Hours later they finally arrived at their new temporary home. It was a small resort near the foothills of the mountain range. Connor had checked the suite when they arrived, and then retired into his own room next door. If she needed him, she knew that all she had to do was message him. Grace was exhausted from the journey, but anxious to see Mason. He had arrived earlier, but was working downstairs in the convention center. He had left her a note on their bed. It was succinct and to the point. He would be back at eight tonight. She held the note, as she read it again. Her hand trembled slightly. It was signed with just his first name. There was no salutation, no I love you, no miss you, no see you soon. Just, Mason. And it wasn’t addressed to Honey, or Baby, or Dearest. Just, Grace.
Her luggage had also arrived ahead of her, and her staff had already unpacked it and stowed things away. She poured a glass of wine, and started the bath. As she slowly undressed, the steam began to fog the edges of the wall length mirror. As the last of her clothes fell to the floor, she looked at her reflection. Where was the young girl that was always full of hope? Where was the happy young newlywed that felt loved and was in love? She touched the scar from the bullet wound on her abdomen. All those years ago, and she still remembered the hot flare of pain. With trembling fingers she traced the scar. She could feel the tears begin. She closed her eyes and leaned against the coolness of the glass. No, she thought. I am not doing this. She fumbled with the prescription bottles on the vanity, located her medication, and tossed down two pills. She stood there for a moment, hands supporting her, eyes closed, as she fought back at the memories.
After a moment she gently lifted her wine glass, and slipped into the warm water. She embraced the warmth, and the quiet. Her medication had begun to kick in, and she felt the calmness sweep over her. Her breathing slowed, and she felt the tension roll out of her. The painful memories were slowly washed away from her consciousness, as her eyes drifted shut. An intermittent drip from the faucet of the tub created a soft rhythmic drumbeat that echoed throughout the bathroom. She fell into a calm and peaceful sleep. A sleep without dreams. Without memories. Without pain. Without loss. Gradually the water cooled, the steam faded, and she began to stir. As she slowly opened her eyes, she glanced around groggily as she tried to remember where she was. It came to her a bit at the time as she came more fully awake. She got out of the tub carefully, and shivered as she quickly toweled off. She put on the robe hanging next to the tub, and wrapped her hair in a towel. She grabbed the empty wine glass and went to refill it.
She poured half a glass, and absentmindedly turned on the vid screen. The sound was loud and it startled her. She waived her hand and the sound muted. She lay back on the bed, and though she looked at the screen, she paid it little attention. It had been a long day, but it was still another hour before Mason was due back. She messaged Sarah, to check up on Bradlie, but there was no instant response. She glanced at the waiting communications that she had received over the last few hours, but had no interest in responding to them. She checked the news feed on her Smart contact, and suddenly sat up in bed. There had been an attack. She shifted her focus to the vid screen. Bazir Malek and his wife Reshmina were on screen, being hastily rushed into an armored vehicle. Grace waived her hand, and the sound came back on.
“...source of the threat has not yet been determined. Mr. Malek has been moved to an secure undisclosed location. Authorities are still investigating the scene of the explosion, but have released a statement indicating that multiple devices were involved in the attack. It is unknown whether the presidential debate will continue as planned. We have reached out to both the Malek and Alexander campaigns and will provide you additional information as it becomes available. Once again, there was been a fatal attack at the hotel of presidential candidate Bazir Malek. There are several fatalities, and many injured, but it appears that Mr. Malek and his wife are okay, and they have been-” Grace muted the sound.
“Reshmina.” She said to herself. She got up, and began to check the drawers, looking for her slate computer. She wanted to reach out to Reshmina, but did not have her direct link in her contact database, but it was saved on her slate. She thought that after all she had been through herself, she might be able to help the poor woman though this. She went through the drawers one by one, her clothes, his clothes, her shoes, his shoes, her books, his books. A keycard fell from one of Mason’s books as she picked it up to look under it. She put it back, and went to the next drawer. Soon, her search proved futile in the bedroom. She checked the living area, and the kitchenette, with no luck, when her eyes focused on the closed door of the second bedroom. The room that Mason would have had set up as his office. She grabbed the doorknob and turned it. The door was locked. Locked? She thought. Why was the door locked? She tried it again, but still the knob would not turn.
“What the heck.” She muttered under her breath, as she remembered the keycard. She rushed back to the bedroom, and retrieved it from the book, and ran back to the locked door. She slipped it inside the locking mechanism, the light flashed green as the door clicked. She opened the door. It swung slowly inward, and as she expected, the room had been set up as an office. Slowly she entered the room. She felt odd, stepping into this room. Very different than she had ever felt before when entering any of Mason’s offices through the years. She felt like she shouldn’t be in here. Was it because the door had been locked? She wondered. She saw her slate on the desk, and reached for it. Beside it was Mason’s slate computer. She stared at it.
Mason was one to do things the old fashioned way. And he had a paranoid streak when it came to private information. Mason would still store his ideas and plans locally on his slate, being afraid that if he stored them in the data cloud that someone would be able to hack into them. She continued to stare at the translucent acrylic rectangle. If something was going on with Mason, if something really was wrong, he might make a note of it on his slate. But if she accessed it, especially if she accessed it now, after having opened the locked door to his office, wouldn’t that be a betrayal of sorts? Did she really think that there was something wrong? She wondered. She reached for his slate, but stopped just before she grabbed it. If she did this, she thought, she would have to tell him. She didn’t believe in keeping secrets between them. And then the memory of the conversation she had heard him having that night flashed back into her mind. “I could have been killed.” He had said. Who had he been talking to. And why on the phone? And why so late at night? And what was he talking about? She seized the slate.
She activated the device. The screen emitted a soft blue glow, and it requested a password. She entered their anniversary, which both of them used as a standardized password. The device indicated, wrong password. She tried Bradlie’s birth date, and again it said wrong password, but this time prompted with an option to select if the password had been forgotten. She chose this option, and a clue appeared. A single word appeared, Oswiecim. Grace looked at the word in disbelief. It was not English, that she knew of. She was unsure how to even pronounce the word, much less what password this clue was supposed to relate to. Puzzled beyond reason, she quickly took a picture of the screen with her Smart contact. She shook her head in confusion. She heard the click of the front door lock. It was Mason, she thought. Her heart leapt into her throat.
Chapter 12
VirtuaScape Page 11