Please Note:  Part 9 and the Epilogue are rated Purple Star due to high emotional content.  You might want to have a box of tissues handy.  Please PM or email me if you have any questions.

Part 9

May 17, 2000
9:41 p.m.

At first, the only sound she could hear was her own labored breathing, roaring in her ears like a Category 5 hurricane.

As she slowly inhaled and exhaled, gently willing her pulse to stop racing and the adrenaline to stop pumping through her body, she became aware of other noises.

The radio in her ear continued to crackle, though distance had reduced the chaotic scene behind them to static.  She could no longer hear screams or gunfire but the sirens remained as police cars escorted the two limousines through Washington back to the White House.

And doubled over beside her on the backseat of the car was Zoey Bartlet.  She wasn’t hurt but the shock of what had transpired back in Rosslyn had finally hit her and she was now throwing up on the floor of the car.  Occasionally a strangled sob of fear would interrupt her vomiting.

Trixie absently patted her on the back, trying to reassure her that everything was fine and that her father would be okay.  She felt like throwing up herself but managed to maintain her composure, focusing on trying to recall every detail she could so she would have something to report to the ID agent from the FBI.

The public generally wasn’t aware that although the Secret Service investigated potential threats, once an incident had occurred it was the FBI who was in charge of pursuing and apprehending would-be assassins.

The brash, foolhardy teenage detective in Trixie desperately wanted to be a part of that posse but she knew her job was to get Zoey to the safety of the White House.  The Secret Service wouldn’t be kept in the dark as far as any manhunt was concerned and her description of the young man who had given the signal to the shooters would be vital in their mission.

Her earpiece crackled.  “Agent Mangan?”

Trixie fumbled in her sleeve for her communicator, which had gotten twisted up during the shootout.  “Yes, sir,” she answered unfalteringly.

“You have Bookbag?” Agent Butterfield asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is she okay?”

“That’s affirmative, sir.”

“Can she talk?”

“No, sir.  She’s ... she’s vomiting right now.  But she’s not hurt, just scared.”

“Copy that.”  There was a pause before he added solemnly, “Agent Mangan, you did a good job back there.”

“Yes, sir,” Trixie answered without enthusiasm.  She couldn’t picture the man on the ground who had signaled to the gunmen and it was bothering her.  She felt queasy and shaky—like a green agent—and it didn’t help to remind herself that, essentially, she was a green agent.  She didn’t feel like she had done a good job.

“Agent Mangan,” repeated Butterfield adamantly.  It was important that his agents have confidence and he always wanted them to sincerely accept credit when credit was due.

“Yes, sir,” Trixie said with a bit more conviction.

“Back to base,” Butterfield reminded her unnecessarily as he signed off.  Protocol sent all Bartlet family members directly back to the White House in such situations.

“Is my dad okay?” Zoey said in a choked voice, her head still between her knees.

Trixie hesitated because she hadn’t ascertained that the President was, indeed, uninjured.  Zoey looked up sharply, a spark of fear in her eyes.

“Yes,” Trixie said.  She paused, thought it over and added with a reassuring smile, “He must be fine.  Butterfield wouldn’t have called me otherwise to check on you.  I’m sure he’s asking about you.”

Zoey nodded and sat back against the seat, unconsciously wiping her mouth on her nice suede jacket.

“Are you okay now?” Trixie asked.

She nodded again.  “Yeah, I think so.  Where’s Charlie?  Was he hurt?”

Trixie wasn’t going to assume again.  “I don’t know, Zoey, but I don’t think so.  He got down on the ground pretty fast.”

“Thanks to you,” Zoey said, her blue eyes bright with gratitude and admiration.

Unable to hold her gaze, Trixie turned to look out the front window.  “What the—?”

The limousine in front of them was whipping around as if on a sheet of ice.  It did a 180 and headed off full speed in the opposite direction.

“Hold on, folks,” said their driver.  Protocol directed that the cars remain together at all times.

Trixie braced her hand against the roof of the car as the driver executed the same maneuver, spinning the long limousine around in a sharp J-turn and accelerating to catch up with the other car.

“What’s going on?” Trixie barked.

“Butterfield called Code Blue.  We’re going to G.W.”

Trixie swallowed hard as Zoey cried out, “Code Blue!  What’s Code Blue?  Where are we going?  Trixie!”

G.W. was George Washington University Hospital.  Code Blue was a medical emergency.

 

9:53 p.m.

Their car pulled into the emergency room drive less than two minutes behind the President’s.  Zoey was out of the car practically before it stopped.  Trixie followed close on her heels.  Zoey wouldn’t get far without Trixie’s badge to clear her.  It didn’t matter that she was the President’s daughter.  Security procedures had to be followed in a situation this serious.

They made it quickly through the front doors and were directed to a trauma room.  Although President Bartlet could scarcely be seen with the multitude of doctors and nurses surrounding him, his voice could be heard clear and strong over the tumult.

“I swear to God if I don't speak to my daughter in the next five minutes, I'm gonna attack someone!”

Zoey’s face was starkly white.  Trixie stayed close by her side, afraid she might throw up again or pass out.

“Dad?”

Her voice was barely a squeak.  Trixie was thankful that whatever President Bartlet’s injuries seemed to be, the blood was minimal.  The doctors and nurses were working efficiently but without panic or severe urgency.

“I need to ask you some questions, sir,” a nurse asked patiently.  “Do you have any medical conditions?

“Well ... I've been shot.”

Trixie released her pent-up breath.  If he was joking, he must be okay.

Zoey let out a choked sob of laughter.  “Daddy?”

A space around the President cleared and he was able to see his daughter near the doorway. 

“I’m okay,” he said soothingly as Zoey hurried to his side and clutched his hand.  “They didn't hit anything.  They're just gonna look around and make sure.”

Trixie glanced at Agent Butterfield, still glued to the President’s side despite the blood that was quickly staining the makeshift bandage he held around his hand.  Butterfield nodded to let her know that the President’s life was not in grave danger.

"Are you … are you in a lot of pain?” Zoey asked her father—her daddy.  She was a little girl again and needed her father to be all right.

“No,” President Bartlet said, his voice losing some of its bluster now that his daughter was close by.  His face was pale and his eyes were half-shut.  Trixie noted that his hair was disheveled.  She had never seen it look less than perfect, carefully swept back and camera ready.

“Are you lying?”

“Yeah, 'cause I want these guys to tell reporters that I was brave and joking around.”

His eye found Trixie and she smiled, nodding reassuringly at him.  Zoey would be safe in her care, she promised silently.

“You are brave,” Zoey replied.  “You were so good tonight, Dad.”

“Honey, I'm fine.  I'm just so happy to see you.”

“Mom's on her way.”

“Mom's gonna be pretty pissed.”

Leo McGarry came rushing into the trauma room, his face etched with worry. 

“How you doing, kid?” he asked Zoey in a soft tone that contradicted the emotions written on his face.

“I'm fine.”

“She booted all over the back of her car,” President Bartlet murmured.  “You know they're gonna bill me for that.”

Trixie noted the silent exchange that passed between the President of the United States and his Chief of Staff.  President Bartlet had to set aside his "concerned father" hat now to take care of business. Trixie stepped in.

“Let’s wait outside, Zoey,” she said.  “Your mother will be here any minute.”

“Tell her not to frighten the doctors,” President Bartlet told his daughter.  “I'll see you in a couple hours.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, hon.”

Trixie gently but firmly took Zoey’s arm and led her out to the waiting room.

10:16 p.m.

Trixie leaned up against the wall.  She didn’t think her legs would hold her for much longer.  She lowered her chin to her chest, pinched her eyes closed and once again tried to picture the face she saw just before she turned and spotted the shooters.

Another agent had taken Zoey duty while Trixie talked to the ID agent from the FBI.  Charlie had been quickly escorted to the hospital and he and Zoey had shared a tearful reunion, thankful that the one they loved hadn’t been injured.

Someone walked up beside her and stopped.  She opened her eyes to see Leo McGarry next to her, his arm resting casually on the wall above her head, looking as if he simply wanted to have a friendly chat with a coworker over the water cooler.  His eyes told the truth, however.

“You all right?”

Her back hurt like hell.  Her legs felt like jelly.  Her stomach felt so hard and twisted she was sure she couldn’t bring any vomit up even though she felt incredibly nauseous.  She closed her eyes to try and stop the dizziness and nodded her lie to Leo.

“Was there someone on the ground?”

“There was a signal.  The ID agent was just here but I couldn’t give him a description.”

His face was right there.  Right in front of her.  Why couldn’t she see it?

“Did they close the airports?”

“And Union Station.” Her eyes flew open and her voice rose a little, angry and frustrated.  “We’ve got troopers on the bridges and 300 field agents working Rosslyn.  I can’t tell them what they’re looking for.”

Another siren was approaching and the sound sent needles up Trixie’s spine and into her already pounding head.

“You got the girl in the car, Beatrix.”

She went on as if she hadn’t heard, closing her eyes again and trying vainly to see the signaler.  “It’s right in front of my face.”

“Beatrix.” 

She forced herself to open her eyes and look at him.  Forced herself to keep looking, even though the room was spinning around them.

“You did your job.  Zoey’s safe.  You did your job.”

“How’s the President?”

“He’s going to be okay.  They’re doing a laparoscopy to check on things but there was an exit wound and minimal bleeding.  It doesn’t look like the bullet hit anything.”

“Butterfield got hit pretty bad, didn’t he?”

“In the hand.  He’s got some broken bones but he should be all right.”

She couldn’t hear him.  All she could hear was the siren and an infernal buzzing as if her head was filled with a whole hive of bees.

“How’s the President?” she asked.

Had she already asked that question?  Had Leo answered her?  She couldn’t remember.

The siren finally stopped but now the lights, the flashing red lights, flooded her eyes with danger and fear and blood.

“Beatrix?”

Behind them, the emergency room doors flew open and paramedics were wheeling in a gurney.  One of them shouted, “Gunshot wound!  No exit!”

The other began reeling off information to the first trauma surgeon that approached.  “He’s got decreased breath sounds in the left.  Pulse ox is 92 on 15 liters.”

They were words that meant little to Trixie yet made her heart start racing anew.  Leo left her side when he saw C.J. and Toby running alongside the gurney.  When C.J. caught sight of him she yelled, “It’s Josh!”

Josh Lyman.  Shot in the chest.  Josh.  Blood.

There was laughter in Trixie’s head.  Laughter.  Why?  Josh Lyman.  Josh Lyman sitting in a chair that wasn’t there.  Josh, one of the smartest people in the world, claimed Charlie, moments before the Deputy Chief of Staff got spanked by the chairless world of the West Wing.

Josh’s laughing blue eyes and impish smile.

Josh.

Blood.

Pain.

Trixie clutched her stomach and bent over double, gritting her teeth to keep from crying out.  Why couldn’t she see his face?  Josh’s chest was covered in blood.  Somebody needed to help him.  Everybody needed to help him.  Why couldn’t she see his face?

“Beatrix?  Trixie!”

She felt hands on her arms, hands trying to hold her up.  She tried to push them away.  They needed to help Josh and … who else?  The President.  Leo was going to tell her about President Bartlet.

As she collapsed in his arms, she croaked out, “How’s the President?”

And now Leo was calling for another gurney.  For another doctor.  Trixie’s feet left the ground and she was being placed on a gurney and wheeled after Josh.

“I can’t see his face.  I couldn’t give them a description.  I tried.  I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

 

May 18, 2000
1:50 a.m.

The explosion near the doorway to the ambulance bay sent nerves already raw tripping over the edge of the sanity they held so tentatively.  A tall man whose dark eyes were fraught with anxiety was struggling to free himself from the iron grip of two Secret Service agents.

“Let me go!  My wife is in there!”

“Sir!  Only authorized personnel are permitted.”

“Then authorize me, goddammit! It’s my wife!”

The charge nurse bustled over, her face stony with determination.  “Sir, if your wife has been in an accident, she was not routed to this hospital.  We’re closed to all incoming traumas.”

“She’s not an incoming trauma!  She’s here!  She’s an agent!”

The final word was the open sesame that had the agents instantly relaxing their hold.  Instead of breaking free, the distraught young man simply slumped his shoulders and the two agents reassumed their hold, this time in support.

“She’s an agent,” he mumbled.  “Beatrix Mangan.  Trixie.  She’s my wife.”

An older man with a worn face that bespoke years of brows furrowed in thought came forward.  “Are you Dan Mangan?”

“Yes.”

“Dan, I’m Leo McGarry, President Bartlet’s Chief of Staff.  Come with me and I’ll take you to your wife.”

“She’s okay?”

“Come with me.”

He nodded to the two agents and they cautiously released Dan.  He kept his footing, shaky though it was, and followed McGarry through the waiting room, which was filled with dark-suited men and women with grim faces.  Secret Service agents.  His wife was not among them.

“I hit the road the minute I saw the report,” Dan said.  “I couldn’t get a hold of Trixie.  I freaked.”

Leo McGarry nodded in understanding but said nothing, keeping his pace brisk as he wound through the emergency room.

“I had just crossed into Maryland when my brother-in-law called.  He’s a resident at Bellevue.  I guess he knew to call here or something but they wouldn’t tell him anything.”  His voice rose a bit.  “Wouldn’t tell her own brother!”

Leo raised a hand to pacify him.  “It’s procedure, son.  The President of the United States is here and they won’t give out information to anybody, including his own brother.”

“Procedure!  What the hell?  Is Trixie okay or not?”

Leo stopped and turned to face Dan.  “According to procedure, you’re not supposed to be back here, either.  So let’s just calm down or I’ll toss you out on your ass and you can see your wife after she’s released.”

His words were like ice water splashed on his face.  Dan stopped cold and in an instant, all his indignation and anger disappeared.  His voice was meek and quavered a little as he asked, “Was she shot?”

“She wasn’t hit, no.”  Leo gripped his shoulder and said, “Your wife was a hero tonight, Mr. Mangan.”

Dan tried to absorb that but the picture in his head of the mass of agents in the waiting room stuck with him.  “Then why is she back here?”

“Mr. McGarry.”

A doctor was coming their way, tall and rail thin, nearly bald on top, with cold, grey eyes behind no nonsense eyeglasses.

“Doctor, this is Special Agent Mangan’s husband.  Can he see her?”

The doctor carefully studied Dan for an interminable moment, until Dan was ready to throttle him.  Then he nodded shortly, turned smartly on his heel and without another word, took Dan and Leo down a side hallway, away from the operating rooms to a private room.  He gestured toward the closed door and said, “She’s right in there, Mr. Mangan.”

“Is she—?  Was she hurt?”

“She’ll be okay.  I’ll let her talk to you.”

He disappeared as quickly and as quietly as he had come, leaving Dan and Leo outside the door of Trixie’s room.  Dan was paralyzed for a moment, trying to process what he had seen and the fragments of information he had received.  As he reached for the doorknob, Leo McGarry’s voice stopped him.

“You’re NYPD, right?”

Dan turned, his face expressing his confusion at the change in topic.  “Yes.”

“You ever have anybody shoot at you?

Dan shook his head wordlessly.

“Was your father in Vietnam?  Tell you stories when you were a kid?”

“My dad died when I was six.”

“I’m sorry.”  Leo paused to convey that he truly was before he went on.  “How about an uncle or grandfather?”

Dan shook his head again, more irritably this time, angry at this delay keeping him from seeing Trixie.

“Son, unless you’ve seen combat, you can’t really have any idea what your wife went through tonight.”

Dan turned to stare, his eyes glazing over with worry.  He had seen combat.  He had lived it on the streets of New York as a teenager.  He still carried the scars.

“Some bullets penetrate deeper than skin and bone.”

Dan turned back to face the closed door in front of him.  He knew.  He knew what McGarry meant even before he spoke again.

“Sometimes they hit vital organs.”

Dan nodded without turning to face him.  Leo gave him a gentle pat of encouragement.

“Josh Lyman’s surgery is going to take several more hours.  Somebody from the White House will be here.  If you or your wife need anything, come find us.”

Breathing in deeply, Dan nodded again, this time turning to look Leo McGarry in the eye and silently offer his thanks.

Leo stepped back, giving Dan his space and a moment to prepare himself for seeing his wife.  He wasn’t sure exactly what he was supposed to be preparing himself for.  She hadn’t been shot.  Leo McGarry said so.  She was going to be okay.  The nameless doctor said so.  Why was she here?  Why wasn’t she with her team?

He pushed open the door, hoping to get answers but finding only more questions.  Trixie wasn’t sitting in a garishly upholstered chair in a private waiting room.  She wasn’t being debriefed by her superiors in a cramped office.

Trixie was in a bed.  A hospital bed.  She was wearing a hospital gown.  She was curled on her side in a fetal position that signified pain and anguish. Her back was to him, shoulders hunched stiffly.

Trixie was a patient.

Despite the doctor’s and Leo’s reassurances, Dan’s heart began racing and his vision blurred as tears of panic sprang to his eyes.

“Trixie?”

His voice was barely a whisper, hoarse from hours on the road in the whipping wind as he raced his motorcycle through four states in a frantic rush to reach Washington.

She turned her head.  Although tears instantly began coursing down her cheeks at the sight of him, he could tell they were merely fresh tears, that she had been crying for some time.  Her eyelids were rimmed in red, her cheeks streaked with salty dampness.

He hurried to grasp her outstretched hand, dropping into the chair by her bedside to get eye-to-eye with her.  His other hand reached out to stroke her forehead, pushing back tangled curls from her troubled face.  “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry, Dan.  I’m so sorry.”

“Sweetie, what on earth are you sorry about?”

“I was going to tell you, I swear.  I wanted to tell you.  But we had a fight and then you were gone.”

His brow creased in worry.  Was she in shock?  Delirious?  What was she talking about?

“Gone where, baby?  I’m right here.”

“I know I should’ve told you when you were here.  But I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”

“Tell me what?”

“And now it’s too late.  It’s too late.”  She dissolved into a fresh flood of tears, drawing the sheet up to dab at her watery eyes.

Dan’s heart was aching in his chest, too much in shock to actually pound but straining against his ribcage until he thought it would burst from the pressure.  “Trixie, talk to me, please.  What’s too late?”

When she was able to get a grip on her crying jag she looked mournfully into his eyes.  He couldn’t remember seeing such pain since his father died and his mother had looked like that for months.

“They didn’t tell you?”

“Who tell me what?”

She clutched his hand tightly enough to break bones but he could only feel her pain, not his own.

“Dan, I was pregnant.”

For one brief moment, his heart soared.  Then he listened again to what she had said.  Was?

Her face contorted as she tried to fend off the next onslaught of grief.  “I found out just before you came to visit me.  I wanted to tell you.  I tried to tell you.  But then I got called into work and you went back home before I could say anything.”

“Was?”  His voice cracked slightly as Trixie’s pain began to become his pain as well.

“I lost the baby, Dan.  I’m so sorry.”

She gave up the struggle to contain herself and began crying again, pulling her hand from his and turning away from him to bury her face in her pillow.

He closed his eyes and gently urged his own pain and grief and anger to take a backseat to hers.  He stood and pushed the chair back and without a second thought, crawled onto the bed and took her into his arms.

While she wept brokenly, he simply held her, pressing his lips to her temple.  He sought and found her hand underneath the crumpled sheet and twisted the rings thoughtfully around her finger.

When she finally had breath enough to speak again, she managed to choke out, “Aren’t you mad at me?”

He was.  A little.  Why hadn’t she told him?  He wouldn’t have been angry.  He would’ve understood her anxiety at the unexpected kink in the well-thought out plan for their life together.  He wasn’t stupid.  He wouldn’t have demanded that she quit her job.  He knew women could and did work during their pregnancies.  Neither of them could have anticipated an assassination attempt on the President of the United States.  His knowing wouldn’t have changed the tragic outcome.

Why hadn’t she told him?  Not that it mattered now.  Maybe, if he had known, it only would’ve made things worse.  It certainly would’ve made his feverish flight to Washington more reckless and, thereby, more dangerous.  But it wouldn’t have changed anything.

He supposed he was angry.  Not at her.  He was angry because he couldn’t truly share this grief with her.  Angry because it didn’t matter if she had told him or not—the baby was gone now.  Angry because Trixie was just doing her job, and that job meant protecting Zoey from some scumbag who didn’t like the fact that she was dating a black man or that her father had two Jews on his senior staff.

Angry with himself because he was so relieved that Trixie was okay and at the moment that was more important to him than the loss of a child he had never known existed.

And, somehow, it seemed wrong to feel that way.

“I can be mad later,” he murmured teasingly into her hair.  “Right now, I just want you to know how much I love you.”

8:35 a.m.

Dan had the television muted, uninterested in Good Morning, America but hoping for an update on last night’s incident.

Trixie was sleeping soundly in his arms, at last.  She had dozed fitfully for several hours before finally falling into a deeper sleep around five o’clock.

Ron Butterfield, his left hand heavily bandaged, had stopped in on his way to see the President.  He assured Dan that Trixie shouldn’t worry about work and that she would be welcomed back with open arms as soon as she was cleared by medical.  He promised an update on the manhunt for the signaler as soon as he had word.

ABC’s “Special Report” logo flashed onto the screen and Dan turned the volume up just enough so that he could listen in, hoping Trixie would continue sleeping.

Press Secretary C.J. Cregg, still visibly shaken some eleven hours later, stood in the White House Press Room, head high but hands clutching the podium for support.

“We're confirming now that a suspect is in custody and is being questioned by federal law enforcement.  At this time, we cannot—we are not releasing any information whatsoever about the suspect."

Dan glanced down at his wife, wondering if he should wake her.  She had been very upset by her inability to remember every last detail of the previous night.  Hearing this news would give her a great measure of relief.

He decided against it, knowing they’d get more substantial information from Ron Butterfield as soon as he made it back to Trixie’s hospital room.

“The President remains in stable condition in the recovery room, and is expected to return home Saturday.  Special Agent Ron Butterfield was treated and released and a second agent, Special Agent Beatrix Mangan, is being held overnight for observation only.  Josh Lyman is in his seventh hour of surgery to repair a collapsed lung and a ruptured pulmonary artery.  We very likely will not have an update on his condition until the procedure is complete, which they expect will be in the next six or eight hours.”

Trixie moaned and stretched a little.  Dan looked down and smiled into her sleepy blue eyes.  “Good morning, sunshine.”

“What time is it?”

Dan muted the television again and checked his watch.  “A little after eight thirty.”

Trixie turned her head and looked at the television.  “What’s C.J. briefing about?”

“Updates on medical conditions.  The President is stable.  Josh Lyman is still in surgery.”  He paused before adding, “There was a sentence or two about the signaler but they’re not releasing anything.  Your boss was here about an hour ago and he said he’d come by and update you as soon as they knew anything concrete.”

Trixie pushed herself up into a sitting position.  Dan saw her wince slightly.

“Do you want me to call the nurse?  Do you need something for the pain?”

“No, it’s not bad.  I’m just stiff and sore, that’s all.”

“You don’t have any ... I don’t know, cramping or anything?”

Trixie rubbed her stomach, her eyes pained.  “A little.  I’m all right.”

Dan put his hand over hers and gave her a reassuring squeeze.  Pressing his lips to her cheek, he murmured, “I love you.”

She leaned her head toward his, her voice a mixture of sorrow and teasing.  “Will you still love me tomorrow when I haven’t had a shower in 48 hours?”

“I love you today ... tomorrow ... forever ... Stinky.”

Before she could get her hand up in time to cover her mouth, a small giggle escaped her lips.

Dan held her a little closer.  “It’s okay to laugh.  I think it’s supposed to be the best medicine or something.”

She tilted her head up and looked intently into his eyes.  “I love you so much,” she said solemnly.

He bent down and their lips met in a tender kiss, full of love and understanding.

Breaking away abruptly, she asked, “How did you get here?”

“On my motorcycle,” he sassed back.

“I meant how did you know?”

“It was all over the news, like seconds after it happened.  I got on my bike and headed for Washington.  Brian called me and told me the reporters were camped outside here.”

“Oh!  Everyone must be so worried about me.”

“I called Brian while you were sleeping.  He and Honey were going to call everybody else.”

“Did you tell them about...?”

Dan reassured her with another warm embrace.  “No.  We can leave it for later.  Or not at all if it hurts too much.”

Trixie nodded and snuggled closer.  They had a few minutes of quiet togetherness before Ron Butterfield returned, tapping softly on the door as he cracked it open and peered inside.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course,” Trixie said, sitting up in bed and pulling the sheets around her.  Dan stood but kept her hand tightly in his.

“Are you okay?” Trixie asked, nodding toward his hand.

“Painkillers are a beautiful thing,” he answered with a weak grin.  “They’re saying it should heal without problem but I’m probably looking at some tedious physical therapy before it’ll be 100%.”

“I’m sorry.”

Butterfield shrugged and held her gaze.  “I didn’t lose anything.”

Trixie flushed and lowered her eyes.  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but I hadn’t told Dan yet and—”

“It’s all right, Mangan.  I’m not blaming you.  I’m just offering my condolences.”

“Dan said C.J. was reporting they got the guy?” Trixie asked, hastily changing the subject.

“His name is Carl Leroy.  He gave a statement saying that he and both shooters were members of a group called West Virginia White Pride.”

Trixie shook her head in consternation.  “I had that file on my desk yesterday morning.”

“It didn’t have anything in it that would’ve tipped us off, Mangan.  Don’t beat yourself up.”

“And they were trying to shoot President Bartlet because of Zoey and her boyfriend?” Dan asked.

“No.  According to his statement, the President wasn’t the target.  Charlie was.”

“Oh, no!” Trixie gasped.  “Poor Charlie.  Does he know?”

“Yes.”  Butterfield's face said clearly that Charlie wasn’t handling it well.  He moved on.  “The shooters were taken down by Secret Service.  They had a 9 millimeter Beretta and a .357 Desert Eagle.”

“What?” Dan asked in confusion. 

Ron nodded.  “Like most criminals, they were dumbasses and cowards.  Those were the wrong weapons to use for this kind of shooting.  That’s why the injury count was so low.  Leroy will be charged with conspiracy and aiding and abetting an attempted murder.”

“Damn stupid coal-mining mountaineer redneck,” Dan muttered.

There was a moment of silence and then Trixie made a choked noise that turned into a short burst of laughter when Dan looked her way.  Though somewhat confused, he smiled, grateful to see a spark of her spirit return.

“Dan, Agent Butterfield went to school at WVU.”

Dan’s face turned red but Butterfield laughed and said, “No offense taken.  They’re definitely a black mark on an otherwise great state.  I understand you’re a Mets fan, so let’s just call it even.”

The television switched from the news anchor at the local ABC affiliate back to the Press Room.  Dan noticed and turned the volume back on just in time for the three of them to hear C.J.’s closing words for the morning briefing.

“This is our fifth press briefing since midnight.  Obviously, there's one story that’s going to dominate news around the world for the next few days and it would be easy to think that President Bartlet, Joshua Lyman, and Ron Butterfield were the only victims of a gun crime last night.  They weren't.”  She looked to her notes, her voice steady as she continued. 

“Mark Davis and Sheila Evans of Philadelphia were killed by a gun last night.  He was a biology teacher and she was a nursing student.  Tina Bishop and Belinda Larkin were killed with a gun last night.  They were 12.  There were 36 homicides last night, 480 sexual assaults, 3,411 robberies, 3,685 aggravated assaults, all at gunpoint.  And if anyone thinks those crimes could have been prevented if the victims themselves had been carrying guns, I'd only remind you that the President of the United States himself was shot last night while surrounded by the best trained armed guards in the history of the world.”

Ron Butterfield looked Trixie squarely in the eye.  “Best trained armed guards in the world.  That includes you, Mangan, and don’t you forget it.  Stupid weapon choices weren’t the only reasons for a low injury count.  Your quick thinking and quick reaction saved lives, too.”

Turning to Dan, he offered his hand and said, “Take good care of her.  I want her back.”

 

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