Chapter 12

"FOXNEWS has learned that sixteen-year-old Kevin Townsend, the Congressional Page who was tragically wounded while attempting to stop the assassination of President Gray, was rushed to Walter Reed Medical Center, earlier today, for what we are told are 'very serious complications, ' from his gunshot wounds.

"Sources tell us that Kevin was found nearly unconscious, suffering from internal bleeding and other undisclosed lingering challenges related to his gunshot wounds.

"Kevin's complications are being described as life threatening.

"Inquiries into Kevin's condition and expectations for recovery are being ignored at both the White House and Walter Reed Medical Center.

"When we have more information, you will find it right here on FOXNEWS." The reporter was standing right outside the hospital entrance, as she gave her report, which was nearly word for word, what Shane's people leaked.

I was worried that Constance might be frightened when she saw the news, but couldn't think of anything I could do about it. Hawk was keeping my real condition a secret from everyone who worked for him. Not even his Chief-of-Staff knew anything was going on.

For two days I rested, took some aggressive physical therapy, and practiced being sick, weak, and dying, under Kate's watchful eyes. They were fanatically determined that I not make any mistake in my behavior that would give away the game. Everything hinged on Bradford deciding he could kill me himself, or ordering someone on his staff to kill me, which would open the floodgates of an investigation that might get to the people really pulling the strings.

Though Kate had medical training, she was a thoroughly trained bodyguard, just like Winnie Jamison, The Judge picked her for the same reason he picked Winnie years ago. She was good at what she did and dedicated to her job. When Kate discovered I had a Glock in my jacket pocket she demanded to know why.

"I've carried this since I got shot the first time. It was a good thing, because I was hung out to dry more than once and would be dead, except that I had it to protect myself."

My answer did not please her, but the Judge eventually overruled her.

For three days targeted leaks were made to the media about my supposed serious condition. Networks and papers alike picked up on the story and ran with it, interviewing Congressional pages that supposedly knew me and everyone from schoolmates to the employees at the children's home. They also recycled and added the same drivel obtained after I was shot to demonstrate what a great guy I was, and how sad it was that I was so seriously ill.

When the leaks changed to good news, the networks obediently reported all about that, making up anything they couldn't get from their 'sources.' For two days they reported that I was to be released from the hospital at any time, and that 'highly placed sources' in the Dryden Administration said that my only wish was to work in the White House, before I died.

After that, the public pretty much DEMANDED Hawk Dryden find a job for me at Sixteen-Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue, and surprise, surprise, other sources leaked the news that the President was considering it. The leaks also stated that I would be a guest at Camp David, with extra medical support, until my health was deemed stable. By the time Kate and George accompanied me back to the Kirby's carriage house, everybody knew I was going to receive my greatest, and possibly last wish, to work for the President as soon as my delicate health allowed it. The decision to move me back to Kirby's was to avoid the lengthy commute from Camp David. I was starting to get vertigo from all the moving around.

That news seemed to make everybody happy with the exception of whoever it was that wanted me dead.

On the morning of my first work day, Kate carefully straightened my tie, and George pushed my chair right through the front doors of the White House, much to the pleasure of the news people, who obediently recorded every second of my arrival for the nine o'clock news cycle. Kate fussed over my coat and a fleece blanket thrown across my lap for warmth, and the White House corps went far out of their way to make me feelwelcome and look out for me.

I felt like a total fraud, riding in a wheelchair and being treated like it was my final days, but the mission was the important thing. I was briefed on the current Vice President's use of his offices in the Old Executive Office Building, where I was sent to sort mail, return simple phone calls, and organize paperwork for actual important people.

My alcove and desk just happened to be adjacent to the Vice President's offices, and he had to pass me every time he entered or left. If I was on his hit list, my presence right under his nose had to rub him like a burr under the saddle of a working quarter horse.

We were counting on it.

Each time he walked past, I perked up, smiled, and said, "Good Morning Mr. Vice President." Later in the day I said, "Good afternoon, Mr. Vice President. And by late afternoon, I changed my greeting just a bit. "Good night Mr. Vice President."

My cheerful demeanor and never ending courtesy would wear at him, IF he were our suspect. If not, then he was properly greeted more times than he thought necessary.

What are you going to do?

At lunchtime, Kate came to collect me and roll me to the White House dining room. She made a big fuss over how tired I appeared and insisted we stop while she checked my blood pressure, temperature, and oxygen saturation. Scores of White House employees saw that bit of medical concern, and some dutifully reported it to the White House press corps in time to be mentioned at six o'clock.

That first afternoon I had another part to play in our charade. When I texted her, Kate came for me and pushed me to the LADIES restroom, chased out the occupants (telling them she had to 'help' me with my personal needs, ) and locked the door behind them to be certain we had privacy. Just in case someone used their key, she undressed me from the waist up and treated my gunshot wounds, although they looked fine.