Hour One

CJ began to answer the question before the sound of Carol's knock faded.  "No," CJ said again, her tone of voice somewhere between amused and frustrated, "I'm not letting him back in the building."  She figured that since she knew what was coming, waiting for Carol to figure out a way to rephrase the same damn question for the forty-eighth time was a waste.  "He hasn't slept in three days," CJ continued, tossing aside her folder and leaning back to meet her assistant's gaze, "and his internal clock is set to, I don't know, Iceland or something.  Tell him--"  And then the look on Carol's face registered.  "Carol?"

In that never-ending moment before her assistant spoke, CJ would swear someone had managed to turn down the volume on the world.  It was so quiet that CJ could hear the rustle of the message slip clutched in Carol's shaking hand.  "Zoey's missing," Carol answered, her voice thin and uncertain.

Instinctively, CJ laughed, relaxing.  "Zoey's 22 years old and she just graduated from college.  She and Jean-Paul--"

"CJ."

It was the soft shock in Carol's voice that made CJ start to believe it, that made her assistant's absurd statement start to make a horrifying kind of sense.  "Carol."  CJ meant it as an admonishment, but it sounded like a plea.  Because the horrible scenarios she half-remembered from Secret Service briefings were flashing through her mind, and none of them were good.  None of them ended well.

"One of her agents is dead," Carol explained, the words tumbling out.  "Her panic button is at the club and so is Jean-Paul, but Zoey's gone."

"Oh, God."

"They think..."  Carol faltered, glancing down at the pink slip in her hand as if it would magically say something different if only she checked again.

"They think she was taken," CJ surmised.  She was pretty impressed that she sounded so normal.  How could her voice sound the same when she was talking about something so very wrong?

"Yeah," Carol confirmed.

"Kidnapped."

"Yeah."

CJ nodded slowly, pushing herself up from her chair.  She wasn't surprised to find that her entire body felt odd.  Awkward.  Just a little bit out of control.  "Okay," she said, swallowing an inappropriate little laugh.  "Kidnapped," she repeated, but it didn't make any more sense the second time.

"Yeah." Carol shrugged.  "What do we do?"

"I don't--"  CJ stopped herself.  She did know.  There was protocol for this, there had to be.  They'd covered these situations in one of the many meetings with the Secret Service during the transition.  She just hadn't paid much attention, since the thought of someone kidnapping any of the Bartlet girls had seemed so ridiculous.  That kind of thing happened in movies with musclehead lead actors and actresses who gave good scream.  CJ touched Carol's arm.  "I need you to get me someone from the Secret Service.  No one who's needed for this thing, obviously, but someone who can keep us informed.  Leo's with the President?"

Carol nodded, her eyes watery.  "Yeah," she answered, her voice trembling.

"No," CJ ordered.  "We're not doing that."  Playing the Worst Case Scenario game wouldn't do anyone any favors, and the President needed more from his staffers.

Carol pressed her lips together, sniffled, and nodded her agreement.

Heading for the door, CJ said, "I need Leo as soon as he's free."

She moved out into the darkened bullpen and squinted, not seeing anyone.  Then the sunspot on the other side of the room resolved itself into Donna's shiny blonde hair.  Good, CJ thought.  Donna's exactly the kind of person who would remember protocol for -- for something like this.  She wondered absurdly if this is what it had been like for the others the night of Rosslyn, the ones who'd stayed at the White House.  Had they wandered in a stunned daze, wondering what happens next?  Hungry for information and reassurances, and thirsty for something to do to help?

"Donna," she called, noticing a second person as she grew closer.  "Amy.  Good.  I need you both."

Amy's oddly intense gaze didn't shift from Donna.  "Yeah?  Why's that?"

Donna, who seemed frozen in place, a small red book clutched in her hands, caught the panic underlying CJ's words.  "What's happened?"

A Secret Service Agent burst through the door before CJ could answer.  All three women winced when he flipped on the overhead lights, but CJ recovered first.  "CJ Cregg.  Donna Moss.  Amy Gardner.  My assistant's in my office," she rattled off quickly.  The agent looked familiar, but CJ couldn't quite remember his name.  "Anyone else, Donna?"

Donna shook her head.  "No.  CJ?"

"We've crashed the West Wing," the agent said.  "No one in or out."

"We know the drill," Amy shot back.  "Why'd we crash?"

"Thank you," CJ told the agent.  "I've got this."  She mustered a smile as the agent gave a curt nod and withdrew.

"CJ," Donna said, her voice shaking now with the strain.

CJ figured she was remembering Rosslyn, and she quickly assured her, "Josh is fine."  CJ turned her attention to Amy, a little surprised by the sharp look from the younger woman.  CJ decided she had more than enough to deal with without taking on Josh Lyman's twisted love life.  "Amy, I think Abbey's going to need you."

"The President?" Donna guessed, one hand pressed to her heart.

"No."  CJ couldn't come up with a gentle way to break the news.  "Zoey's missing."  She paused to let that sink in for a moment.  "There's a dead agent.  Jean-Paul's still at the club.  It looks like--"

"Oh, God," Amy said, one hand over her mouth.  She pushed a beer bottle away and stood.  "I should go."

CJ nodded.  "Please, call if Abbey--"  She shrugged.  "I don't know how I can help, but anything she needs."

"I'll tell her," Amy tossed over her shoulder, rushing out into the lobby.

Donna was standing utterly still, her mouth open just a little, as if she were about to say something.

"Donna?"

"Yeah," she said, tossing the small book aside and heading for her desk.  She seemed to pick up momentum, her actions growing more assured as she shifted into crisis mode.

"Were you in those Secret Service meetings?" CJ asked.

"During the transition?" Donna asked, glancing over her shoulder at CJ.

"Yeah."

"Of course."  Donna focused her attention back on the computer, her pale skin taking on a bluish cast in the monitor's light.

Something about Donna's pallor disturbed CJ, and she had to look away.  "Okay, then I have a question for you."

"Sure," Donna said, selecting some text on the screen and then moving again, this time away from her desk.

CJ stepped to the side to allow Donna past.  "Did they cover what to do in, you know..."  CJ shrugged.  "In case of this?"

Donna nodded soberly.  "Yes.  In the event someone close to the President, whether in the protection of the Secret Service or not, is held hostage.  Yeah, there's--"

"We don't know she's being held hostage," CJ interrupted sharply.  "Maybe she was just..."  CJ thought about the women abducted by sex offenders, about the women who were so brutalized they were never the same, about the women whose tortured bodies were discovered months later, about the women who were never found, and she decided that speculation would quickly drive her to drink.  "We don't know what happened or why."

When Donna turned from the printer and met her gaze, CJ figured from the tears glimmering in Donna's big blue eyes that she'd been thinking something similar.  "Okay," Donna said, pulling the paper from the printer.  She scanned the contents quickly.  "Crash the President, close the airports, train stations, bus stations, initiate roadblocks--"  Donna broke off and looked up at CJ.  "There's not much on this list that we're supposed to be doing."

"CJ," Carol called, silhouetted in the doorway of CJ's office.

"Did you get someone from the Secret Service?"

"Yeah."  Carol moved quickly through the bullpen, handing CJ a sticky note with a name and number scrawled on it.  "They're holding this line for you.  You'll be speaking to Agent Annie Lange."

CJ tucked the note inside her folio, trying to ignore the fact that her fingers were trembling the slightest bit.  "Okay.  She's not holding now?"

Carol shook her head.  "Leo wants you.  He's on his way back to his office."

"Okay."  CJ wasn't sure she could bear the look on Leo's face.  Zoey was like a daughter to him, and he must have been the one who had to tell the President and Abbey.  God, what must the President and Abbey be thinking?  CJ knew the answer, but she asked anyway, "Anything new?"

Carol dipped her chin, her expression rueful.  "Nothing for sure, but Jean-Paul's really out of it.  They think he took something."

"Something meaning drugs," CJ said.

"Right."

"Do they think--"

"They don't know if Zoey took anything."

"Or," Donna said quietly, "if Jean-Paul gave her anything."  She looked nauseated at the thought.

CJ's imagination supplied images, Zoey stumbling in the arms of her captors, Zoey dragged along, protesting feebly, and a half dozen more.  CJ shook her head.  "I need to--"

"Go see Leo," Donna nodded, handing the protocol printout to CJ.  "I'm going to call Josh.  I assume we'll need to call Congress before we go public?"

CJ accepted the proffered paper.  Seeing the words in black and white -- "Abduction of Protectee or Other Family Member" -- this dreadful scenario was starting to feel distressingly real.

"CJ?"

"Huh?"  CJ met Donna's concerned gaze.  "Congress?" she asked, trying to remember Donna's question.  "I think so.  Josh will know."  CJ attempted a smile, gave her assistant a thankful nod, and pushed through the doors to the Northwest Lobby.

***

Will was really only in the West Wing on a whim.  A staple remover seemed like a common enough office implement that there'd be one somewhere in the small conference room that he'd taken over for the writing interns, but a search had turned up nothing.  After one of the Laurens sliced her thumb open trying to coax a staple out of an old speech with a pair of scissors, Will told them to grab dinner (which elicited several pointed remarks about it being nearly midnight, and what kind of dinner were they supposed to be able to get in 20 minutes when the mess was already closed?) and retreated to his office.

He found the staple remover quickly, and then went looking for Toby.  His office was empty and dark with a very odd, abandoned feel to it.  Will stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering if Toby would have a spare salad tucked away anywhere that Will could have for dinner.  He'd replace it later, he told himself.  Unless of course Toby would prefer someone else to eat his salads, leaving him no choice but to resort to a burger.  Really, Will reasoned, he'd be doing Toby a favor.

So convinced, Will moved a couple steps farther into Toby's dark office, and nearly screamed when the overhead lights flipped on unexpectedly.

"Toby, good, you're--"  CJ Cregg stopped short in the doorway and blinked at him.  "Not Toby," she finished.

"No," Will agreed.  "Just foraging for food."

"Have you seen Toby?"

There was something in her tone, something in the pinched lines of her face that set Will's nerves jangling.  "No, but I've been at the OEOB with the interns.  Is something wrong?"

The moment stretched out as she decided how to answer him, then she sighed and stepped closer, pushing the door closed behind her.  "Yes."

Will nodded.  "Okay.  What's--?"

"Zoey's missing," CJ interrupted, rubbing at her temple with her free hand.  "She was at a club with Jean-Paul, and then she was gone, and one of her agents was found in the alley behind the club."

Will raised his eyebrows.  "Found?"

"Shot," CJ answered, the strain audible in her voice.  "Execution style.  The agent's dead."

Will nodded calmly, his reaction automatic even as he tried to make sense of such an absurd situation.  His father had, from early on, instilled in his children the need to think calmly and rationally, especially in times of crisis.  Will had taken the advice to heart, but he'd never before faced a situation quite so explosive.  "So the agents think it's a kidnapping."

"Yes."

Will tried to assimilate this information, tried to figure out what his father would do.  First, get all the information possible.  "Do they have any leads?" he asked.

CJ gave him a look.  "I've just been in with Leo.  I have some information, and I've got an open line to the Secret Service, but this thing's only about 40 minutes old."

Will glanced reflexively at his watch.  "What do you need me to do?"

CJ's gaze slid away from him.  "I hate to ask," she began, "but I can't find Toby and I need to get ready for this press conference--"

"We're going public?" Will interrupted.

"Yeah," CJ answered.  "We would anyway, but there was a radio station there when she disappeared, and they obviously noticed when the Service responded.  I think there was something like 55 black-and-whites with lights and sirens, plus a few vanloads of S.W.A.T. team guys in full regalia."

"Ah," Will said.  He couldn't imagine the chaos that had erupted.  "Do you need a statement or..." he shrugged.  "Anything?"

"No, Leo and Ron worked out what should be publicized.  We've got network time in about twenty minutes."

"I hate to be negative," Will said, "but that'll be almost 12:30 EST.  A lot of the people we want to see the press conference, people in the D.C. area who may have seen something, they'll already be asleep."

CJ nodded tiredly.  "Well, we're doing what we can to get it out there, but this is so big it doesn't need much help from us.  D.C.'s effectively closed down right now, plus, the broad outlines are already on CNN."

"Broad outlines?" Will asked.

"They're not stupid.  They put together Zoey's presence at the club, the massive, unexplained police response, and the sudden silence from us."

"They're saying that she's missing?" Will asked, incredulity making his voice somewhat a little too loud, a little too high-pitched.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  "Isn't that incredibly irresponsible?"

CJ shrugged.  "It would be if they were wrong.  Right now, they're speculating -- with lots of 'We have no confirmation of this, but...' disclaimers.  They're suggesting a kidnapping.  I need to get out there with the details before the coroner's van arrives for--"  She stumbled for a moment.  "For the Secret Service agent."

Will grimaced, imaging the hysterical suppositions the image of a body bag being wheeled out to the coroner's van would provoke from the less responsible "pundits" on cable news.  He leaned over, plucking Toby's remote from the small table in front of the couch.  Flipping on the TV, he breathed in sharply at the long, unsteady shot of what he supposed was the club.  Will couldn't read the small sign, but the door was guarded by figures in all black holding some serious weaponry.  The alternating red and blue lights lent a surreal quality to the scene.

He glanced over at CJ, who seemed momentarily transfixed, leaning heavily on the back of Toby's visitor chair.  He guessed she was doing about as well as could be expected, all things considered.  Will had seen Zoey interact with the senior staffers.  They treated her like a kid sister, and he couldn't imagine how this was affecting them.  He felt incredible empathy for the President and First Lady, but his colleagues knew and loved Zoey as well.  "CJ?" he asked gently.  "You needed me to do something?"

She jerked upright.  "What?  Oh.  Yes.  I'm sorry.  Will, I'd like to do this myself, but I don't have the time.  I can't find Toby right now, Josh is still at the scene with Charlie, and on the off chance that Sam isn't already watching CNN--"

"You want me to call Sam, let him know what's going on," Will interrupted, a heavy dread in his stomach.  Bearer of bad news wasn't his favorite role to play.

"Would you mind?"

Will pushed his petty disinclination aside.  The absolute least he could do was this small favor for CJ.  She was right, after all; Sam deserved better than to hear about this along with the rest of the nation.  "I'll do it right now.  It's no problem."

CJ glanced one more time at the TV screen, ran a self-conscious hand through her hair, and tried to smile at Will.  It was a little wobbly, but he appreciated the effort.  "Thanks," she said, opening Toby's door and heading for her side of the building at a fast clip.

Will reached for the phone and dialed Sam's cellphone from memory.  He pulled the phone to the edge of the desk and settled into the guest chair, his attention split between the rings and the blue-and-red flashes on the screen.  He flipped to MSNBC, to Fox News, to the local networks; clearly the police had all the press in roughly the same place, hundreds of yards from the club, because each channel was broadcasting the same shot of the guards at the doors of the club.

"Sam Seaborn."

Startled, it took Will a moment to respond.  "Sam, it's Will Bailey."

"Will," Sam responded cheerfully.  "You're up late."

He doesn't know, Will realized.  He wouldn't sound so happy if he did.  Will supposed he should be glad for Sam's sake that he hadn't innocently turned on the TV, but he hated to be the person to break this news to Sam.  "You remember the hours," Will answered, attempting to match Sam's jovial tone, but even he could hear the strain in his voice.

"Will?" Sam asked, quizzical now.  "Is something wrong?"

"Yes, and I wanted to call and tell you about it so you wouldn't have to see it on CNN."

"Oh, God," Sam muttered.  "Is it the President?  Or Andy?  Are the twins okay?"

"They're fine.  Toby's fine.  The President's fine," Will answered quickly.  He hesitated, trying to figure out the kindest way to break the news.  "Zoey graduated today."

"I watched the speech," Sam said.  "He did well.  Was the Eudora Welty yours?"

"Yeah," Will confirmed distractedly.  "Sam, listen. Zoey was at a club with her boyfriend tonight, and now she's missing."

In the silence that followed, Will could picture the look on Sam's face.  The slight frown, the involuntary shake of his head.  "Missing?" Sam asked finally, sounding troubled.  "You mean--?"

"There's a dead agent at the scene."

"Oh, God," Sam whispered.  A moment later, he seemed to have shifted into crisis mode.  "How's the President?" he asked, his tone stronger, more urgent.  ":How's Abbey?"

"I haven't seen them," Will answered grimly.  "And I wouldn't begin to hazard a guess."

"Yeah."  Sam sighed.  He fell silent for a moment, then said, his tone frustrated, "I suppose I couldn't get to D.C. right now even if I wanted to."

"We're in lockdown," Will answered.  He understood Sam's need to do something to help; Will himself wasn't feeling particularly useful.  "The airports are closed.  You want me to convey a message?"

Sam hesitated for a long moment.  "Please, just tell them that I'll do whatever is in my power to help.  Anything, Will.  You'll call?"

"Yeah," Will answered.  "Sorry to have to, you know..."

"No," Sam said, all the cheer leached from his voice.  "Thanks for calling.  Better than turning on CNN."

Will said goodbye and hung up, staring pensively at the screen.  It was still the same shot, with the anchor inset down at the bottom, no doubt repeating the same scant information over and over, with the occasional comment about how dreadful this must be for the President.  With a muttered curse, Will flipped off the TV and rose, heading for his office.  Surely they'd need a statement at some point, and that was something productive he could do.  Now he just had to figure out how to write a statement about this.

***

In the fifty-eight minutes between when Donna was told of Zoey's disappearance and when Josh blew through the doors of the Operations Bullpen, she'd spent her nervous energy pacing in a positively Joshlike fashion as she woke up Congressional assistants all over D.C.  After all, cold calling the Senate Majority Leader's house and waking up his wife when she should've known that he was working out of the Oklahoma office this week was an amateur mistake, one that might suggest that the White House wasn't functioning smoothly during this particular crisis.

Donna couldn't be in the Sit Room, she couldn't help CJ with the press, and she couldn't do anything to help the President or the First Lady, but by God, the calls to Congress would go right if she had anything to say about it.  And confirming the whereabouts of each and every member meant waking up some very cranky assistants.  (Donna had, of course, been on the other end of such calls on more than one occasion, but what little empathy she had for these tired workers disappeared when she thought about what Zoey might be going through; at the very least, she must be terrified.  Donna tried not to think about that too much, though, because the possibilities made her blood run cold, and standing in the bullpen shaking too hard to dial the telephone wasn't a productive use of her time.)

So she kept calling the emergency contact numbers she'd gathered over the course of five years.  On a normal night, Donna would joke with the groggy assistants about the hour, or make an allusion to whatever crisis had her bothering them and their bosses so late (or so early).  Tonight, she couldn't joke.  And she damn well wouldn't say one word, give one hint about the situation with Zoey.

Still, she'd made an impressive start, with almost forty names and numbers scrawled in her notebook when Josh arrived.  He was pale and rumpled and moving very fast, his hair displaying its usual defiance of gravity.

"Thanks, Cassie," Donna interrupted Senator DeJoie's assistant's long-winded explanation of why it would be ill-advised to wake her boss after his long day of minding the country's business on the Hill.  "Sorry to disturb you."  Donna dropped the phone into its cradle and rushed to catch up with Josh as he reached his office door.

"Josh," she greeted, her small notebook clutched in one hand, reaching out to touch his arm with the other.

His gaze collided with hers, and she tried not to react to the pain it revealed.  "Anything?" Josh demanded, pausing just inside his doorway.

"No," she answered in muted tones.  The crushed look on his face was starting to worry her.  "How's Charlie?"

"How do you think?" Josh shot back, dropping into his chair.  After a quick, distracted look at the stacks of briefing memos on his desk, Josh pushed himself back up.

"Does he need anything?" Donna asked, standing just behind the guest chair.

Josh snorted.  "I don't think coffee's going to make it all better, Donna."

Stung, Donna swallowed back her first, angry response.  "I'm not suggesting it would," she answered evenly, but he knew her well enough to read her reaction in the pause before she spoke.

"Yeah," Josh said, seemingly unable to look directly at her.  "I know."  He wandered to the side of the room, running one finger along some Budget binders from the last session of Congress.

Donna decided they'd have to put his nervous energy (not to mention her own) to good use before their short tempers and stress levels landed them in a fight.  They might feel better after a good, healthy shouting match, but every moment they spent indulging themselves was a moment they weren't handling this crisis for the President.  "I've started locating the leadership."

Josh, who'd been staring sightlessly at his overflowing bookcase, sighed and turned back to her.  "Good."  He began to pace, not having much success given the dimensions of his office and her presence in what little free space there was.  He looked even worse up close, pale and sweaty and distracted, the small worry lines around his mouth and eyes more pronounced than usual.  Josh glanced at her and almost smiled.  "I'm fine."

Donna nodded, wondering how clearly her concerns were displayed on her face.  She hoped she didn't look as shaken up as Josh; she was supposed to be the one who kept him from flying off into the stratosphere when he was upset.  "You need to start--"

"Charlie wanted to go out in his Honda and canvass the streets," Josh told her.  "No spotlight or sirens or, really, any way to save Zoey if he found her, but he nearly slugged me when I tried to stop him."

Donna blinked, trying to figure out why Josh was telling her this.  "I'm not surprised," she said.  "He's still in love with her."

"No kidding," Josh agreed.  "And we found her earlier, at the Arboretum."

"The Arboretum?" Donna echoed, perplexed. Josh had told her he and Charlie were going out for a celebratory beer in honor of Zoey's graduation, not on some sort of off-roading adventure in the Arboretum.  "Is the Arboretum even open at night?"

"For the First Daughter?  Sure."  Josh's movements slowed.  "There was a bottle of champagne.  It doesn't matter.  Zoey was there, and we didn't expect her to be.  We found her by chance."  Josh stopped, jacket pushed back so he could stick his hands into his pockets.  He leaned back against the door to the small pantry, his unfocused gaze aimed in Donna's direction.  "I didn't even see her," he said quietly.

The despair in his voice made Donna want to throw her arms around him, but they weren't those people, so she matched his tone and said, "Josh, this isn't your--"

"Donna." Josh grimaced.  "Don't start with that.  I'm fine."  He pinned her with an intimidating look.  "And I don't need to talk to Stanley."

I'll be the judge of that, Donna thought.  She didn't say it, but Josh raised his eyebrows at her and said, "Really.  I'm fine."

"I know," she answered, frustrated.  How like him to discount even the possibility that he -- the walking ball of regret and self-recrimination over anything that went wrong for the people he loved -- would feel guilty about this.  She weighed her options and decided that since he was in avoidance mode, work was probably the safest subject.  "I've got the Majority Leader, the Minority Leader, and the Speaker, the whips--"

"Good."  Josh nodded, hands on his hips, and asked, "Committee chairs?"

"Not all of them, but I'm working on it."

"Do Armed Forces first.  And Foreign Relations," Josh instructed.  "Intelligence, obviously, and International Relations."

Donna raised an eyebrow.  "We think it's an international incident?"

"We don't know what the hell it is yet," Josh answered grimly.  "But to be on the safe side--"

"I'll get those chairs first," Donna nodded, listing the names from memory on her notepad. " Do you want to start the calls while I--?"

"It's just that Charlie -- he was sitting right outside the club," Josh's gaze was focused on something in the middle distance.  "He saw her at the Arboretum, and then we were just sitting there with Wesley, drinking beer, talking about nothing, and Zoey--"

Josh pushed himself away from the door so suddenly Donna startled.  "Josh," she said.  "You and Charlie being there --"

"Don't.  Please."  Josh rounded his desk and settled back into his chair, but he sat right at the edge, rigidly upright, and stared at her.  "Where are the numbers?"

Donna wanted to say more, but he wasn't ready to be forgiven, to forgive himself, for something that wasn't his fault in the first place.  She waggled her notepad in the air.  "You want me to start the calls?"

Josh hesitated.  "No," he decided.  "I'd better do it, but stay here."  He pointed at the notebook.  "I may need translation."

Donna accepted the invitation and sat in the guest chair.  She glanced at her notepad.  "Mosely's at home," she began.  "The number's 687--"  She broke off, frowning, when she noticed he was staring rather intently at his desktop, paying no discernible attention to her recitation.  "Josh?"

"What?" he asked, blinking at her.  Then he pulled the phone towards him and started to dial.  "What's the number?"

"687-432--"

"We should've gone," Josh interrupted, holding the receiver aloft.  "Why the hell didn't we drive around?  What could it have hurt?"

"Josh, the entire city's locked down."

"I know," he said grimly, "but we found her once tonight, maybe we could've done it again."  The phone protested its abandonment, beeping angrily into the air.  Josh dropped it back into its cradle.  "We were just sitting there," he said.

Donna hated to watch him beat himself up, but she didn't know what to say to make him stop.  She figured the day she mastered that particular trick, she could retire without worrying that Josh would fall into a tailspin of self-recrimination.  She said his name softly, and he looked at her with those tortured brown eyes.  "We can go drive around now, if you want."

Josh held her gaze for a long moment, the edges of his mouth inching upwards just a little.  Then he shook his head.  "No, we'd probably just get in the way," he answered finally.  He reached for the phone again.  "What's the number?"

***

Hour Three

Charlie stood in the hallway, seemingly unable to remove his balled fists from his pockets as he worked up the courage to knock.  The Secret Service agent on guard stared discreetly at the wall as Charlie rapped tentative knuckles on the door.  An almost unrecognizable voice called out for him to enter, and Charlie paused, his gaze on the agent.  "I'm sorry about Molly," he said, the words sounding inadequate.

The agent met his eyes briefly and nodded once.  "Thank you."

Charlie opened the door to the First Family's sitting room and entered.  This was quite possibly the last place he wanted to be right now.  He wanted to be doing something productive.  He wanted to be out looking for Zoey; he wanted to right the wrong he'd done when he sent Zoey to the club and, as it turned out, into danger.  But the First Lady had requested his presence.

How could he refuse Zoey's mother at a time like this?

So he obeyed Abbey's summons, taking the chair she indicated, asking her softly if she needed anything.

"No," she said in that wrecked voice.  "I'm fine."  A half-second later, her words seemed to register, and she smiled a terrible, ironic grin.

The First Lady was devastating to look at tonight.  She sat, stone-still, her half-focused gaze turned in the direction of CNN.  Her hands were constantly in motion, brushing her hair away from her face, smoothing her skirt, buttoning and unbuttoning her sweater.  She barely resembled the vibrant, sharp-eyed Abigail Bartlet that Charlie still found somewhat intimidating.

Charlie sat stiffly in the armchair, unable to relax his tense muscles.  This was his fault, the whole situation.  Just like the shooting.  He still hadn't quite forgiven himself his role in that, though he told himself to be happy that Zoey hadn't been hurt that night.  Cold comfort now that he was responsible for whatever was happening to Zoey tonight.  And tonight, just like that night four years earlier, Abbey had requested his presence.  But this time, Zoey wasn't sitting next to her mother, looking up at Charlie with those beautiful, expressive eyes.

"Ma'am?" Charlie spoke more to break his train of thought than out of any concern that the First Lady needed anything.  She had muted the inane commentators, but she still stared at the images on the screen.  "Do you want me to get the President?  Do you want an update from Ron?"

"No."  Abbey seemed to be locked into some kind of paralysis; except for her fluttering hands, she barely moved.  "Zoey told me you were still pursuing her," Abbey said, her head swiveling awkwardly towards him.  "Are you still in love with her?"

Charlie opened his mouth, but for a moment, couldn't find words.  "Yes," he said simply.  "I'm sorry."

Under normal circumstances, Abbey would probably give him a half-amused, half-puzzled look.  Now, the best she could manage was a slight furrow in her brow.  "For what?"

"I saw Zoey tonight," Charlie answered, the words tumbling out.  "At the Arboretum.  We buried a bottle of champagne a few years ago for her graduation night, and I was going to dig it up and give it to her.  But Zoey was there and she--"  Charlie stopped, figuring Abbey didn't need to hear about Zoey's romantic confusion.

"No," Abbey said, with more spark in her voice than before.  "Please," she begged, her eyes focusing on him for the first time since his arrival, "tell me all of it."

Charlie understood why she wanted all the details, but he refused to believe that his conversation with Zoey could be one of her last conversations ever.  "She had some of the champagne," Charlie continued.  "And she told me she didn't want to leave the President for the summer, because she wasn't sure how he'd react."

Abbey nodded, her rapt gaze on him.

"And she kissed me," Charlie said, tripping a little on the words.  It had been a private moment, an intimate moment, one he never thought he would share with Zoey's mother, but under the circumstances, he could hardly deny Abbey the details she craved.  "And then -- I --"  He stopped, closed his eyes, swallowed hard.  "I told her to go.  She wanted to stay with me, and I told her to go to the club."  Charlie hung his head, grinding the heels of his hands into his closed eyes.  "So I'm sorry."

After a long silence, Abbey sighed.  "Has Jean-Paul woken up yet?"

Charlie forced himself to look at the First Lady again, dreading the accusation he expected to see, but she'd retreated back into the semi-daze.  In some ways, he thought maybe that was worse.  "I'm not sure."

Abbey's chin dipped once.  "This must be awful for you."

"Ma'am?"

"I remember Rosslyn, when I knew Jed was shot," she said.  She seemed to be talking to Charlie, but her gaze slid past him, focusing on something over his left shoulder.  "I remember that panicked feeling, but I knew where he was.  I knew I would see him in a few minutes."  Her gaze sharpened suddenly, boring into him.  "Do you have that panicky feeling?"

Charlie nodded.  "Yes."

Abbey's eyes sparkled with tears.  "I feel numb," she confessed in a hushed tone.  "I don't feel panicked.  I can't feel anything."  She turned a desperate look his way.  "Why can't I feel anything?"

"Mrs. Bartlet," Charlie answered, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "I think you're in shock."

"I'm not," she answered.  "I'm a doctor.  I'd know it if I were in shock.  I'm just... numb."

The double doors burst open and the President burst into the room, his expression angry.  Charlie jerked to his feet, swaying a little until he caught himself on the arm of the chair.  Abbey froze, eyes wide and fixed on her husband.

"Abigail," the President greeted.  "Charlie, I suppose you should hear this, too."

Charlie's fingers tightened on the chair.  "Hear what, sir?"

Abbey's tortured voice managed a soft, "Jed?"

"Jean-Paul is, as we suspected, on drugs.  But it wasn't ecstasy," Jed said with a nod in Charlie's direction.  "He's on GHB.  Gamma-Hydroxal Something-or-other."

"Gamma-Hydroxy Butyrate," Abbey corrected automatically, her tone devoid of emotion.

Charlie looked back and forth between the President and First Lady.  "What's Gamma-Hydroxy Butyrate?"

The President moved to his wife's side.  "It's a date-rape drug, Charlie.  Colorless, odorless, and nearly undetectable in alcoholic drinks."

Charlie fought the sudden urge to find Jean-Paul and punch his arrogant, date-rapist face.  "A date-rape drug?" he repeated, his tone too loud for the room.

"Charlie," the President warned with a significant glance at the First Lady.  "It seems that Jean-Paul thought he'd purchased ecstasy.  Leo thinks the dealer was involved in..."  He grimaced.  "This."

Charlie still wanted to kick the shit out of Jean-Paul -- how could he not protect Zoey? -- but managed to rein himself in.  Her parents had more than enough to deal with right now without adding Charlie's anger at Jean-Paul.

"How much champagne?" Abbey asked suddenly.

Startled, Charlie turned towards the First Lady.  "I'm sorry?"

"How much champagne did she have with you?" she asked, her gaze razor-sharp and focused once more.

"I'm not sure," Charlie answered.

"Think," Abbey commanded harshly.

"Abbey," the President said, his hand on his wife's shoulder.  He settled onto the arm of her chair.

"Maybe a third of the bottle," Charlie answered.  "I don't know, exactly, but I think the bottle's in the trunk of my car."

Abbey tilted her head up to see her husband.  "Did she drink at the club?"

"Abbey, we're not sure about--"

"Jed, GHB can be fatal," Abbey interrupted forcefully.  "It can cause hypothermia, bradycardia, respiratory depression, and if it was mixed with alcohol in high doses, Zoey may already be--"  She broke off, turning her face away, trembling lips pressed tightly together.

The President met Charlie's gaze.

Charlie nodded and withdrew, pulling the door shut behind him and only then realizing that his entire body was trembling.  He managed the few steps to a nearby plush bench, sank into its embrace, and tried to figure out what to do now.  He thought about taking a drive over to the hospital to confront Jean-Paul, but that seemed unproductive.  As much as he blamed Jean-Paul, he also couldn't stop blaming himself.  He'd told Zoey to go.  Why the hell had he told Zoey to go to the damn club?

Soon, when the President learned of the events at the Arboretum, he would probably blame Charlie, too.  So Charlie decided to stay at the White House and do as much as possible for Zoey's parents.  That way maybe someday he could make it up to them in some small way, even if he couldn't forgive himself.

***

Josh was sitting in his dark office, chin propped on his hand, staring vacantly at his empty guest chair.  He'd run out of productive things to do, and was thinking about gunshots.  He remembered how much it hurt to wake up with months and months of recovery ahead of you.  He thought about Molly, the agent who'd never wake up.  He remembered Zoey's panic attacks after Rosslyn, and wondered if she'd come back with a new, lovely psychological disorder.  He swore to himself that he would do every last thing in his power to make sure she knew how to ask for help before she reached critical mass.

But as hard as he tried not to, he couldn't stop thinking about the horrific possibility that Zoey wouldn't come back at all.

The short knock startled Josh, and it took him a moment to catch his breath.  "Yeah," he called, his voice husky but almost eager.  Good news would be quite welcome, and short of that, he'd appreciate any sort of interruption that kept him from remembering another funeral, a devastated father, a trembling mother, the dreadful sight of a coffin.

His door opened about halfway, and CJ leaned in.  "Hourly update.  We have no new information," she said, her tone discouraged.  Even with her nearly unwrinkled suit and her perfect hair, she looked tired.

Josh nodded.  "Thanks."  He glanced reflexively down at his own suit, which looked like he'd slept in it for a few days.  When he looked back up at CJ, she gave a curt nod and started to withdraw.  Josh sat up straighter.  "How can someone just disappear off the face of the earth?" he asked, honestly puzzled.

CJ paused in his doorway, ever-present leather folio tucked under one arm, her free hand on her hip.  "I honestly don't know, Josh."

"She's the president's daughter," Josh continued, his tone disbelieving, "she was at a club with a couple hundred other people.  How can nobody have seen anything?"

CJ stepped inside, pushing the door closed behind her, and moved towards the guest chair.  She dropped heavily into the seat and placed her folio in her lap, folding her hands primly on top.  "Molly O'Connor saw something," CJ said quietly.  "Or at least they thought she did."

Josh shook his head.  "She couldn't have seen anything.  You really think if she'd seen anything suspicious they would've been able to put a bullet in her head?  You think she wouldn't have alerted Wes?"

"I don't know what happened, Josh," CJ admitted.  "I don't know the crime scene details.  I don't know if she had her gun in her hand when she was shot, or if it was still in the holster.  I don't know if Zoey tried to press her panic button and wasn't able to, or if her abductors left it as proof of her abduction.  I don't even know yet if Jean-Paul drugged Zoey with GHB, which may or may not have knocked her out."  Her voice rose in frustration.  "I just don't know."

Nodding slowly, Josh reached for a pen, lacing it through his fingers.  "I know."  He flexed his fingers, wondering how much force he'd need to snap the plastic.  "Do you think--"  He stopped, swallowed.  "Who do you think has her?"

CJ closed her eyes against the question, her expression pained.  "I don't know."

"It doesn't feel like international terrorism," Josh mused.  "This isn't a particularly well-funded abduction."

CJ snorted.  "You're making a lot of assumptions, Josh.  We don't anything besides Zoey's missing, they shot an agent, and the Bajhi cell may or may not be responsible.  How do you know there wasn't a Qumari-owned helicopter waiting ten blocks away?"

Josh grimaced, not wanting to even entertain that possibility.  Could it be retribution for Shareef?  Could Zoey already be dead?  Josh shook his head, denying the very idea.  "This can't be an official governmental action," he said, answering CJ's unasked question.

"We killed Abdul Shareef," CJ countered, once again displaying her eerie ability to voice what Josh was trying not to think about.  "Would you have considered that a legitimate official government action before we did it?"

"No," Josh answered stubbornly.  "But Shareef was a terrorist, and he was a political player.  Zoey's a civilian.  They know this would be considered an act of war."

CJ snorted.  "And assassinating a high-level member of Qumar's government isn't an act of war?"

Josh couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer.  "Danny's got the story?"

"He's holding it.  Originally for three days."

"Why three days?"

"The Bravo level, the increased chatter," CJ answered with bitter irony.  "We asked him to hold off printing this until things settled down so something like this wouldn't happen."

Silence fell for a long moment, then Josh frowned.  "Where is Danny?"

"I kicked him out of the building," CJ answered, her tone matter of fact.

"CJ!"

"It was for his own good," she answered, defensive.  "He got home from Germany and came straight here, and I swear to God he was sleeping at his computer.  As soon as--"  She shrugged.  "As soon as Carol told me, I lifted the restriction, but I think he must've gone home and passed out before he heard."

Josh nodded slowly.  "Yeah.  Danny would want to be here if he were awake."

CJ studied her hands, not answering.  Josh still couldn't figure out the exact nature of the relationship between CJ and Danny, but he knew that more than Danny's crush on CJ kept the reporter around the Bartlet White House.  During the campaign, Danny had spent quite a bit of time with Abbey researching the biography he'd written.  In the process, he'd become one of the President's favorite reporters, and he and Zoey had become pals when she'd started riding the press bus to get away from her father's incessant trivia quizzes.  Danny would definitely be here if he knew, even if he had to cover his real reasons with work.

"No word on the ransom note?" Josh asked after a while.

CJ accepted the change of subject without comment.  "Not that I know of.  Could be for real, could be some quick-thinking terrorists looking to capitalize on a bad situation."

Josh used his fingers to turn the pen end over end.  "CJ, I can't stop thinking--"

"Josh."

He looked over at her and was startled at the depth of pain in her eyes.  "CJ?"

"Just -- please."  She'd gone still in her chair, her hands clutching at her folio, her mouth drawn into a tight line.

"What if they hurt her, CJ?" he asked, the words spilling from him like poison.  "What if they're hurting her right now while we're sitting around on our asses doing nothing?"  He slammed his fist down on his desktop, but all that accomplished was snapping the pen in half, spilling ink on his fingers, and making his hand ache dully.

"We're doing everything we can," CJ shot back angrily.  "In case you hadn't noticed, none of us are detectives, so we're here doing our jobs--"

"So what?" Josh interrupted, wiping the worst of the ink off with a napkin.  "I've talked to the leadership, about thirty percent of Congress, plus the Governors of Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, Ohio, North Carolina, Delaware and Pennsylvania tonight.  How the hell is that helping if Zoey's being hurt?"

CJ's voice was brittle when she spoke again.  "If by hurt you mean raped, I don't know what to tell you, Josh.  It's not uncommon for female captives to be sexually abused.  Hell," she continued, "it's entirely possible that she was kidnapped by a sexual predator who's also a damn good marksman."

"God, CJ," Josh bit out, appalled.  "What is your problem?"

She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing in anger.  "I asked you not to go there, Josh.  I don't want to speculate on what could be happening to Zoey.  I don't want anything to be happening to Zoey.  But you wouldn't stop, and then you wouldn't even say the words out loud."

He hurled the remnants of the pen into his trashcan.  "I was talking about torture.  I was asking if they'd torture her."

"Rape is a form of torture," CJ bit out.

Josh held her furious gaze for a moment, then slumped back in his chair, shading his eyes with one hand.  "What the hell are we talking about?" he asked.

CJ dropped her chin.  "I honestly don't know," she answered quietly, her face shadowed by her hair.

Another silence, this one less comfortable than the ones before.  CJ glanced at the pictures on his wall, studying his favorite picture of Joanie.  A few times, CJ opened her mouth as if to speak, but seemed unable to find the words.

Finally, she met his gaze.  "There's no vice president."

Josh stared at her, refusing to acknowledge her meaning.  "So what."

"Josh."

"We're not talking about this, CJ."

"Maybe we should be talking about this," she answered, her tone determined.  Josh knew her well enough to know she was unlikely to let it go until she was satisfied.  She lifted her chin.  "Will pointed out earlier that we have no vice president, and I did a little brushing up on 3 U.S.C. 19--"

"He wouldn't do that," Josh interrupted fiercely.  President Bartlet wouldn't hand over control of the country to Speaker Walken.  He just wouldn't.  Josh refused to even entertain the thought.  "The President knows he can't do that."

CJ shook her head slightly.  "Can't?"

"The political reality--"

"Josh," CJ interrupted, frustrated.  "We just spent the last twenty minutes discussing horrible possibilities -- retribution, torture -- you think the President's not doing the same thing?  It's his daughter."

Josh winced.  "I know.  But he can't step aside.  Maybe if we had a vice president," Josh mused, kicking himself for not finding a suitable nominee in time.  "But the next in line is Walken, CJ.  Glen Walken.  The President would be trusting his daughter's fate to his political enemy."

"Look, I disagree with Glen Walken on any number of issues," CJ argued, "but he wouldn't let something happen to Zoey out of spite!"

"I'm not suggesting he would," Josh answered.  "I'm saying that the President needs to be the person making the decisions right now."

CJ stared at him for a moment.  "What if it comes down to a choice between Zoey's life and something a President should never do?"

"He's already ordered a political assassination," Josh pointed out grimly.

"Josh."

He met her worried gaze, but couldn't think of a single thing to say to reassure her.  What would the President do if it came down to the integrity of the Office or his daughter's life?  No president should ever have to make that decision.  That was the rationale behind the Secret Service protecting the president's family.

Josh glanced away from CJ.  "He wouldn't step aside," he repeated, but he could hear the doubt in his tone.  When he met her gaze again, CJ looked as uncertain as he felt.

"Yeah," she answered belatedly.  "You're right.  He probably wouldn't do that."

They stared at each other for a moment, and then someone knocked on his door.  Donna poked her head in, "Josh, Carol called -- CJ.  There you are.  Carol's looking for you.  Danny woke up."

"Oh, boy," CJ muttered.  "Thanks, Donna."  CJ pushed herself up, groaning a little with the effort.  She flipped open her leather folio, then laid an expensive silver pen on Josh's desk.  "Here," she said, her tone gentle.  "Don't break that one."

Josh managed a smile.  "Thanks."  He watched her disappear through his doorway, then picked up the pen she'd given him.  He laced the cool metal through his fingers and stood, heading for the bullpen.  "Donna," he shouted, stopping abruptly when she appeared in his path.

"Quit yelling," she admonished.  "I'm right here."

"Good," he said.  "Listen, I need you to pull 3 U.S.C. 19."

Donna nodded.  "Okay.  What's--?"

"Donna."  But she was giving him that look that made him regret snapping at her.  He lowered his voice so he couldn't be overheard by Will's ubiquitous interns.  "1947 Act of Succession," he explained.

Donna's blue eyes grew wide.  "Josh?" she asked nervously.

"We're not going to need it," Josh assured her.  "Really.  Just pull it for me in case, okay?"  She nodded and moved to get him the relevant code.  Josh watched her for a moment, and tried to convince himself that he wouldn't need it.  President Bartlet wouldn't do that.  Josh was almost sure that he was right.

***

Hour Five

Toby's steps slowed as he entered the hospital, with its pastels and its antiseptic scent.  He'd never been entirely comfortable in hospitals, since trips there usually involved people he loved dying, or coming too damn close to dying.  The last time he'd been to this particular hospital was the day that Josh was released, his frame gaunt, his breathing labored if he moved too much or too fast.

Today had been a much more positive experience, at least at the hospital.  Then he'd answered his pager, and he'd had to tell Andy that Zoey was gone.  When he'd left, he promised himself that he'd return with good news.  He'd called once in the intervening hours, reaching only the charge nurse, to his relief, who had informed him that Andy was still sleeping and the babies were still fine.

And now he was back in the hallway outside her room, his footsteps echoing in the quiet.  The nurse nodded a greeting, and Toby felt his attempted smile turn into a grimace.  He turned away, pausing to steady his frazzled nerves.  Toby wasn't one for emotional displays, preferring to deal with his feelings in private, and only when necessary.  But given the highs and lows of the past 24 hours, he was on the skinny edge of a pretty impressive outburst of some kind, and the last thing he needed was for an orderly to sell the story of the White House Communications Director's breakdown in the middle of GW.

Gently, Toby pushed the door open and peered inside Andy's hospital room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light.  Andy was on her side, curled up like a child under the white blanket, her vivid red hair splayed out behind her.  The pattern of light shifted, and he glanced at the TV mounted high up on the wall.  CNN.  Of course.  And the anchors were still speculating on Zoey's fate, as the live shot of the front of the club occupied most of the screen.

He moved quietly to Andy's side, using the remote to turn down the volume before placing the chair next to her bed.  Up close, he could see dried tear tracks on her cheeks, and he wanted to kick himself for leaving her.  He'd been watching her for a few minutes when she opened her eyes unexpectedly, smiling groggily at him.

Toby wondered what she saw in his face, what caused her to reach for his hand and whisper, "Oh, Toby."

He swallowed hard past the tightening in his throat and tried to clear his expression, tried to look happy for her.  They were brand new parents of healthy children, and that had to be worth something.

But Andy had remembered now.  She glanced reflexively at the TV, an expression of sorrow and compassion on her face.  The picture was the same as it had been all night, and the tagline still read "Bartlet Daughter Missing."  She pushed herself up onto the pillows, wincing.  "Toby--"

"Don't," he warned, suppressing his anguish as he fussed over her, tucking the blanket snugly around her shoulders.

She ignored him, as usual, and propped herself up on one elbow, reaching for him with her free hand.  "Has anything--?"

"No," he interrupted, taking her hand between both of his.  "No news."

Andy glanced at the clock, her expression darkening when she realized what time it was.  "Still?"

Toby nodded.  "Yeah."  He knew as well as she did that the longer Zoey was missing, the worse her chances.  The more time that elapsed, the farther from D.C. her captors could have taken her.  Every moment, her trail grew colder.

But while Toby was generally not the most positive of people -- a point Andy had brought into sharp relief only hours before -- he refused to be realistic about Zoey.  He knew horrible things happened every day.  He just couldn't make himself believe that Zoey could be gone.

"How are the Bartlets?" Andy asked quietly.

"I don't know how to answer that question," he admitted.  "I haven't seen Abbey, but CJ said someone's with her."

"A doctor," Andy surmised.

"Yes.  And the President is -- I don't know."  Toby sighed.  "Leo says he's handling it, but won't go into detail.  I'm not sure what to make of that."

Andy nodded slowly.  "The President is an incredibly strong man.  He'll handle it."

"How?" Toby asked, his voice sharper than he intended.  "How can we expect him to handle this?"

Frowning, Andy studied him closely.  "Toby?"

"Never mind."  Toby nodded in the direction of the TV.  "Have you been watching that?"

"A little.  They don't have much in the way of facts, and I think the image of those two agents guarding the front of that club has been burned into my mind."  Her tone was warm.  "Mostly I've been sleeping."  She squeezed his hand.

"Good," Toby decided.  He tried to smile.  "You deserve some rest.  You did some pretty amazing stuff earlier."

She grinned back at him.  "We women are a tough lot."

"I'll say," Toby answered.  Despite the films he'd been forced to watch in their Lamaze classes, he hadn't been entirely convinced his kids would make it out of there alive.  It just hadn't seemed possible.  He gestured vaguely towards her midsection.  "I thought you would, you know..."  He shrugged.  "Deflate more."

"Deflate?" Andy repeated, her tone incredulous.  "Are you saying that I'm bloated?"

"Certainly not," Toby answered.  "But you did expel two small children from in there."

Andy smoothed the blanket over her stomach and studied her shrouded figure.  "I think I have slimmed down quite a lot in the last 24 hours," she announced.  "I bet I could even touch my toes if I wanted."

Toby tried to look impressed, but his heart wasn't in it.  Every time he let himself revel in the fact that the waiting was over, every time he took time out of worrying to remind himself that he was a father, he was hit with terror that he'd be the morose father Andy seemed to expect, and incredible guilt that he could think of himself at a time like this.  How could he rejoice in the birth of his children when Zoey Bartlet was enduring untold horrors, and her parents were torturing themselves with worst-case scenarios?

"Toby?"

Andy had always been able to read him so well.  Perhaps that was a part of the reason their marriage failed; he couldn't hide his anger, he couldn't hide his disappointment.  And, as he'd learned so painfully, he apparently couldn't hide his infectious sadness.  But at least she could answer the questions he was unable to ask.

"I don't want to dwell on," he hesitated, tilting his head towards the TV, "on such sadness tonight."

"Toby." Andy squeezed his fingers.  "Don't do that.  Tell me what's happening."

"Nothing," he answered.  "Considering the sheer number of law enforcement agencies involved in this, we know very, very little about what happened."

She nodded slowly.  "Do we suspect international terrorism?"

"It's a possibility that's being considered. Zoey's boyfriend was high on GHB, but he claims he bought Ecstasy."

"Do they think the dealer was involved?"

"Possibly."

"Qumar?" Andy guessed.  "CNN mentioned something about a possible connection to sleeper cells in the states."

"I'm not in the Situation Room, Andrea.  I don't know the details."

"Yes, you do," she argued, narrowing her eyes as she studied his face.  "Is this because of Abdul Shareef?"

Toby told himself not to react, not to flinch.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's a politician's answer," she muttered.

"Well, I'm a politician."

"Not tonight, you're not," Andy told him.  "Tonight, you're one of the closest friends of a man whose daughter has been abducted."

Toby made a disbelieving noise.  "Leo is the President's friend; I am the President's Communications Director.  He doesn't need me tonight."

"That's not true, Toby.  He needs people he can trust to counsel him right now.  Right now probably more than ever before, because he can't be dispassionate about this."

Toby met Andy's gaze.  "Have you ever known this President to be dispassionate about anything?"

"Don't be argumentative, Toby.  You know what I mean.  And you know that I'm right."

Toby shrugged, frustrated.  "I don't know what I can do to help with this.  I don't want--"  He looked away, swallowed hard.  Andy didn't press, just waited quietly for him to speak.  "I don't want to write the statement I might have to write," he confessed in a harsh whisper.

"You can't think like that," Andy said.  "That's not going to happen.  You need to go back to the White House, and you need to be there when the President calls for you, which you know he'll do."

Toby studied their intertwined hands, her small, pale fingers tangled with his.  "Yeah." ,Toby thought about the arguments he'd had with the President over the years.  He remembered pushing the President to face unpleasant realities, and he wondered if a similar situation was in store for him tonight.  "What if--"  Toby cleared his throat.  "What if the President doesn't want to hear what I have to say?"

Andy lifted one shoulder in a shrug.  "He'll argue for a half hour, he'll yell at you, and then he'll think about it."

Toby tried to block out the nightmare scenarios in his head, he tried to stop thinking about a shouting match in the Oval Office, about military retribution, about a father crazy with grief and rage.

"Toby."  Andy waited until he met her gaze.  "You'll know what to say to him.  He trusts you to tell him the truth."

Toby turned that over for a few moments.  "Yeah," he answered belatedly.  "Okay."

Andy focused on the TV again, dropping back onto the pillows, sliding down a little and settling the blanket over her midsection.  "I wish I could be with the Bartlets," she said quietly.  "I wish I could do something."

"I'll let them know when I see them," he answered.  The thought that had been niggling at him for hours, the idea he'd dismissed resurfaced.  Toby watched Andy, watched the way she seemed to sink into the pillows tiredly.  He told himself it could wait, that they could discuss it later.

Andy rolled onto her side, her intense gaze coming to rest on him.  She didn't speak, but he could tell from the look on her face that she wouldn't let him leave until he told her what he was thinking.

Leaning closer, Toby gently brushed her hair back from her face, pushing it behind her ear, letting it drop to the pillow behind her.  "The Secret Service Agent's name was Molly," Toby said matter-of-factly.  "Molly O'Connor."

Andy watched him wordlessly for a moment, her eyes sparkling.  He couldn't bring himself to suggest it, couldn't risk the words, because he didn't trust his voice.  But he knew Andy would understand.

"Molly Ziegler," she said softly.

Toby swallowed hard.  "Yeah," he managed, his voice rough.  "Molly Wyatt Ziegler."

Andy exhaled slowly, not allowing herself to cry.  "I'm tired, Toby.  I'm going to take a nap."  She smiled at him.  "You should go tell Molly her name."

***

Leo trudged towards his office, feeling every one of his 60 years.  It wasn't just the impossibly late hour, or the dreadful situation with Zoey, or the near miss with the plane, or the thought of doing what he was about to do.  He could have handled any one of those situations, he told himself.  He probably could've handled two of them.  But all at once, it was just too much.

He rounded the corner into Margaret's small office.  She was at her desk, but her head was in her hands, elbows propped on the desk, and he thought for a moment she was asleep.  He was weighing whether to wake her or face her wrath later on when she jerked suddenly upright, wide eyes on him.

"Leo."

"Margaret, I need to make a phone call," he said.

She pushed herself upright.  "Okay.  Would you like some coffee, Leo?"

He shook his head.  "I'm fine."

Margaret gave him her best disapproving look, but her own face was lined with fatigue, so she really had no room to talk.  "It's nearly five o'clock in the morning."

With a tired shrug, Leo gave in.  "Fine, get me some coffee, but get yourself some, too.  Or better yet, go get some sleep."

The set of Margaret's jaw was answer enough.  "I'll get you that coffee."

"Wait," Leo said as she skirted past.  "I really need to make this call now."

Margaret nodded.  "To whom?"

The words stuck in his throat for a moment.  "The Speaker of the House.  Get me Walken on the phone."

Margaret stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending.  Then her mouth dropped open the slightest bit.  "Leo?"

"Margaret, just get me the Speaker."  Leo tried to retreat to his office, but Margaret stuck to him like a burr.

"Leo, the President--"

"Yes, Margaret," he said tiredly.  "He's stepping aside.  Now, please, get me the Speaker."

Margaret gave him her big, hurt eyes for a beat.  "I was going to ask how he was feeling."

"How do you think he's feeling?" Leo snapped, his voice rising in frustration.  "His daughter's vanished, an agent died tonight, there's a ransom note, Margaret!  The President is displaying the ultimate respect for this office by stepping aside, now would you please get me the Speaker of the House on the phone!"

She pursed her lips, but didn't speak, turning towards the door as if to absent herself before Leo had time to apologize.  Later, on a better day, he'd make it up to her.  Tonight, he didn't have the energy.  Tonight, he had to brush up on the Constitution and make sure that blowhard Walken didn't destroy the Presidency (or the nation) during his brief -- God-willing -- tenure as Acting President.

"Leo," Margaret called from her desk.  "Speaker Walken."

Leo took a moment to compose himself, then picked up the phone.  "Mr. Speaker, I apologize for calling at this hour."

"Don't worry about it, Leo," Walken answered churlishly.  "What can I do for you?"

"Are you watching CNN?"

"Should I be?"

"Zoey Bartlet is missing," Leo said by way of an answer.

"I know," the Speaker answered immediately.  "I spoke with Josh Lyman a little after midnight."

"Good," Leo said, refusing to let his irritation seep into his tone.  "Then you know that a Secret Service Agent was killed execution-style in the alley, and Zoey's panic button was found just outside the back door of the club."

"Are we at war?"

"No," Leo answered.  "Not yet.  We're not sure if this is an international incident.  We've got a ransom note from the Bajhi cell, but no confirmation on whether they have her."

"Okay," the Speaker said.  "Leo, I appreciate the update, but I'm not entirely sure why you're calling me--"

"I need you to get to the White House as soon as possible," Leo interrupted.  "The President needs your assistance."

"My assistance," Walken repeated gruffly.

"Yes."

"In what capacity?" Walken asked, his tone carefully neutral, and Leo knew he'd guessed the reason for a call from the White House.

"Until the situation is resolved," Leo answered, doing his best to keep any trace of bitterness out of his voice, "the President is invoking the 25th Amendment."

Silence spooled out on the line.  "Well," the Speaker said finally.  "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you, Mr. Speaker," Leo said, and then he hung up the phone and sat in silence for a long moment.  The situation, the hour, the lack of sleep, the emotional fallout -- it was beginning to hit, but Leo couldn't afford it, not now, not yet.

"Leo," Margaret said quietly from the doorway.  "Coffee."

Leo stood on tired legs and accepted the peace offering.  He held Margaret's gaze.  "Thank you," he said softly.

She smiled.

Leo took a sip of the coffee, hissing when it burned his tongue.

Margaret raised one finger. "Oh.  I made it fresh.  Might be hot.  Want me to add an ice cube?"

Leo rolled his eyes and handed back the mug.  "I need Charlie," Leo said, shifting back into gear.  "Tell him to meet me on the Portico.  I'm going to need the senior staff in about twenty minutes."

***

Hour Seven

"So help me God."

CJ stood in the Oval Office as she had hundreds of times before, but everything was wrong.  This was the wrong situation, the wrong words, and absolutely the wrong man saying them.

Speaker Walken -- President, she corrected herself -- President Walken thanked the federal judge and glanced at the faces staring at him.  His assistants moved closer, flanking him there in front of the President's desk, the move baldly territorial in CJ's opinion.  Then Walken glanced at Leo and said, "Thank you, Leo.  You'll keep me updated?"

Leo's voice was clear and strong when he answered, "Absolutely, sir."

"Okay, then," Walken answered, glancing at the senior staffers.  "Y'all are dismissed."

There was an awkward moment of silence and inaction, when Bartlet's team tried to figure out what protocol demanded of them.  Leo moved first.

"Thank you, Mr. President," Leo said, his expression impassive.  His gaze shifted to Josh, whose terrible poker face revealed his intense disappointment.

Still, Josh straightened his shoulders, nodded to Walken, and said, "Thank you, sir."

Walken studied Josh for a moment, and CJ worried that he'd insist on Josh calling him "Mr. President."  CJ wasn't entirely sure what would follow such a command, but she was pretty sure that Secret Service agents would be involved, and possibly an announcement about a new vacancy on the senior staff.

Thankfully, Walken dipped his chin in acknowledgment.  Then CJ followed Josh's lead.  Then Will, then Toby, then Charlie, and the senior staffers stumbled after Leo through the connecting door to his office.

Leo stopped in front of his desk, fingertips on the polished wood, shoulders just a little bit slumped, from sheer exhaustion or from the events of the past hour, CJ wasn't sure.  He turned when he heard the door click shut.  Josh, Toby, and CJ stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Leo, Will a half-step back, and Charlie leaned against the connecting door, as if he couldn't muster the strength to stand up on his own.

Leo looked at each of them in turn and then nodded.  "I'm going to the Residence to see the President--"

"Which one?" Josh asked quietly.  There was no bitterness in his tone, but disappointment emanated from him in waves.

"Josh," Leo snapped, "this was the President's decision to make--"

"He was wrong," Josh interrupted forcefully.  "He made the wrong decision."

Toby shifted his weight, but didn't look at Josh.  "No, he didn't."

Josh whirled around to face Toby.  "Look, Toby, he should've talked to us--"

"Josh," CJ said quietly, meeting his angry gaze.  It was a futile, pointless argument, and he knew it, but being Josh, he needed to exorcise his anger and his guilt by lashing out at someone.

Josh blew out a frustrated breath.  "Right."  He turned away, walking in a small circle as he ran a hand through his already mussed hair.

"I'm going to the Residence to see the President," Leo repeated with a pointed look at Josh.  When no more remarks were forthcoming, Leo softened his tone.  "I know you'd all like to see him, to sit through this hellish vigil with him, but the best thing you can do for him right now is your jobs."

Will took a tentative step forward.  "I understand that, Leo, but what exactly are our jobs right now?  Is the Speaker-- the--"  He shrugged.  "Is the Acting President going to want us to write his speeches?  Or give his press conferences?"

"This is just temporary," Leo answered firmly.  "It's just until we get Zoey back."

No one said it aloud, but CJ knew they were all thinking the same, horrible thing.  What if they never got Zoey back?

Josh, who had always treated Zoey like the younger sister he never had, was the first to break the silence.  CJ wondered if it was because the thought she might not be found was something he couldn't stand to contemplate.  "Okay," Josh said.  "Until -- until then, we keep the White House running flawlessly, so the real President has no trouble when he resumes his powers."

Leo nodded.  "I'm sure that President Walken is going to want his own people around him, but they're going to have to work out of the OEOB.  This is President Bartlet's White House."

Charlie pushed away from the door.  "I'm going to the Residence," he announced quietly, avoiding the sympathetic looks from CJ, Will, and Josh.

"Charlie," Leo called, "tell him I'll be up in a few minutes."

Charlie nodded and closed the door behind him.

"I've got my phone," Leo told them.  "I'm not leaving this building.  You have a problem, any sort of squabble with the Acting President's staff, you find me and I'll handle it.  Understood?"

"Yeah," Toby answered softly.  "This is a unique situation, and the press is going to be all over us.  We're going to be living in a fishbowl for as long as this lasts.  The President is going to be fighting an uphill battle when he comes back into power, and we can't afford stories about intra-staff squabbles on top of that."

"If that's for me," Josh said, wheeling on Toby, "I'll keep the squabbling to a minimum."

"It wasn't for you," Toby answered, rocking back on his heels as he held Josh's gaze.  "It was for all of us."  He nodded to Leo.  "Will and I will work on the statement."

Leo checked his watch.  "Good.  We've got an hour or so.  CJ, stay out of the press room until after the announcement.  Josh, the staff is going to look to you."

Josh nodded slowly.  "I know."

"Good." Leo moved towards the door.  "I'm going to the Residence."

"Tell him--"  CJ broke off with a shrug.  "Tell him whatever he needs, we're here."

Leo managed half a smile for her.  "I'll tell him."

CJ nodded and watched Leo as he left, his slight limp more pronounced tonight than normal.  Then she glanced at Toby, who wore a somber expression.  Josh had his arms crossed and still looked angry, and Will was fidgeting, just a little.

CJ shrugged.  "So.  What do we do now?"

Toby grimaced and moved towards the door.  "Will and I have the announcement."

Will nodded at CJ and followed his boss, leaving Josh and CJ alone in Leo's office.  They exchanged a look, and Josh gave his unruly hair another swipe.

"What do we do now?" he asked, repeating her question.

"Yeah," CJ answered.

"Hell if I know."

THE END

06.02.03