Silent Night Threat

“That’s why,” he said. He grabbed the gearshift, and their vehicle’s engine revved higher, sending them lurching and then zooming forward. “Why aren’t there any police around when you need them?”

“You already called them—aren’t they on their way?”

“I sure hope so. I’d call again if I didn’t need all my focus to make sure we stay on the road.” As if on cue, the truck heaved again, but this time a sickening crunch accompanied the hit. Another hit followed only a few seconds afterward, and the SUV swayed from side to side. In the mirror, she saw a piece of metal go flying from their vehicle into the ditch. The license plate!

Please, Lord. Help us. Natasha swallowed down her fear as a sense of peace and assurance settled across her shoulders. I haven’t forgotten You. I know You’re here.

Despite the direness of the situation, she had a strong faith—that much she remembered. God was with her, even in times like this. She didn’t need to panic.

“Tell me how to use your radio system,” she said, taking deep breaths to manage the rolling waves of ache in her head that seemed to increase with every jolt of the vehicle. “I’ll tell the police which direction we’re headed in case they’re coming from the other way.”

“Are you sure?” Chris poked at a button. The next slam against the SUV caused them to swerve since he had only one hand on the wheel.

“You need to keep us on the road,” she said. “We need help, and I don’t know how else to get it.”

“All right.” His gaze flicked over to take her in, probably to make sure she was conscious enough to handle it. “There’s a button on the right that says—”

He’d looked at her for a fraction of a second, maybe less, but it was enough.

The next hit clipped the SUV in just the right way. The wheels slipped against the asphalt, and they skidded across the roadside stretch of dirt, tipping them toward the ditch. Their vehicle bucked, leaned and tilted sideways. Natasha screamed as they went airborne, the remnants of a prayer on her lips as Chris’s strong arms reached out to grab her and pull her toward him, away from the window.

The SUV landed on its side in the ditch, and she and Chris jerked sideways in their restraints. As the airbags exploded, slamming their heads back against the headrests, Natasha tasted blood in her mouth, and her vision was once again nothing but sparks. She tried to speak, but no words came as she struggled for breath. Something hissed, and the creak of metal under tension echoed in her ears before the world grew deathly silent.

She didn’t hear anything. Nothing at all, and that seemed even more frightening than before.

Her blood ran cold as a car door slammed.

* * *

As the world came back into sound and focus, Chris heard the wail of sirens growing rapidly louder. Somewhere nearby, a car door slammed. The crunch of tires against pavement told him that a vehicle had just driven away. He dared to hope that it meant the Range Rover was not only done with them but in the police’s sights.

He flailed his free arm, searching for Natasha, and a momentary surge of panic took hold as he realized that he couldn’t hear her breathing. Then she released a long sigh, and relief flooded through his every pore. She was still alive. But if she did indeed have a concussion, all of those hits would have made it exponentially worse. She needed to get to a hospital without further delay—they’d be able to call the right people to come and take care of her and close off his involvement in her life. If the FBI didn’t ask him to continue the investigation into why she’d disappeared, that was.

He didn’t want to be around when she remembered him. She’d probably be angry enough as soon as she realized that her ex-fiancé had put his arms around her, even to save her life. As soon as Natasha was secure at the hospital and the officer in charge at his FBI branch gave him the go-ahead, he’d be on his way and out of her life again, just like she’d wanted twelve years ago.

Despite having tried so hard to forget, the memory came too easily. He had been eighteen years old; she’d been seventeen. She’d worn a yellow sundress with tiny white flowers, the hem of the dress swishing above her knees, despite the cooler temperatures of late November. Her auburn hair had been knotted above her head in a messy bun, with loose strands falling about her face and framing her sharp features. Around her neck had been a topaz gemstone set among three diamonds, a beautiful piece of jewelry given to her on her sixteenth birthday by her father. It had looked completely out of place on a girl who stood barefoot in the sunshine with a wrist full of plastic bead bracelets. Under those plastic beads, he’d hoped, was the gold name bracelet he’d given her as a promise six months before proposing. But he hadn’t been able to see it, and for some reason that had hurt almost as much as the small diamond ring that her father had yanked out of her hand and practically thrown at him when Chris refused to take it from Natasha’s open palm. Go, the man had said. She’s done with you. Don’t bother our family with your filth again. She’s too good for you, and you know it. Come here again, and I’ll have you arrested.

Chris had looked past the man’s shoulder, his eyes pleading, his heart aching with painful disbelief. Natasha had wrapped her arms around her middle, protective and closed off to him. She’d understood his unspoken question, but had only narrowed her eyes and shaken her head.

That simple gesture had said it all. And when she’d opened her mouth as if to speak to him, to explain, he didn’t want to hear it. He’d turned around and left—the city, the state, the entire South—to try to banish the pain of her rejection. What had ever made him think that someone like Natasha could truly love him? She’d been a rich, spoiled girl with a daddy who handed everything to her on a silver platter—including his prejudiced beliefs. Chris should’ve known that they’d surface in her eventually. He should’ve known she wouldn’t think he was good enough for her. Just because his family lived in low-income housing. Just because they relied on food stamps and welfare. He couldn’t afford to get arrested, for Natasha’s father to follow through on his threat. His family couldn’t afford it; they needed Chris’s meager paycheck to get by. No, he couldn’t buy Natasha pretty things, but even with helping his family out, he’d worked odd jobs and saved for more than a year to buy her a diamond ring, like she deserved.

Sure, they were young, but he’d thought their love was stronger than that.

If she hated him so much, if she’d thought she was so much better than him, why had she even given him the time of day in the first place?

“Sir? Can you hear me?” The authoritative voice of a police officer cut through the painful memories. Chris had worked hard to turn his family’s situation around. They still struggled, but since joining the FBI, he’d been able to move his parents to a decent home that they could finally call their own. He’d bought a used car for his little brother last month, so he could have an easier time making ends meet and staying out of jail. Money and status weren’t what mattered for his family, and they never had been. He couldn’t say the same of the Starks. The arrest of Natasha’s uncle a few months ago—the former vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon—had made that clearer than ever.

Maybe it was a blessing that Natasha hadn’t recognized him right away.

“There are two of us in the cab,” Chris called back to the officer. “An agent of the FBI and a woman who’s seriously injured and needs immediate medical assistance.”

“Emergency services are on their way,” the officer said. “Hold tight.”

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?”

“I already told you I don’t know. I don’t remember. I’m not a gun owner.”

“So you do remember things about yourself.”

“I don’t—” A sharp pain tore through her head, and she lay back, closing her eyes. She remembered some things and not others, and she had no idea why or how. She heard Dr. Olsen tapping his pen against his clipboard again.

“I think that’s enough questions for today,” the doctor said, his tone stern. “Miss Stark requires rest. Her brain should recover all the missing information eventually, but you’ll do neither yourselves nor your investigation any good if you push for details that she’s presently unable to access.”

Officer Lee pulled a card from her pocket and handed it to Natasha, then handed a second card to Chris. Natasha took hers and ran her fingers along the edges. “Call us as soon as you remember anything,” the officer said with a tight but genuine smile.

“Wait,” Natasha said as the officers made to exit the room. They paused. “The gun. Did you find it?” Kirby and Lee exchanged a look that caused Natasha’s stomach to flip-flop.

“Yes,” Officer Lee finally said. “And there’s one round missing from the chamber. Your clothes have been claimed by law enforcement and are being tested for gunshot residue.”

“Her clothes?” Chris stepped to Natasha’s side and placed his hand on the edge of the hospital bed as if trying to protect her from the officer’s words. “Why? We’re the ones who were used as target practice.”

“So you’ve said,” Officer Kirby chimed in, pushing past his partner. “But it was your job to find her, yes? You’ve found her. Investigate why she went missing if you have to, but don’t question how we choose to pursue our own investigations related to the incident. We have a firearm that’s been discharged, a woman with no memory and no additional witnesses to this reported drone attack. Ms. Stark claims to have nothing to do with the firearm, and this way we can make sure of that. Wouldn’t you prefer to know for certain that the gun isn’t yours, Ms. Stark?”

Of course she wanted to know that for certain, but she also had a bad feeling that if the tests proved otherwise, she’d be in a world of trouble. “What happens if you find residue on my clothes?”

Officer Kirby scowled and began to speak, but Officer Lee cut in first. “It will be inconclusive,” she said. “It only means the weapon was discharged within a few feet of you, not that you fired it yourself. Either way, maybe it will help put some pieces together in your own mind.”

“The FBI will be pursuing the threat against Ms. Stark, specifically looking into the tech that took shots at us,” Chris added. “How far will your own investigation go?”

Officer Lee shrugged. “We’ll try to reconstruct the accident, wait for what the tests say and put out a BOLO for the vehicle you described, but that’s really all we can do at present. My captain has ordered us to cooperate with the FBI, so we won’t step on your toes on purpose.” She nodded at Natasha. “I hope you get your memories back and feel better in time for Christmas, Ms. Stark. My son loves spaceships and also wants to be an astronaut when he grows up. Our entire family watched the live stream when the Orion returned.”

Warmth blossomed in Natasha’s cheeks as the officer smiled at her, and she wished she could remember more about the event Officer Lee described. “Thank you so much.”

As the nurse ushered the officers out of the room, Chris sighed and tented his fingers, pressing them against his mouth. Something inside Natasha wanted to reach out and offer comfort, even though she had no idea why she’d want to comfort him, a complete stranger. No matter how appealing she found him. Now that she had a moment to look at him without being in the midst of panic, she had to consciously keep her mouth from falling open. He had olive skin and deep brown eyes, a square jaw and full, bow-shaped lips that she couldn’t help but envy. His nearly black hair was cut short enough to not require serious maintenance but long enough to make the messy bed-head style he wore look natural. Her eyes followed the curve of his profile as he stared after the retreating forms of the police officers. His presence felt so familiar, but when she tried to rack her brain for memories, all she got in return was a fuzzy, dull ache. He seemed to sense her watching him and turned to regard her with a questioning glance. Her heart jumped as if he’d defibrillated it.

She couldn’t help it. She needed to know. “How do we know each other?”

His complexion paled. “Excuse me?”

“You asked me if I recognized you, after you found me. I feel like I know you, but obviously...”

“You can’t remember.” He dropped his hands and shoved them in his pockets. His shoulders rose, and he stared at the floor as if trying to come up with an answer. “Natasha, the thing is—”

“Sorry, I need to interrupt for a moment.” Dr. Olsen pulled several sheets of paper from his clipboard and handed them to Natasha. “These are prescriptions for painkillers and a list of recommendations as we discussed earlier in regard to managing your injuries. Please take them to your physician at NASA. Will they be arranging transportation, or will you be making your way over on your own? As long as you go there directly, I’ll consent to your release.”

More doctors, more tests, more paper hospital gowns? She didn’t like it, but the more people with ideas about getting her memory back, the better. “Can someone call them for me?”

“We can’t—”

“I’ll call,” said Chris. “She’s my responsibility. I’ll make sure she gets there safely.”

She smiled at him in gratitude, but after what they’d both gone through, she also couldn’t help but wonder whether going anywhere with him was safe—after all, no one had been shooting at her before this supposed FBI agent had come to her rescue.

THREE

Natasha had a twelve-year-old daughter. His relationship with Natasha Stark had ended a little over twelve years ago.

Every time he caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye as they drove, he had to swallow down the lump that formed in his throat. They had been young and foolish and had made the mistake of becoming intimate before truly understanding the consequences. But even so, Chris had loved her with his whole heart. They’d stopped their covert trysts after attending a church youth rally, where Natasha had gone up to the front of the auditorium during an altar call to dedicate herself to living for Jesus and pursuing a life of faith. He hadn’t been fully convinced, but he’d respected her decision and tried to do right by her. He’d talked to the leaders in her church, read his grandmother’s Bible and decided that the right thing to do was propose.

Even at the time, he’d wondered if Natasha had taken to her faith so suddenly because her family demanded it of her or because she really believed. As a state senator, her father had an image to maintain, a certain theoretical family standard to uphold in order to be better positioned for reelection. Her father had never approved of him, but he hadn’t interfered in their relationship. Chris had thought that asking Natasha to marry him would be enough to keep them together. Clearly he’d never been enough for her, either.

She was too much like her father. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but what choice had he had? She hadn’t fought back or disagreed. Her father’s threat ensured that he left and never contacted them again, and Chris hadn’t been about to humiliate himself by groveling. And he hadn’t wanted to. He’d heard what Mr. Stark called his parents when he thought Chris couldn’t hear, and it wasn’t a description Chris would ever repeat in polite company.

When an email had come from her, he’d deleted it. When a letter arrived, he’d burned it. If her faith and her father had turned her against him, made her believe she was better than him, he wanted nothing to do with it or with her, ever again.

And now Natasha was in his FBI vehicle, wearing clothes from the hospital lost-and-found box—a button-down plaid shirt and a pair of oversize swim trunks tied tightly at the waist. Her clothes had been taken for testing. A twelve-year-old daughter, he repeated to himself. Could Natasha have kept something like that from me all this time?

She wouldn’t be able to answer that question until she got her memories back. He tried not to care, and he tried to tell himself he could be patient. Now that he worked in the area, he could ask her about Hayley someday in the future. But something deep inside persisted in wanting to be near the girl now, or at the very least catch a glimpse of Hayley. At least then I’ll know, he thought. One way or the other. A father would recognize his own daughter, wouldn’t he? For both their sakes, he hoped his suspicions were wrong. Then he could put it out of his thoughts and concentrate fully on wrapping up this case and getting out of Natasha’s life as quickly as possible.