’d always wanted Gary to have a brother or sister, but we were never that lucky.  Well, I guess that explains some of his moodiness since we got here.  So, what happens now?”

“She wants to take the boy up to meet Gary,” Bernie replied numbly.  He wanted to say ‘our grandson’ so bad it hurt, but felt that he shouldn’t get into the habit.  He might let something slip at an inopportune moment if he relaxed his guard for even a second.  Gary was right, on that score.  Grandparents loved to brag about their grandchildren.

“Geran saw him at the station,” Meredith explained.  “H-he saw all the blood and, well, he’s his father’s son,” she added with a choked laugh.  “He wants to know that Gary’s alright.  It’s been bothering him since it happened and he’s been having nightmares.  Is there some way we can get in to see him without arousing suspicion?”

“I don’t know,” Bernie sighed.  “How many people know he saw Gary?”

“Everyone who was there,” the reporter sighed dismally.  “Including the Vice President and his family.  Geran was frantic.  The sight of all that blood shocked him, at first, then left him crying for hours.  They finally had to sedate him.”

“That sounds like Gary, all right,” Lois sighed.  “What if you just tell them the truth?” she mused.  “Not about Gary, but that Geran can’t sleep because he thinks something bad happened to the man he saw shot.  President Bartlett strikes me as being a very loving father, himself, and a man who cares deeply about the welfare of children.  Let us talk to him and see what we can do.”

“But we can’t let Gary know that we’re on to him,” Bernie warned them.  “We’ll have to come up with some excuse not to be there when you arrive.  Gar will see right through us.”

“Don’t worry,” Lois sighed.  “I’ll think of something.”

************

Continued in Installment 5

Email the author: Polgana54@cs.com
 

Back Home to McGinty's

Stories by Title

Stories by Author