Page 5 of Lethal Threat
Dr. Radcoff balances his tablet on his knee and rolls the stool closer to the bed.
I don’t like the expression on his face. Doctors shouldn’t make faces like that.
“Let’s try your name again. Try to remember your first name only.”
“S…” I groan and mutter, “Shit.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn't let a grin form. “Not likely. What is your occupation?”
“I’m a…I think.” My fingers go numb as I twist the blanket between my clenched hands. Defeated, I whisper, “I don’t know.”
“Do you know what happened to you?”
“Sort of. I woke up choking on muddy water that was salty. I was cold. Then I was here.”
As he feels my head, his fingertips snag in the clumps of mud. He says, “Good. Let’s go back a little farther. Do you know what you were doing before you woke up alone on that beach?”
I flinch. “On a beach?”
“In the bay.” He moves from inspecting my head to press a stethoscope against my chest.
A tremble starts at my feet and works its way up to my throat. Fear slithers through my veins, firing off my fight-or-flight responses.
He says, “Focus on the feeling of the memory. See if it helps.”
“The last thing I remember is…. eating pancakes.”
“Hm.” He takes a step back, hooks his stethoscope around his neck, and drops his hands to his hips. “That’s really good. When?”
I lean back on my pillow, willing the memory to take shape. When it does, it steals my breath. The image is gauzy and I fight to keep it.
“It’s okay.” He grips my shoulder. “Take your time. But see if you can remember where or when you had pancakes.”
“It’s too hazy.”
His fingers slide across my brow and gently coax my lids down. “Close your eyes again. Sometimes it helps.”
I’m trembling all over as I squeeze my lashes together. A weak vision forms again, then ebbs. “There was a candle in my pancakes. One of those shaped ones. It’s the number five. People are singing happy birthday.”
The man’s fingers flex on my shoulder. “Enough for now. The military police found you. You didn’t have any identification. It appears you’ve been in a serious accident. The good news is your scans show only a mild concussion. The bruises on your face, arms, back, and legs will heal. But I’m concerned about the fact that your memory is…vague and not current.”
If his words didn’t terrify me, his expression would.
I curl into myself, pulling the blanket up again. “What do I do?”
While tapping something into his device, he says, “For now you’re Jane Doe, and you stay in the hospital. The MPs and local police are working on your case.”
Jane. Doe.
No. This is not my life.If only I could remember what my life is.
He stands up and slides his tablet into the large pocket on his pants. “Do you know anyone we can call?”
Panic drowns me all over again. “No. I can’t think. My brain feels wrong.”
“It’s called amnesia. A serious trauma can cause the part of the brain that processes memories to shut down or malfunction.”
“How long before it stops?”
