Several days passed after her surgeries, as Grace lay in intensive care. Of all her injuries, only the through and through gunshot to her chest proved to be the most life threatening. A replacement lung was being lab grown as she began her long road to recovery. Around the clock, she was guarded by Secret Service agents. Every Doctor and nurse was carefully searched before coming or going. And an independent medical consultant reviewed every drug and dosage prior to it being administered. Every precaution was being taken to ensure that she survived. And talked.
The Justice Department had assigned Special Agent Dwight Anders to run this part of the investigation, and he had been vigilant on the selection of the agents that were on his team. A twenty year veteran, Anders was no nonsense, and expected extreme attention to detail. And he got what he wanted. Every agent under his assignment knew how high his expectations were, and strived to meet them at every turn. When the agent on duty messaged him that Mrs. Alexander had regained consciousness, he was there within twenty minutes. So far, his team had been unable to gain any clues as to her motive for shooting her husband. He walked into her room, and dismissed the agent stationed inside. The room was dim. The subtle beeps and hisses of the various machines connected to the woman lying in the bed did not distract him. As he approached her, he noticed how small she was. How frail she looked. It was a wonder that she had survived. He stood next to the bed.
“Mrs. Alexander.” He said softly. The bellows of the breathing apparatus next to the bed, rose and fell, pushing air through the tube attached to her throat. “Mrs. Alexander.” He said again. He reached out and gently touched her hand. Her eyelids fluttered. He pulled his hand back. “Mrs. Alexander? Can you hear me?” She opened her eyes weakly.
“Yes.” She said, though her voice was barely audible.
“Do you know where you are?” She was confused by his question. She closed her eyes. “Mrs. Alexander? Do you know where you are?” Her eyelids fluttered open again.
“No.”
“You are in the hospital.” She nodded, barely moving her head. “Do you know why you are here?” She shook her head, no, again barely moving her head. “You were shot. Did you hear me, Mrs. Alexander? You are recovering from several gunshot wounds.” She closed her eyes again. He tried to call out to her for another ten minutes, but she remained unconscious. Anders was a patient man. He would return the next day.
The next morning, his progress was similar. Just a few responses before she fell unconscious again. He continued for a week. Twice a day he would attempt to question her, and made little progress, but towards the end of the week, the Doctor in charge indicated they would be lowering the prescribed dosages of narcotics, and that she might be more likely to remain awake longer. On the next morning, Anders once more entered her room.
“Mrs. Alexander?” Her eyelids fluttered, and then opened.
“Agent Anders.” She replied. That was a good sign, he thought. At least she remembered his name.
“And how are you today?” He asked.
“Better, I think.” She closed her eyes for a moment, but then re-opened them. “What day is it?”
“Friday.”
“I’ve been out for two days?”
“Nine days.”
“Nine?”
“Yes. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for nine days. You remember me, right?” She nodded. “Do you remember why I am here?”
“I was shot.”
“That’s right. Do you remember how you were shot?” She closed her eyes again, thinking. She opened her eyes and shook her head.
“No.”
“What about your husband?”
“Mason?”
“Yes. What do you remember about Mason?”
“He...he was there.”
“Yes, he was. Do you remember why he was there?”
“No...wait...yes. The campaign...the debate.”
“What happened, Mrs. Alexander?” Suddenly her muddled confusion gave way to an unexpected wave of memories. The campaign, Connor, Mason’s behavior, finding about his Mistress, and then the horrid plans to kill Muslims, and Bradlie, and the bomb, and...
“Oh, my God!” She exclaimed as the whole horrible series of events came back to her.
“What happened, Mrs. Alexander?”
“I...I...shot him.”
“Mr. Alexander? Your husband?”
“Yes...yes, I shot him.”
“Why did you shoot your husband?”
“I had to.”
“Had to?”
“Yes...I had to. There was no other choice.”
“Why did you have to shoot your husband?”
“I had to...stop him.”
“Stop him?”
“Yes. Stop him.”
“Stop him from what?”
“From...”
“From what?”
“From...”
“Stop him from what, Mrs. Alexander?”
“From...killing them.”
“Killing them? Killing who?”
“All of them.”
“All of who?”
“All of them...all of the Muslims.”
“The Muslims?”
“And Bradlie, and Sarah, and John...”
“Bradlie? Sarah? You mean your granddaughter, and daughter?”
“And Connor...no...it was too late for Connor.”
“Mrs. Alexander, are you saying that your husband intended to harm your family?”
“He was going to blow them up. And kill the Muslims. I had to stop him.”
“What made you think-”
“I did everything I could, Agent Anders. I went to the media, but they thought it was a hoax. Connor went to his boss, but the government was involved. And then Mason found out that I knew and cut me off from the outside world. Kept me prisoner. He was going to kill me, Agent Anders. Sometime after the debate. With the election just next week, I had to do something, and do it now, or it would be too late.”
“The election?” He asked. “The election is not for another three months.”
“No. It’s next week.”
“The election is three months away. The first debate was just last week.” He said.
“First debate? That can’t be! That was the third debate. The last debate.”
“Mrs. Alexander, I’m afraid you are confused. Mr. Alexander was just nominated two weeks ago. There has only been one debate. And there is still three months to go until the election.”
Chapter 38
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