Lethal Trajectories - Michael Conley [115]
41
The White House
9 October 2017
Clayton McCarty did what he could to gird himself for his bedside visit with President Burkmeister. Doctor Toomay’s late-night notification that the president had taken a serious turn for the worse had shortened his already sparse hours of rest. That the president was requesting a seven o’clock meeting this morning was still more alarming. While hoping for the best, Clayton prepared for the worst as the president’s butler, Randall Whitehead, arrived to escort him to the president’s bedroom.
“How is he doing, Randall?” Clayton asked, not really expecting an answer from the usually reserved butler.
“Not very well, I’m afraid, Mr. Vice President,” answered Randall with genuine concern in his voice. “He had a difficult night, and he’s been bedridden since. Doctor Toomay has been with him all night.”
Clayton, surprised that the taciturn Randall would say this much, replied, “Thanks, Randall, that’s helpful to know.”
Even with Randall’s forewarning, he was unprepared for the scene that awaited him. The president, looking frail and spent, sat in his bed with an IV bottle dripping an unknown substance into his body.
“Come in, Clayton,” Burkmeister called out weakly.
“Thank you, Mr. President. How are you feeling?”
“Not so good, as I’m sure you can guess from these confounded IV bottles. Doc Toomay’s magic formula is supposed to make me better.” Toomay winced.
“In fact, while you’re here, Randall, could you give me a hand? I need to use the john before Clayton and I talk.” Randall crossed the room in a flash to escort the president to the bathroom only a few feet away. Clayton took the opportunity to question Dr. Toomay.
“Doc, what happened? I simply can’t believe how quickly he’s gone downhill since the diagnosis. Is it normal to decline this fast?”
“The word ‘normal’ is hard to define in situations like this, Mr. Vice President. Every patient seems to take a different pathway, but the short answer is yes, the president’s rate of decline is quite remarkable.”
“It just doesn’t make sense, Doc. He looked just fine up to a few weeks ago, though he was troubled by stomach pains. This doesn’t make sense.”
“Hindsight is always perfect, Mr. Vice President, but we can tell now, after many medical tests, that he was a very sick man for quite some time before his diagnosis. He had two things going for him that helped hide his true condition: First, he was in relatively good health at the onset of his illness and had a lot of natural resistance to the more unpleasant early stage effects of the disease. Second, he has a high pain threshold that disguised the severity of his condition. Weight loss, lack of appetite, stomach pain or indigestion … none of those symptoms seem unusual in someone in an immensely stressful position. It wasn’t until he himself reported severe abdominal pain and I noticed signs of jaundice that we even thought to look deeper.”
Doc Toomay’s explanation sounded plausible, but Clayton wondered if the good doctor might not be covering his fanny a little. Still, he doubted anything could have been done even if the symptoms had been caught earlier.
Just then, the president returned, and after being helped back into bed he dismissed Doc Toomay and Randall.
“Clayton,” he said, “I had an attack last night that made me realize I might not pull through the next one. I’m not even sure I will be alive for the succession ceremony, let alone functional as president, considering the heavy dosages of painkillers I’m taking.”
Shocked, Clayton managed to reply, “I fully understand, Mr. President. I will work through this with you in any manner you want.”
“Thanks, Clayton,” he replied with a weak smile, “I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I have little choice. I’d like to send out an announcement this morning saying the succession will take place in the Oval Office tomorrow. Come