I woke up a second time in the same place, but things seemed a little clearer. I was able to open my eyes, and the ceiling above whatever I was on had tiles and what looked like wires and hangers and medical type stuff around me. I was able to twist my head slightly to the right, and I saw some medical equipment, and I could hear a BEEP ... BEEP ... BEEP like on some hospital show on television. I could hear a few muted voices, but maybe that was on that hospital show. I tried to speak, but my mouth was pretty dry. I turned to look at my left, but didn't make it that far.
The third time was the charm. I came to and felt awake and conscious. I was able to turn my head and actually see that I was hooked up to a monitor that was showing my pulse and breathing and blood pressure, and it was obvious that I was in a hospital bed. A nurse was down at the end, and she was talking to somebody on a phone. And my wife was there. Marilyn was sitting in a chair staring at me and crying. What happened? Was I dead, and I was now in some out-of-body experience watching people hover around my corpse.
"What happened?" I tried to say it again, but it was just hoarse croaking. The nurse came over with a small cup of water and a flexible straw, which she held to my lips. Marilyn was now standing on the other side, and holding my hand in a death grip. The nurse only let me drink a bit, and I moved my tongue around to wet everything. Then I had another sip, and could ask, fairly clearly, "What happened? Where am I?"
"Oh, God, Carl, you were shot!", exclaimed Marilyn.
I gave her a funny look. "No, I wasn't shot! Where am I?"
At that point, a couple of doctor types came in. "Good morning, Mister President.", said the first one. "Yes, you were shot. You are in the Shock Trauma Center in Baltimore." The pair of them began peering at me and poking and prodding and shining lights in everything.
"Hey, wouldn't it hurt if I had been shot?"
The second one snorted. "Trust me, sir, you'll be feeling it soon enough."
"Who are you?"
The second guy said, "I'm Doctor Hawley. This is Doctor Renfrew. He's the surgeon. I'm the infectious disease guy."
"Infectious ... what the hell is going on?", I demanded.
"You were shot last Friday, at the Symphony, sir. They brought you here, and we got the bullet out, but then you got an infection, and it was pretty bad.", answered Renfrew, the first doctor.
I looked at my wife. "Last Friday!? What day is it now?"
"Wednesday. You've been unconscious for over four days!" She squeezed my hand.
"Four..." I shook my head in disbelief. "What happened?" Nobody answered that.
I looked around the room, and noticed that there was an agent, one of my detail in the corner, and he was nodding his head. "Welcome back, Mister President. Director Basham will explain it to you. He's on his way over now."
"Who's running the country now?"
"John was named Acting President.", answered my wife.
My eyes popped open at that phrase! "I think I've seen this movie before! Let's hope it doesn't end the same way."Marilyn broke down at that and bent down over me, and simply began to hug me and cry. My right arm was relatively free, and I brought it up to rub her back, and in doing so, I felt that pain I had been expecting, in my chest. That made me groan, and I looked over at Renfrew. "Where was I shot? What happened?"
The agent nodded to the doctors, and Doctor Renfrew answered, "You took a bullet to the upper right chest. It wasn't really big or powerful, but it went through one of your ribs and ended up in your right lung. You were brought here, and we were able to get it out fairly quickly, but you got an infection, either from the shooting or from here in the hospital, and we've been treating that since then."
Doctor Hawley added, "It was pretty serious. We've kept you unconscious and on some pretty heavy antibiotics and painkillers for a few days. Yesterday you began to improve, so we began backing off on the sedatives, and here you are, awake again."
"Huh. Four days. I guess I'm not all that important after all.", I mused, smiling. "So, I'm going to live?"
"Probably another thirty or forty years, sir, at least.", Hawley answered with a smile.
I snorted and smiled at that, as Marilyn rubbed my head. "Twenty, twenty-five, max, Doc. Alzheimer's, strokes, and dementia run in my family. I doubt I'll make it much past 70 and still be functioning."
"Carl! Your mother is still alive, and she's 77!"
"She's hanging in there long enough to drive a stake through my heart.", I said, laughing. That hurt, too. "When can I get out of here?"
"You're still in pretty rough shape, sir. Not for a few more days."
I just nodded at that, and the two doctors began doing some more prodding and poking. Then the agent interjected and said, "Director Basham is here."
I looked at the doctors. "Unless you are going to open me up again, I need to speak to some people. Okay?"
"We'll be back, sir, along with your regular doctor."
They went out the door, and Ralph Basham came in past them. He had been one of the Three Amigos, and when Brian Stafford, the previous director had retired, I had named Basham his replacement. I was able to wave my fingers at him. "Hi, Ralph. Is it good morning or good afternoon?"
"Good afternoon, Mister President.", he answered formally. "I am here to apologize for what happened, and to tender my resignation." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. "My deputy is outside to receive your orders."
"Good Christ.", I muttered. "Ralph, why don't you tell me what happened and let me be the one to decide whether you need to leave? All I know so far is that somebody shot me. What happened?"
He came closer and laid the envelope on the bed next to me, but I ignored it. "Yes, sir. We caught the shooter, so we have it figured out. Have you ever heard of a Robert Mooradian?"
"Who?"
"Robert Mooradian."
I searched my memory, but nothing leaped out. "Sorry. Should I?"
"No, sir, but we have to ask anyway. He's a 25 year old carpet salesman from East Patchogue, Long Island. For want of a better phrase, he's not wrapped all that tight." I nodded, and motioned for Basham to continue. "He's a third generation Armenian carpet salesman. His grandfather came to this country shortly before the Second World War, and reportedly told his children and grandchildren about the Armenian Massacre by the Ottoman Turks during the First World War. Most of his family was killed, and he escaped and eventually landed in New York."
"Okay, I've heard of it, but what's that got to do with me?", I asked.
"Well, like I said, this guy, the grandson, he isn't quite all there. Gramps complained about the Turks to all his kids and grandkids, but in general they considered themselves American, and they simply put up with grumpy old Grandpa when he got on one of his rants. The grandson, Robert, he decided that when you went to Turkey and helped them attack Iraq, it was like you were attacking Armenia."
"That's crazy!", I protested.
"That may well be the eventual diagnosis, Mister President.", he admitted.
"So, how did he get close enough to shoot me?"
"He basically got up to the rope line. It looks like he began to track your movements from the time you got home from Europe, but hadn't been able to figure out how to get to one of your campaign stops. Then he learned about your annual appearance at the Symphony and drove down, hoping to get lucky. He stole a gun from an uncle, a long retired transit cop who lives in Queens. You got lucky there. It was a forty year old .38 snub nose with even older ammunition, and it had degraded with time. He got three shots off and then the gun jammed."