Amnesia

by Michael Cross

  The first thing I realize is that I’m no longer lying in a hospital bed. Nor am I chained to it anymore. I raise my wrist, wincing at the bruised red chafing from having pulled on it so violently. But the shackle itself is gone, and I’m a free man.

  “So, not a prisoner,” I mutter.

  “You’ve never been a prisoner. No, that chain was merely for your protection and that of the staff who cared for you.”

  The voice. The English accent—that I recognize. It’s the voice that belongs to the woman, or rather, the shadow behind the curtains. But there are no curtains any longer. Just a four-panel decorative privacy screen.

  “I trust you are enjoying your—improved conditions?” she asks.

  Her voice is coming from beyond the privacy screen, and as my confusion deepens, my anger rises. I need to get a look at this woman and wring the answers I want out of her if I have to.

  The pain is intense as I swing my legs over the side of the bed—which I am only just now realizing is a massive king-sized bed adorned with linens that are absolutely luxurious. Gone is the sharp antiseptic smell, and in its place is something fresh and clean. And instead of the absolute darkness I awoke in, there is light—not the harsh, artificial light from before, but natural light.

  Yeah, my conditions have improved quite a bit, I’d say.

  Looking down, I see that I’m in dark blue sweats and a white t-shirt—though I have no memory of putting them on. I close my eyes and let out a long breath. Snippets and fragments of possible memories fill my mind. I see a group of people in surgical masks looming over me. I see them taking blood. Injecting me with something. I see them lifting me out of the hospital bed and putting me on a gurney.

  But that’s where the highlight reel in my mind stops. I claw at my temples, desperate to recall more, but nothing comes. Frustrated, I punch the soft bedding.

  “Wh—where am I?” I groan.

  “This is your new home and base of operations,” she explains. As if that’s an explanation.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We have important work to do, Echo. And you need a safe place to recuperate and begin operating from.”

  “Echo?”

  “That is your name,” she says simply.

  I rack my brain, but the name doesn’t sound familiar to me. I don’t feel any sort of connection to it at all.

  “I don’t understand,” I confess.

  “Everything will come to make sense in time.”

  “Why can’t I remember anything?”

  “You were injured,” she tells me. “The doctors are confident that with time, some of your memories will return. But they cannot say for certain if you will recall everything. They fear some may be irretrievably lost.”

  Slowly, I get to my feet on legs that are weak and shaky from disuse. I take one step and nearly topple to the hardwood floor. I manage to catch myself—but just barely. It’s then I see the cane propped up against the nightstand next to the bed. I grab it and hobble around the four-panel decorative screen and into what looks like a loft-style luxury condo.

  A kitchen with all modern appliances and a center island that can seat four sits off to my left. A dining room table with six chairs gathered around it is just off the kitchen. To my right is a living area with a pair of sofas facing each other across a wood and glass coffee table. The entire place is done in red brick with exposed beams and pipes overhead, giving it an industrial feel I seem to recall being trendy.

  “Great, I can’t remember my own goddamn name, but I can remember trendy modern decor,” I mutter.

  “Well, being able to remember one thing could be a gateway to regaining the rest of your memories, Echo.”

  “Stop calling me that. That’s not my name.”

  “You have no memory. How can you be certain?”

  I ignore her and slowly hobble over to the far wall of the condo. It’s made of floor-to-ceiling windows. The view is breathtaking.

  “New York,” I observe.

  “See? Another memory recovered,” she says.

  I open my mouth to argue but decide it’s not worth it. I surreptitiously glance around and note the cameras discreetly tucked away in the corners of the room. So I’m being surveilled. It’s not surprising. Somehow, I know that whoever is holding me has this place wired for sight and sound. It’s what I would do—make them feel comfortable. Pampered. And keep an eye on them.

  I wonder where that thought came from the second it passes through my mind. Have I taken prisoners? Have I done what this English woman is doing to me? What in the hell is going on?

  I don’t know, but something inside of me, some inner voice of caution—instinct, maybe—is telling me to play along. To gather intel and don’t do anything stupid until you’ve come up with a plan. Of course, that all leads to the question—where did I develop instincts like these?

  “This is a nice place,” I comment. “But where are you?”

  Her laughter is rich and throaty. For the first time, she actually sounds like a human being and not just a robotic voice. “Over here.”

  I turn in the direction of her voice and see a sort of office area set off in the corner unobtrusively. A large carpet adorns the floor, and there’s a stout wooden desk, chair, bookcase, and a large computer monitor sitting on the desktop. In front of the desk are a pair of chairs with a small table between them and against the wall rests a sideboard replete with liquor. It’s all very professional and very efficient. Very Fortune-500-CEO looking.

  Hey, maybe I’m some eccentric billionaire with amnesia or something.

  “Warmer,” she says. “Getting warmer.”

  Despite the churning emotions and confusion inside of me, a half-grin tugs a corner of my mouth upward. I shamble toward the desk, my movements slow and halting. It’s as if I’m learning how to walk all over again.

  “Warmer still,” she taunts me. “You’re getting warmer. White-hot, in fact.”

  By some miracle, I make it to the desk without taking a spill and drop down heavily into the chair, facing the computer screen.

  “Jackpot,” she says, making me wince.

  I reach out and quickly lower the volume on the computer’s speakers. The woman is on the computer screen—or at least, her silhouette is. She’s backlit, leaving her cloaked in shadow. There is something about her voice, though, that’s familiar. I can’t place it, but there’s a tickling of familiarity in the back of my mind. I reach out, trying to grasp what it is, but come up empty and have to bite back my frustration.

  “Why the mystery?” I frown. “Why can’t we speak face to face?”

  “Anonymity is the Tower’s strength,” she replies.

  “The Tower?”

  It’s then I notice the top of the desk and see what looks like a trio of tarot cards—the Tower is one of them, of course. A tall stone building, imposing and ominous. Flames and lightning eat away at it, and waves dash against its foundations, but still, it looms ever larger, impervious against the raging storms.

  A wry grin touches my lips as I pick up the second one and hold it up to the camera mounted atop the monitor. A man is falling, suspended by his ankle against a branch. His face is impassive and uncaring, and bright light like a halo surrounds his head.

  “I suppose that makes me the Hanged Man?” I ask.

  “In a sense, yes,” she replies. “In that in various interpretations, it symbolizes sacrifice, a letting go of the past, or metamorphosis.”

  “And the Tower?”

  “It is seen as a symbol of unforeseen change. Liberation,” she says smoothly. “And destruction.”

  I digest that bit of information, turning it over in my head. So, this woman sees her organization as the catalyst for some sort of change—a change predicated upon the destruction of something else. But what? What is it she is seeking to destroy? And what is she looking to replace it with?

  I pick up the third card. The High Priestess. I study it for a long moment, taking in all of th
e card’s intricate details. The regal woman bedecked in white, a proud crown on her head and the moon at her feet.

  “The High Priestess is associated with insight and bringing out hidden talents,” she explains. “Intuition and things to be revealed.”

  “Uh huh,” I say. “And why is it that I can’t see your face?”

  Her laughter is rich. “Because the High Priestess is also associated with mystery.”

  I drop the card and let out a growl of frustration, both with her and with this whole situation. The fact that I can’t remember—anything—is pissing me off.

  “This is ridiculous,” I snap.

  “I apologize, but as I said, anonymity is the Tower’s strength,” she tells me. “Case officers never meet with their field operatives face to face. It’s for your safety as well as ours.”

  I purse my lips as scraps of information float through my mind. Not memories, just knowledge. Things I know—like the organizational network for something like the CIA. I don’t know why I’m familiar with it, but I am.

  “Case officers?” I cut her off. “Is that what you are? My handler?”

  “Basically, yes,” she confirms. “We recruited you—”

  “Recruited me? Was I with the Agency? A field operative?”

  “Yes. You were,” she says. “And not to fluff up your ego too much, but you were one of the best I’ve ever seen.”

  Her answer is simple, and yet it opens so many more complex questions in my head. Knowing I was in the CIA changes everything. It tells me a lot about myself—including how I’m able to remain calm in the face of all of this. It’s something field operatives are trained for. The fact that I know that so intuitively only proves my suspicion.

  “Who am I?” I demand. “What is my name?”

  “Echo.”

  “That’s not my name. What is my real name?”

  “For now, you are to be known as Echo,” she insists, her voice cool. “As I told you before, all of your questions will be answered—”

  “In due time,” I growl. “Yeah, I heard. But I want answers now.”

  “Right now, you must first focus on healing,” she replies. “On regaining your strength.”

  “For what?”

  “We have much work to do,” she states. “And quite frankly, we need your help. There are things already in motion that we have got to put a stop to.”

  “Like what?”

  “All in due—”

  “I’m getting really tired of hearing that phrase.”

  She laughs softly. “I apologize that I cannot be more forthcoming with you at the moment,” she says, almost back to her robotic tone from before. “But it is for your safe—”

  “Yeah, yeah, your safety as well as mine. You’re becoming predictable.”

  I lean back in the chair and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the headache I feel coming on. Another wave of exhaustion washes over me, and all I want to do in this moment is crawl back into the bed and sleep for the next three days.

  “I can see how exhausted you are, Echo. Get some rest.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “That is your designation,” she replies.

  I let out a long breath, my head starting to throb painfully. I don’t have the energy to argue with her about this right now. Hopefully, after I get some rest, more of my memories will return—there are already cracks in the dam that’s holding them back. I can feel it.

  “Your every need shall be tended to. Should you require anything, simply ask,” she tells me. “You will be tended to by my assistants, as well as doctors, to ensure you are in good health. ”

  “Wonderful.”

  A moment of silence passes between us that feels strained. Expectant. I watch her darkened form on the screen, and she is completely still; her body language—what I can see of it—seems tense.

  “I am… glad you are alive,” she says softly, and then clears her throat. “And I do look forward to your return to health, Echo.”

  The screen suddenly goes dark, and I’m left looking at my reflection. There was something in her voice at first. Something that hinted at a more personal connection between us. It was subtle, but I know I heard it. I reach for the memory, try to grasp it, but as with everything else, it eludes me.

  Growling with frustration to myself, I stumble back to the bed and fall into it. And it’s not long before sleep claims me.

  Chapter Four

  “Your strength is returning remarkably fast.”

  I finish my time on the treadmill at a dead sprint. My breathing ragged from the exertion, as I slow down to a light jog to cool down. Once I was able to walk without falling down, I was given access to a physical therapy room just down a short hall from my living quarters. It’s not flashy, but it has everything I needed to get myself back into shape. It’ll get the job done.

  “Ten miles today,” he notes, his voice gruff and gravelly. “That’s remarkable.”

  I bring the treadmill to a stop and step off, grabbing a towel from the table by the door. I wipe the sheen of sweat on my face and take a moment to catch my breath. After I get my breath back, I walk over to the sparring dummy and work through a hand-to-hand combat routine that had come back to me a couple weeks back. I throw a combination of punches and kicks, striking the dummy in critical spots.

  Knowing I’d been a CIA field operative before whatever apparent accident befell me has helped me put some things into place in my mind. They haven’t helped me recover nearly any of my memories, but it’s answered a few questions I have. More than that, though, it’s put some things into an important context for me—such as the dream I had right before waking up the first time.

  I’m convinced now that it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. I don’t recall anything about it, but I’m positive that it was the day I was injured—the day I landed in a nine-month coma.

  In the dream that wasn’t a dream, somebody warned me that I’d been burned. Somebody was telling me that my cover had been blown and that I needed to get out of there. Obviously, they didn’t warn me fast enough. Or maybe, given the fact that I survived, they got to me just in time. I guess it depends on your perspective.

  But ever since that certainty came to me, I’ve had two questions burning in my mind—who burned me? And why?

  I throw punches and kicks at the sparring dummy in a flurry, each strike clean. Had the dummy been a real person, it would be devastating. My frustration fuels my workout, lending me speed and strength.

  “Be careful not to overdo it, Echo,” Dr. Eubanks cautions.

  “I’m fine,” I growl as I throw a harder, faster combination at the dummy.

  Dr. Eubanks has been taking care of me these last six weeks or so. I can’t complain about the care he’s given me. He’s thorough. Conscientious. Attentive. And with his help, I’ve gotten stronger, day after day and week after week. Well, Eubanks and a physical trainer named Bobby, who is part of my recovery team.

  The English woman, who in keeping with the tarot theme has only ever identified herself as the High Priestess, contacts me via video chat every few days. I still haven’t seen her face. She is never more than a silhouette on the screen. She checks in with me, checks on my progress, and if she’s in a good mood, will dole out a piece of information about my past.

  She hasn’t been in a good mood very often, though. It irritates the shit out of me that somebody has this much control over my life. Over my memories. I throw a punch at the dummy and follow it up with a vicious roundhouse kick that would have shattered the jaw of anybody I was fighting.

  Breathing heavily, I bend over, resting my hands on my knees. The sweat rolls down my face, splashing onto the mat on the floor. Eubanks is there in a flash, cuffing me up to take my blood pressure and listening to my heart. I don’t fight with him. The man is just doing his job. It’s not his fault I’m stuck in this shit situation.

  “Everything looks and sounds good,” he notes. “The High Priestess will be
happy to hear it.”

  “High Priestess,” I mutter sardonically to myself.

  While I understand the need for organizational and operational security, I think this whole tarot deal, as well as case officers not meeting with field operatives, is a bit over the top. I feel pretty certain that not even the CIA was this compartmentalized. As far as I can recall, anyway.

  My breathing and heart rate back under control, I straighten up and stretch out a bit, trying to work some kinks out of my shoulders and chest.

  “So, what does that mean?” I ask. “Am I getting out of this prison cell anytime soon?”

  He laughs softly. “If only all prison cells were so well-appointed and prisoners so well looked after.”

  A wry chuckle passes my lips. “A gilded cage is still a cage.”

  “That’s fair, I suppose,” he replies.

  “You’ve been with the Tower for a while; I take it?”

  He nods. “I have.”

  “And what do you think of all this?”

  Eubanks shakes his head. “Not my place to have an opinion. I’m just a doctor around here.”

  “You’re a human being. If there’s one thing I do remember, it’s that human beings all have opinions about any number of things.”

  He grins. “Touché.”

  I wipe my face with the towel again, and Dr. Eubanks runs me through a series of psychological and cognitive tests. As he takes me through them, that sense of familiarity washes over me again, and I know with absolute certainty that I’ve done these before. It must have been in my time with the CIA.

  “Excellent,” he nods. “Aside from the memory loss, your cognitive functions are well above average.”

  “That’s swell,” I reply. “So have you met this—High Priestess?”

  He arches his eyebrow. “If they don’t let field operatives meet with the case officers, do you really think they’ll let a doctor meet with them? Hell, I don’t even get a tarot name,” he says. “Anonymity is—”