Michelle Karl - Silent Night Threat

That was exactly what Chris planned to do—despite how much it hurt.

* * *

Natasha balked at the doctor as he delivered the news. Even his cheerful, Christmas-light-patterned bow tie didn’t help ease the shock. Psychogenic and retrograde amnesia, he told her.

Amnesia, really? She felt much better with the pain medication in her system, and the doctors had even confirmed that despite the bumps and cuts on her head, she hadn’t physically sustained anything more than a mild concussion, whiplash and various cuts and bruises. She could hardly take it all in as the doctor suggested that whatever had happened to her before Special Agent Barton found her had been severe and shocking. Her initial head trauma had likely caused the retrograde amnesia, but more disturbing was the suggestion that her autobiographical memory loss had been caused by intense psychological stress.

“We can definitely confirm that you are Natasha Stark,” said the doctor. Dr. Olsen, she read off his name tag. “We’ve printed out this info sheet for you with your name, address and medical history. I recommend you keep this with you on your person for the time being, in case any additional medical issues arise. That said, you’re probably going to want to head over to Titusville as soon as possible so they can have a look at you.”

Natasha blinked at the sheet a nurse handed her. This was her, her identity, all on an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch piece of paper. The name and address evoked a strong feeling of home, but she couldn’t picture it. She closed her eyes, trying to remember. It didn’t work.

“When will I get my memories back?” She attempted to hide the hitch in her voice. “And why would I go to Titusville? I see that I live there, but what do you mean? Who wants to look at me?”

Dr. Olsen looked over his shoulder at someone in the back of the room, then back at her. “Agent Barton says you work at NASA. That, I’m happy to say, is absolutely true. You were due to report at Kennedy Space Center yesterday for one of your scheduled checkups.”

“You said as much to me yourself when I found you.” Chris emerged from behind the doctor, a limp magazine in his hand. “Only you never arrived for the physical. And since NASA is a government agency, we were called when you didn’t report as scheduled.”

Dr. Olsen chuckled and smiled at Natasha. She liked him; he seemed kind. “Three weeks ago, Ms. Stark, you were looking at this planet from space. You just returned from a six-month mission in low-Earth orbit on the Orion, testing that new Deep Space Module everyone’s been talking about. Well, everyone in the scientific community, that is. Based on the success of your mission, looks like NASA’s really pulled ahead with their plans to launch the first manned mission to Mars.”

“How do you know that?” Chris asked. “That can’t be in her medical records.”

Dr. Olsen smiled sheepishly. “No, but I do have a niece in her daughter’s class at school. Hayley must be happy to have you back, Ms. Stark.”

“Daughter?” She had a daughter! Why couldn’t she remember her own child? She felt even more desperate to get her memories back. The face of a girl with curly chestnut locks and expressive eyes materialized in her mind like a developing Polaroid—young, preteen, with an affinity for sparkly pink lip gloss and purple chokers.

“Daughter?” Chris echoed. “How old is she?”

“How old is Hayley?” Dr. Olsen tapped a pen against his clipboard. “My niece is in sixth grade, so that’d put the students around eleven or twelve years old, I’d think.”

“Twelve years old,” Chris murmured. “I see.”

Natasha’s mental image solidified, carrying a wave of emotions, smells and sensations. The comfort of a soft, fragile baby as it lay in her arms. The stern face of an older man—her father?—as he entered the room. This caused a sudden rush of fear that shifted the scene into a new memory of standing in the middle of a department store, arms laden with a heavy basket of shampoo, a pair of child’s sneakers and laundry soap, as her head whipped from one side to the other, searching. “Hayley, honey?” she’d called, heart beating faster with each passing second. “Sweetheart, where are you? Hayley?” Relief had flooded her veins as a cherub-cheeked toddler burst out from under a clothing rack, shouting, “Surprise, Mommy!” with arms stretched over her head in a V—and immediately, the memory shifted again and Hayley stood in the same pose, arms lifted, standing on a three-tiered podium. A gold medal gleamed around her neck, and she waved at Natasha in the crowd. She recalled feeling a swell of pride as her daughter won first place in a Florida Gold Coast special event for swimmers aged twelve and under.

Natasha exhaled slowly, concentrating on the memories of her daughter and trying to burn them into her brain. “Yes, that’s correct,” she said. “She turned twelve a few months ago.”

Chris cleared his throat. “Does Natasha have an emergency contact listed in her file? Husband? He might be able to bring her daughter over and help jog some more memories.”

Dr. Olsen scanned the chart. “There are two emergency contacts here. One is listed as a parent, not a spouse. The other is her NASA physician.”

In a flash Natasha knew that was correct—and that she didn’t want to talk about her parents. A glance down at her left hand confirmed what she suspected even without remembering it specifically. “I’m not married. Please don’t tell me someone called my father.”

The nurse in the room placed a hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “Yes, dear, but I’m afraid no one was able to reach him. We tried the second emergency number for the specialized NASA physician and got through. We’ve been instructed to have you contact him as soon as you’re able.”

A knock on the door brought a second nurse into the room. “Dr. Olsen? There are officers here who’d like to take the patient’s statement, now that she’s stable.”

“Police?” She glanced at Chris. “Why do I need to talk to the police if you’re FBI?”

He held up his phone. “My job is to find you and, as of thirty minutes ago, continue to investigate your disappearance. The local authorities will go after the guy who ran us off the road and help figure out where that gun came from. We’ll be working together but best to bring them up to speed on an event like this with a direct statement so they can be on the lookout.”

Natasha wrapped her arms around her middle as the police officers shuffled into the room and made the appropriate introductions. One of the nurses raised the front half of the hospital bed so Natasha could speak to the officers without physical strain, which she appreciated—she already felt mentally exhausted, like her brain was attempting memory gymnastics but kept missing the landing mat. She told Officers Kirby and Lee about waking up by the side of the road with a gun in her hand, and Dr. Olsen confirmed the relevant medical details regarding her memory loss. She recounted her and Chris’s harrowing escape from the drone and provided what details she could about the vehicle that had knocked them off the road.

“And you have no idea why anyone would try to kill you?” Officer Kirby looked unconvinced, his eyebrows high enough that they were almost hidden under his cap. “No known enemies?”

“I’m a scientist,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “An astronaut. I’ve never considered myself a high-value assassination target.”

“You should,” Chris interjected. “You’re a highly trained specialist working toward national interests.”

Officer Kirby cleared his throat, seemingly unappreciative of Chris’s commentary. “And how did you come to have a firearm in your possession?”