Of course not!

It had been very quiet in the Oval Office when the President had spoken to him. Or rather, with him. The President had spoken with him. It had been late in the afternoon, sun streaming in through the half-closed blinds behind that magnificent burnished oak desk. And the President had stood just to the side of the desk, his eyes small with fatigue and the lines of his face sloping downward. The burden of power? The heavy weight of responsibility? (The former had a better ring to it, he thought.)

Yes, very striking and lovely. Really lovely. If he had been able to, if it had been appropriate - and, of course, he knew it wasn’t - he would have asked to snap off a roll right there. Ah, well, missed chances. He had a lifetime of them.

The clock on the wall was fast, and he waited a few extra minutes. The sour taste of a lunch long-past lingered in his mouth, and he wished for a drink to wash it away. A slow, leisurely drink; that’d be good. Or maybe just a cigarette - a nice, long drag. That’d be good, too. He'd have time for that later, though. Time and time upon time...

What was the time?

He glanced at his watch. It was time to look. Time to see what had happened. He knew what had happened. Didn’t everyone, by now? But it was time to see if there was anything that he could hand over to the Secret Service, or the FBI, or whoever was in charge now. Not that he wanted to deal with them…and as he thought about it now, he didn’t have to, did he? He hoped not; that was not his responsibility. The President had asked for them, not anyone else. The President would take care of distributing the pictures as he saw fit. That would be enough, quite enough, and he would have done enough.

And he had already done so much!

Carefully, he unclipped the first glossy print from the line. He held it between his thumb and his forefinger, just barely touching the corner. It was blurred somewhat - he’d been facing the opposite direction, and he’d had to turn around. He’d almost broken his ankle, too; Ellen had been complaining for months that he needed to lose some weight, and that one-footed spin had finally convinced him that she was right. (He’d never say that to her face, though.)

He rubbed the paunch of his belly and grimaced. Ellen was right. He was too big, and that was really what had gotten him into this, wasn’t it? If he’d moved a bit more quickly, he could have been in the limo with the President, where he should have been. He was supposed to stay with the President; his job was to photograph the President, get his image for posterity. Instead, he’d ended up standing around in the sun, feeling the food settle heavy and thick in his gut.

If he had been with the President, he would have missed it.

He squinted, then shoved the glasses further up his nose, sniffed a bit as he did so. Mmm, there. And there. Yes, even though the picture was fuzzy, it was still easy to see everyone’s positions. There was Lyman. Lyman had been in front, and judging from the white shine glinting off the head of the other shape, Ziegler had been next to him. Ziegler’s arms were outstretched, and Lyman was pointing a finger in his direction. They’d been arguing. Or rather, they had been "debating," as they called it. Arguing, debating, tomato, tomahto. It was all the same to him. Their voices had been loud, strident, and annoying. As usual.

In the dim light, his fingers fumbled a little as he reached for the next picture. Oh, yes. She had looked good that day. CJ Cregg. Claudia Jean, that was her full name. And what a woman. She didn’t talk to him much, she had no reason to, and that was fine by him. The less they spoke, the more he could imagine, and why ruin the fantasy with reality? Sometimes, when he and Ellen fulfilled their marital duties (which, sadly, wasn’t too often, anymore), he thought of her, of Claudia Jean. Other times, he thought of the girl behind the counter at the camera supply shop. That was nice, too.

Yes, Claudia Jean had looked good that day, very stylish in that suit. The suit was ruined now, of course. She had been standing right next to him, right next to Seaborn, when it happened. Naturally, the suit had been ruined almost immediately. Too bad. She’d looked so sharp that day. Every curve outlined just right, just the way he liked it. But all that blood… He shuddered and sniffed some more. All that blood, all over the skirt and even the jacket. She’d probably thrown the suit in the trash as soon as she’d gotten home.

Damn! Speaking of ruined, he’d really blown the next frame. Shot the ground. Real nice there, huh? Great shot of the grass. Stupid, his finger must have slipped, or he must have tripped, or - he didn’t know. He had been holding the camera pretty tightly, and he’d been running, trying to get closer. Oh, and how Ellen had raked him over the coals for that:

What, are you trying to get yourself killed, too?

This world is full of psycho-maniacs, and you run up to one?

What are you, a fool?

He felt an ache where his jaw clenched tightly. A fool? Hardly.

The desire for a drink returned now, just the thought of it tickling his tongue. His wife had been happy enough when she’d seen the advance from the first magazine. Yes, they’d all wanted the pictures, but he’d held out, waited till he got a respectful offer. (Granted, he hadn’t waited all that long. Just a day or two. But it was worth it.) With a last, lingering look, he carefully placed the picture of CJ – Claudia Jean - onto the table. He let it cover that of Lyman and Ziegler.

He heaved out a sigh, winced as his stomach growled. He was hungry. Ellen would have been disappointed, but he couldn't help it. Or, at least, she would have acted disappointed. (He doubted she actually felt anything at all, anymore.) Still... He'd have a salad then, instead of his usual meat-and-potatos lunch. He picked up another picture, surveyed it, felt his stomach rumble once more. A salad, every day? Maybe every other day.

He rolled his shoulders, moved his fingers to see the whole view. It had happened so fast. He’d just spun around, so the edges of the frame were worthless. Yes, every other day; that was far more reasonable. The center of the frame was good, though: he could make out the gun and, of course, Seaborn. Seaborn was a little blurry, but that was to be expected.

Poor guy. He seemed so surprised. Then again, why wouldn’t he be? It had to hurt, getting shot like that. Someone had started to scream then, then everyone else joined in, screaming and running around. Crazy - it had been absolutely crazy! He’d begun to duck, then quickly realized that it was worthless to stay on the ground. The camera was out and ready, and his finger was in position, prepared to press down. He knew it was Pulitzer material as soon as he’d seen the view in the lens.

Pulitzer material!

He wasn't a journalist; he'd never win a Pulitzer. But that didn't really matter now, did it? (It did - just a little.) Right here, in his hand, were the covers to Life, Time, and Newsweek. Had the kids not already finished college - having slept through their respective careers at NYU and Berkeley - this would have more than paid for both of them. Ellen wanted him to store the advance in some stock portfolio, but…well, damn it! It was his money. And, after all, it had been his ass on the line when those guns had been going off all around him. Screw Ellen and screw her investment accounts, too. This money belonged to him, hard-earned and his alone. He wanted to sail to the Bahamas with this money, to watch the line between the water and the horizon melt together in the late afternoon.

He'd heard that Seaborn liked to sail. And he’d heard that Seaborn spent the holidays in the Bahamas, too. Poor Seaborn. Too bad things had turned out the way they had, but like the saying went: What's one man’s poison is another man’s…another man’s…?

He couldn’t remember, but it was on the tip of his tongue. He shook his head. Maybe it would come to him later. Anyway, it was all kind of lucky, in a way. Not lucky, exactly. But, from a certain perspective, advantageous.

He tilted the picture, then his head. Not for Seaborn, though. No, definitely not lucky for him. The first shot, the screaming, more shooting, and then yet more shooting, and then, through the lens, he had seen the telltale splotch of blood in the near distance. He’d kept shooting (Shooting? Shooting! He smiled; he'd been shooting, too!), he couldn’t stop, and he’d had plenty of film. He’d gotten as close as possible, but Ziegler had pushed past him. Ziegler had, in fact, almost knocked him down. He’d known enough to get out of the way of Lyman, but Ziegler - who was almost as big as he was - proved to be shockingly fast.

He shifted his weight from one foot to another, picked up the next picture. As soon as he’d gotten his bearings, he’d moved to the edge of the little group. They hadn’t noticed him, but that lack of awareness was really a testament to his talent, he thought. No one ever noticed him, and that was the way it was supposed to be. That was the way he was supposed to be. Inconspicuous. It was strange, always trying to be invisible; what was strange about it was that it was so easy.

In-con-spi-cu-ous.

They’d been so focused on Seaborn. Poor Claudia Jean, she’d been closest to him. She was to the right of center in the photo, her suit already stained as she held Seaborn in her arms. He lay halfway on her lap, his legs askew on the ground. Lyman was next to them, two hands pressing down on Seaborn’s shoulder, trying to staunch the flow of blood that had splattered over Claudia Jean’s sedately colored suit.

He couldn’t see Ziegler clearly. He’d been behind the man, and the focus was off - too close. He hadn’t been able to get much more than his back and one hand. The next shot was no better, even though he’d moved a little to the side. Ziegler was on his knees, bent over Seaborn. That had been when they had found it.

So sad, really, that second wound. If Ziegler hadn’t seen it, they’d never have known. As he remembered it (and his memory was quite good - even Ellen admitted it), Lyman had been screaming for help. Then Ziegler must have seen it, because he spoke, said something too soft to hear. Lyman had quieted immediately.

When he squinted, he could see a hand: one hand and part of another. The hands belonged to Ziegler; Ziegler had ripped open Seaborn’s shirt. And there it was, right there in the next frame. A small hole - no more than a dark dot in the picture. Not big and nasty-looking like the shoulder wound, but small. Almost no blood at all.

Except for the screaming, and the sirens, and the sound of the camera, it had been silent. Seaborn had said something then, had lifted his head from Claudia Jean’s lap, presumably so he could see what everyone else was looking at. Maybe he had wondered why Lyman had stopped talking. Or maybe it had been the adrenalin. And he’d said something…what was it? "It’s not so bad…"

Lyman had almost started to laugh at that. Not really laughed. More like a weak smile and a few hysterical gasps as he told Seaborn to save his breath, stay calm. He’d moved to the side again, to get a shot of Lyman’s face. Shock. No surprise, that. He’d felt shocked, too. Not so bad…

When he saw it, he hadn’t been so sure about that.

The next picture was a mess, not at all useful. It was too blurry, but he knew what had happened. Claudia Jean had whispered something to Ziegler, shifted her hand to point downward while still holding Seaborn. Ziegler had followed her gesture and looked down (his back was to the camera again, no good!), and that’s when he’d seen the blood on the ground. Ziegler had moved too suddenly, and his head completely blocked this frame.

He’d had to lean over further to get a clear shot. Very uncomfortable, but he’d managed to get Ziegler’s shoulder out of the center of the frame. He could see it then. Blood all over Claudia Jean’s skirt and on the ground, too. Too much blood to have come from the shoulder wound, and then Ziegler had moved again, bending down a little further. It was perfect; it had been all he needed to get a good shot.

Ziegler had looked at Claudia Jean, and she’d cradled Seaborn in her arms when Ziegler shifted the younger man onto his side. There’d been an awful sound: a soft, terrible groan from Seaborn. No way to get the sound of that on film, but he’d gotten a very good reaction shot of Lyman. Lyman had been completely focused on Seaborn’s face, talking to him, his voice rapid and breathy. What had he been saying? The same soothing litany of reassurances? Stay calm, don't talk, I'm right here, we're all right here, you're going to be fine, I've got you, buddy, you're going to be fine, you'll see, just fine. Was that what Lyman had been murmuring to his friend? He shrugged; it didn’t really matter.

And there…there it was, in this shot. A gaping hole in the back of Seaborn’s jacket, and all that blood. It covered the jacket, and Claudia Jean’s skirt, and there was still more on the ground. Not so bad, indeed. Lyman’s mouth was wide open. He’d stopped speaking when he’d seen it. Just in front of him, Seaborn had managed to get one hand free. He’d placed his hand on Lyman’s wrist, his fingers hanging onto the cuff.

Had he gotten that? He quickly picked up the next photo. Yes, he’d gotten that; he’d tightened up the focus and gotten it in a close-up. Such a great sense of tension in Seaborn’s fingers, in the way the expensive material of Lyman’s suit strained in his grip. He’d gotten another reaction shot from Lyman, too. There it was. With some difficulty, Lyman had shifted his gaze away from that huge hole in Seaborn’s back to look at his friend’s face. Not shock now, not anymore. Only fear. So expressive.

Lyman and Seaborn were good friends; everybody knew that. Seaborn was friends with everyone. Or was he? He’d heard someone say that in the mess, but didn't believe it - after all, who could be friends with everyone? (Why would anyone want to be?) And Seaborn was Lyman’s best friend. He’d heard that in the mess, too. Like brothers.

He wondered about that. Lyman could be so hard to get along with, arrogant and smug. Really acted like he was the boss. Always thought he could order people around.

Not him!

He didn’t answer to Lyman, he answered to the President. He wasn't some secretary or clerk. Not that he didn’t feel for Lyman; on the contrary, he did. It had been such a powerful moment, so much bristling electric energy in the air. He’d felt it. He’d really felt it so sharply, too. He was a modest man, he thought, but…but didn’t that energy show in this picture? He hoped it did; he was almost sure it did. And that energy - his energy! - was going to be on the front page of every newspaper, every magazine, every telecast around the world.

Energy. Poor Seaborn. Seaborn had energy, even while bleeding to death. He’d been talking while he lay sprawled on the ground. His voice hadn’t sounded too bad, either, but what he had said was absurd (the poor man had, of course, been in complete shock): "It’s not bad…doesn’t even hurt. Josh? Josh?"

Lyman’s response at the sound of his own name had been beautiful: he'd opened his mouth to respond, and his expression was a heady mixture of fear, worry, and...and something ineffable, something that no words could describe. No words could describe that look on Lyman's face, or on the faces of Claudia Jean and Ziegler, but the picture held it captive, freezing it precisely. It would be in books for years to come.

The next one would be, too. Almost as soon as he had spoken Lyman's name, Seaborn’s eyes had widened, and his hand had dropped from Lyman’s wrist to fall on the ground. His eyes (thank goodness he’d loaded up that extra roll of color film!), those blue eyes suddenly went blank, still open. Blank and open, staring up. Dead. Right there, right in front of them, and he had caught it. What a moment! So vivid, and the contrast was just right.

That's when everyone else had rushed in - the Secret Service and others. So many people. Everywhere, rushing in from all around him. He'd been pushed to the side, and instead of being allowed to continue his work, he'd been cast to the edge of the ever-growing group of paramedics and security agents. Too bad; it would have been good to get more shots of Lyman, Claudia Jean, and Ziegler. (He'd seen them afterwards, as they were escorted away - red-eyed, still crying, bloody, looking lost.) Another missed opportunity. These pictures were all he had of that day, of those few, busy minutes. And he'd been lucky to get them, too.

There was a knock at the door, and he looked up, feeling startled and a little irritated at the interruption. He looked up, staring ahead blearily. He opened the door a crack.

"Mr. Shanahan?"

He nodded. Oh, right, Ron Butterfield. He was supposed to pick up the pictures. He held up a finger at the tall, mustached man, signaling for him to wait as he retrieved the photos still hanging from the line. He turned his back to Butterfield and sorted through the photos on the table. He needed to keep a few. He and Ellen had talked about it, and a book deal was definitely in order. He hurriedly sorted through the photos and handed a small pile to Butterfield. A moment passed as Butterfield glanced through them. He sighed, fidgted a little on his feet. Butterfield nodded his thanks, not really looking at him, and exited.

He shut the door and switched the light on again, inspecting the pictures he still had. He’d kept the last few, hadn’t he? God, he hoped so; they were the best of the bunch. Oh, good, right there. He held up the last photo, his gaze lingering on Seaborn’s empty stare. A very powerful moment. Not everyone had the chance to photograph something so powerful, so raw. (Right place, right time, Ellen said.) And he had been there to capture it. He leaned back, continuing to examine the picture. It had happened right in front of him.

He smiled, imagining the changes that would come in the next few days. They’d have to get a second phone line to handle all the calls, and he’d probably even need an agent to take care of the interview requests.

He shook his head, feeling slightly ashamed. Here he was, cashing in on Seaborn's death. On a national tragedy. On the tragedy of a nation? (The former sounded better, he thought.) Poor Seaborn. "What's one man's poison..."

It still eluded him. Oh, well. It didn't matter, did it? (It did a little - if only as a matter of pride.) He drew himself up and straightened his clothing. He was careful to put the photos and negatives into a manila envelope, briefly fanning the stale air with it. He felt anxious and overly warm - too much excitement, maybe.

He paused at the door, taking a moment to calm himself. Too much excitement, too many big lunches, and too many years locked up in dark, cramped rooms. Not anymore, not for him. "What's one man's poison..."

He remembered now!

"...is another's meat and drink."

Good memory; it had been on the tip of his tongue. What's one man's poison is another man's meat and drink.

Which reminded him: he was hungry! Salad today? No. Salad tomorrow. He let out a relieved sigh and walked out, quietly closing the door behind him.