Gordon waved awkwardly with his left hand as Bristol held his right captive. Every so often he pointed at a face in the crowd. People jumped to punch balloons into the air. The cheering went on and on. Bristol — the consummate campaigner — held Gordon in that pose far longer than Gordon felt comfortable. The grin was frozen on his face and felt unnatural. He looked over to see that Bristol’s grin looked the same as always — never quite natural, never obviously staged.
A small red dot wiggled on Bristol’s bunched-up jacket. It took a moment for Gordon to realize what he saw. In that moment the dot settled squarely on Bristol’s chest. Gordon hurled himself into the larger man.
The boom of a rifle shot sounded almost instantaneously. Gordon’s momentum carried the two men to the hard floor. They landed in a heap — Gordon on top of Bristol. He rolled off. Screams rose up from the crowd. They were behind the podium. Milliseconds seemed like an eternity. ‘No,’ Bristol said just before the podium began to shatter into pieces. Gordon felt the hot daggers in his face, neck, and pelvis. Holes exploded through the podium one at a time. Brilliant footlights shone brightly through each. Bristol’s body shook and lurched against Gordon. Searing pain shot through Gordon’s chest.
Lights hung from the ceiling over the stage. They were hidden from view by short curtains. Like the bottom of his parents’ dining room table. Like the raw wood underneath the bright polish.
Strings of firecrackers like Chinese New Year in long bursts. ‘Cease fire! Cease fire! a half-dozen men shouted.
The man on top of Gordon rose. None too soon because his weight had crushed the breath out of him. The cool air washed across his soaking chest. Gordon tried but couldn’t draw any of it in. He needed the breath for the words he so desperately wanted to speak. Instead, he just mouthed them over and over and over again. ‘I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot.’
Chapter Ten
The snippets of sound and fleeting images whirled around the spinning, sweat-soaked bed. Gordon Davis was so nauseous and drained that he couldn’t quite regain consciousness. It was as if he’d tumbled into dark water. He didn’t know which way was up. But he saw the anguished face of Elaine. How she gasped for breath as she sobbed like a child. He felt the plastic mask on his face. He heard voices calling out to him from the surface.
‘Can you hear me?’ a man asked over and over. His voice was deep. He was so close Gordon could feel the man’s breath. There was an awful, steely taste in Gordon’s mouth when he swallowed. His eyes were pried open and a painfully bright light appeared.
It was dark again when he lifted his head. Pain split his skull in two. It fell back into the cold, sweaty pillow. Fleeting images of ghostly forms rushed to his bedside in his dreams.
‘Can you hear me?’ someone asked. Gordon’s eyes drifted open. It was a man — a silver-haired man — in a dark suit. Gordon stared at the ceiling tiles in the brightly-lit room. He swallowed the fiery bile that threatened to erupt in a gush from his stomach. ‘I concur,’ he heard several times amid a confusing jumble of words. They came from different people and different places scattered around Gordon’s bed. He tried to lift his head, but pain burst from his abdomen like a tearing of tissues. He collapsed in agony — his eyes jammed closed.
But not before he saw the curtain of men in suits that ringed his bed.
Questions. He was being questioned by someone. Prompted. With his eyes dosed, he tried his best to croak out the reply the silver-haired man expected. Mere fragments were all he caught. Words that he just repeated. He swallowed over and over to wet his parched mouth. ‘Swear… solemnly swear’… something. And ‘protect and defend.’ He remembered those words. ‘Protect and defend.’
Gordon opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed in through open curtains. ‘He’s up!’ Gordon heard a man shout. It was followed by the rustling sound of a newspaper and the sudden appearance of several men in suits.
‘Ex-cu-u-use me,’ a nurse said — elbowing her way through the crowd.
‘Get everybody in here,’ one of the men whom Gordon didn’t recognize ordered. ‘Now!’
‘Good morning!’ the nurse said. She fiddled with the drip hanging over his bed and checked her watch. ‘How do you feel?’
Her voice had the casual sound of a day at work. Gordon realized he was in a hospital.
‘Terrible,’ Gordon mumbled. He licked his lips with a dry tongue. The nurse knew exactly what he wanted. She held up a cup with a lid like the one they’d used for the girls when they were toddlers. She let him have only the tiniest sip before pulling it away.
‘Ah-ah-a-a-h!’ she said. ‘Not too much.’
Behind her grew a wall of men — none of whom Gordon recognized. The door opened and closed repeatedly as the bedside continued to fill. He saw Fein. He saw Bristol’s campaign manager.
He saw Elaine, for whom the crowd parted. She was crying. But there was a smile on her face as she leaned over and hugged him. Gordon felt the wet tears on his cheeks. It was only when he felt a strange tug that he realized some kind of tube was stuck down his nose. His own eyes filled with moisture.
‘Go-o-ordon,’ Elaine cooed. ‘Oh, my sweet darling husband. Gordon, I love you so much.’
‘Elaine,’ Gordon managed. ‘I’ve… I’ve been shot.’
‘I know, honey. I know all about it. And you’re gonna be fine. Everything’s gonna be all right!’ She stared at him through tears and a smile, then lowered her head to his shoulder. ‘Oh, Gordon,’ she whispered, ‘I was so scared. I was so, so scared.’ The floodgates opened now. He could feel her shaking against him. He cried too, but few tears materialized.
When she rose, she smiled and sniffed. She wiped her cheeks clean with two swipes of her hand. She didn’t, however, take the other hand from where she’d lain it flat on Gordon’s chest underneath his gown.
‘The girls?’ Gordon asked.
‘They’re outside,’ Elaine said. She turned to the crowd — now four or five deep all around. Gordon looked at them too. ‘But… there’s some business these people need to attend to first, Gordon.’
She looked back down. She must have sensed something in his face. She bent over to whisper in his ear — her cool tend rising to cup his cheek. ‘Do you remember what happened, Gordon?’
‘I… I was on a stage.’
‘No, I mean after that? Last night.’ He thought for a moment, then shook his head. She spoke softly. Calmly. Clearly. ‘Phil Bristol is dead, Gordon. He was shot too, don’t you remember? You tried to save him, but it was too late.’ He shook his head again. He now realized what she was saying. ‘You’re the President, Gordon. The President of the United States. You were sworn in last night. You took the oath, can’t you remember?’ He shook his head. ‘But there was a competency vote. The Speaker of the House is the acting President. These men are here to take another vote. They’re here to vote whether you’re competent now to assume office.’
Gordon panned the faces around his bed. President Marshall’s outgoing cabinet. Would-be nominees for the same posts in Bristol’s Administration. My Administration, he thought. His head spun with the unbelievable truth of it.
‘Where’s President Marshall?’ Gordon asked — slurring the words drunkenly.