Broken Promises

Chapter Twenty

"…she was killed by one of the agents who worked here…."

"…she was killed by one of the agents who worked here…."

The words kept repeating….over and over again, in Frank's mind. An icy numbness overcame him as his unfocused eyes stared listlessly at an empty space in the distance. He had killed before, certainly. As Marsh had so blatantly pointed out, the body count was numerous. But never….never in his career had he ever taken anyone out that didn't deserve it in some way, shape or form. Never had he ended the life of an innocent. At least not until now.

"…she was killed by one of the agents who worked here…."

The men who served as caretakers for the compound stared at each other as they eyed the curious American with some trepidation. He appeared to be within his own little world, totally oblivious to their presence or what was around him. The one who had spoken earlier moved as if to approach him, but halted when Frank wandered almost haphazardly to the vehicle that had brought him this far. The men watched as the Jeep was started and finally pulled away. A short discussion then ensued as to whether they should stop him, but given their illegal status in this country, they thought better of becoming involved with whatever had spooked the man.

Frank drove the vehicle by pure instinct. His mind was whirling within a sea of uncertainty and confusion, while his body continued to operate of its own accord.

"…she was killed by one of the agents who worked here…."

As soon as the Jeep reached the main road, Frank headed north although he did so without thought. He headed north, away from this latest revelation, away from the guilt that was very nearly drowning him.

It wasn't until a red light on the dash caught his attention that he realized in what direction he was headed and how many miles had passed since leaving the compound. The sun was now high overhead and the odometer registered nearly 250 more miles than it did since last he registered where he was or what he was doing. The insistent red light told him that the vehicle would soon run out of gas. Then, and only then, did he begin to look around for what he would need to continue his journey….a gas station.

Several miles later, he saw just such an establishment in the distance. Slightly run down but still functioning, the place served the residents in this off-the-beaten-path area of this part of Florida. As the vehicle was refueled, Frank's mind began to wander once again.

Why had he headed north? What was his destination? Why had he subconsciously stayed away from the main highways and roads? Had he done all of this without any sort of thought at all, or was his subconscious ruling him? Did he even know where he was going?

As the pump clicked off, he was still lost in oblivion. It wasn't until the one lone attendant finally said something to him, did Frank finally snap out of his stupor. Rummaging through his pockets, he pulled out a $50 bill and paid the man. Climbing back into the Jeep, he left without waiting for the change due to him. The attendant waved his arms in the air and shouted, trying to catch the driver's attention, but soon gave up when the Jeep sped out of sight. Shrugging his shoulders, the man returned to the small building, shaking his head. "Tourists," he mumbled under his breath, already forgetting the incident as he pocketed the change.

As the miles ticked by, Frank continued his journey as detached as he had when he left the compound earlier that morning. He'd allowed himself those few moments at the gas station in order to question his own behavior, but those moments were over. As he drove, a thousand images, thoughts, remembrances flitted through his mind. What he didn't know, what he couldn't discern for himself at the moment was what was real and what was part of a made up past. A past that he'd allowed himself to wallow in and come damn near close to drowning in. At first he tried to categorize the endless parade, but soon gave up and just allowed the waves to crash over him unheeded. To concentrate too hard on any one image was to possibly give in to madness, and he wouldn't allow that. Not until…..

Until what?

What was he heading toward? And more importantly, what subconscious motivation was controlling his actions? He knew that he could answer that question, but it involved allowing himself to dive into the maelstrom that was suffocating his mind. From the moment that he'd left the compound, he'd shut off everything and anything that would make him remember. Something he desperately didn't want to do. He was on auto-pilot now. A survival technique that had served him so well in the past.

And so the journey continued. Minutes became hours. At some point, a restlessness overcame him and he gave in to the need to speed his flight. He had avoided the highways at first. Why? He had no idea. But as the sun began to dip in the sky and daylight began to fade, an overwhelming need to hasten the journey washed through him. So finally, he headed toward I-95. Within minutes, he was speeding along much faster than he had been able to all day. What he kept an eye on, however, was his speed, staying just at or slightly above the limit. Something inside of him told him that getting pulled over now wouldn't do at all.

Only when the light had completely drained from the sky and his eyelids became heavy did he begrudgingly decide to stop for the night, although doing so made him anxious and uneasy. So off the highway he went, searching for a motel far off the beaten path. A place that asked few questions, and accepted cash without a blink of an eye. A half hour or so later, he found just such a place. It was slightly run down. The type of place that was barely hanging on now that the bigger, shinier, multi-story places were pushing it, and others like it, out of business. A place that had probably been in business for some 50 odd years, now hanging on by a thread, barely able to make enough to pay the taxes and occasionally slap a new coat of paint on a wall here and there.

Once settled in the sparse but clean room, Frank quickly flipped on the TV, trying to drone out the thoughts rushing through his mind. What was on didn't matter to him, as long as he had something else to concentrate on. When a program failed to catch his interest, he quickly flipped to something else. He continued this until he could barely keep his eyes open. Finally, at nearly 3:00 in the morning, he gave in to his exhaustion and climbed on top of the bed, not even bothering to pull back the covers or even to undress. Sleep quickly claimed him, and Frank began to dream, something he hadn't done in quite some time. At least not the type of dream he could remember come daylight. Tonight would be different.

She was there. He could feel her, although his eyes told him that she was not within sight. They had always had that eerie kind of connection, a fact that he had fought against for so very long. How many years had he existed on his own? No one to answer to. No one to turn to. She had changed all of that. Before he had noticed what was happening, she had situated herself within his psyche, and refused to let go. Of course…..he had never wanted her to.

Searching through the shadows, he sought her out. Knowing that she was there, just out of reach, troubled him. And as the hunt continued, a cold dread began to grip his soul. What if he was wrong? What if she really was gone, and his mind was merely playing tricks on him? The thought that she would leave him entirely made his blood freeze, his heart refuse to beat, and his will to continue evaporate. She was all of those things to him. She was his heart….she was the blood that ran through his veins….she was his reason to continue. Without her, he was nothing.

Frantically now, he turned left and right, desperate to see her again, desperate to hold her to him and feel the love that sustained him. He called her name, but in the inky blackness, the word froze and died as if an Arctic wind had scooped it up and carried it away.

Then there was silence.

Not a sound issued forth from the abyss. Not even a breath could be heard. And in that instant, he knew that he was utterly and desperately alone.

She had left.

His world meant nothing without her, and with that realization every molecule, every fiber of his being ached from the loss.

She was gone…….

"Laura……..?"

Consciousness slowly settled in. He had not startled awake. No, in the darkness of the hotel room, he slowly resurfaced from his dream world, his eyes slowly fluttering open as he stared at the plain white ceiling, now a dull gray in the muted light. He didn't move. He merely laid there, awash in the despondent loneliness that consumed him. In the short time that he had slept, his mind had offered up one clue. He knew where he was headed and why.

He needed to see her. He needed to see his children.

The urge was overwhelming. They were the only light in the darkness for him. A beacon. A hope for something more than the angry, acid guilt that was slowly destroying him. But then there was the dream….

Was she truly gone? Had he broken her heart so badly that she had taken their children and left for good? A groan escaped his lips as he considered the possibility. The all-too-real pain racked his body and burned like fire in his mind. Closing his eyes tightly, he brought his hands to his face and tried to will away the thought as he covered his eyes.

Sitting up suddenly, he knew that he had to leave….now. Perhaps she hadn't left yet. Maybe he could still reach her before she disappeared entirely.

So with little more than an hour or so of rest, Frank left the motel and continued his trek. Stopping briefly at the office, he slipped the room key into the slot on the door before climbing back into the Jeep and heading back toward the highway.

As each mile clicked by on the odometer, the nausea, that he could barely keep at bay, threatened to overtake him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he hadn't eaten a thing in nearly two days, and had drunk only slightly more than that. That wasn't the reason for his sickness though. It was the panic. The anguish that was twisting his gut into knots. At times it was nearly crushing, threatening to overcome him entirely. But when those moments came, he forcefully pushed it aside and concentrated on the mechanics of what he was doing…..changing lanes….negotiating traffic.

Hours and hundreds of miles later, he began to see signs for Virginia. The panic now kicked into overdrive, nearly sending him into a adrenaline induced stroke. His blood pulsed through his veins like a freight train. His mind worked at some hyper speed. Would she still be there?

More time and more miles blurred by before reaching the outskirts of his final destination. It was now late in the morning, well after rush hour which eased his flight. As he pulled onto his street, an icy calmness washed over him as something else kicked in within him. Self-preservation. The instinct that had saved him time and time again, came to the forefront and took control. Whatever waited within the house before him, would be met with caution and a modicum of self-control.

Steeling himself, he finally exited the vehicle and cautiously approached the house.

His home.

As he stared at its structure, he felt like it had been years since he had seen it last. There was a familiarity, but also an alien quality about it that unnerved him. Pausing but a millisecond, he continued.

Without a key, he had two options. Ring the doorbell and hope that she was home, or break in. Standing at the door wondering if she would answer was almost too painful, so he opted for the second course of action. If she was still there, he knew that he would startle her by the sudden intrusion, but agonizing over whether she would let him back into his own house was even worse.

So he made his way around to the back, away form the watchful eyes of neighbors who may see what he was doing and wonder why. Finding a small window off of the living room, he covered the pane as best as he could with his shirt tail before smashing it with his fist. Within seconds, he was inside after unlatching the window and sliding it up and out of the way. When no sounds met his ears save his own labored breathing, his heart began to sink.

As he slowly made his way through the house, the sound of a ringing phone made him jump uncharacteristically. Staring at the object, he debated with himself about whether to answer it or not, but then something occurred to him.

The alarm system.

Lunging for the receiver, he answered as calmly as he could. Thankfully he did answer, as the alarm company rep was just about to hang up and call the police. After a few brief moments, Frank reassured the man on the line that the window break had been an accident and nothing more. After giving the password, which Frank had to scramble to remember, the conversation was ended.

As he hung up the phone, one thing became painfully obvious to him. Laura and the children were indeed not there. The only question that remained was whether the situation was permanent. Would they be returning sometime soon, or would his worst fears be realized?

Calming himself as best as he could, he began his search in earnest, looking for the clues that would tell him whether his life was over.

Entering his bedroom, he tried to sort through the details that assailed him. Trying to remember what should have been there as opposed to what was actually present was nerve-wracking. Sifting through certain thoughts while ignoring others was becoming increasingly difficult. As some came to the forefront, others clamored for attention. Willing away the unwanted thoughts, Frank continued.

Turning this way and that, at first, Frank believed that nothing at all was wrong. But then….

The picture. The one she kept by her side of the bed. Their wedding photo.

It was gone.

He stared at the place where it should have been. Was he correct about the photo or was his mind playing tricks on him again? He closed his eyes tightly trying to will the image of the place but mere weeks ago to show itself to him now.

Slowly he opened his eyes. He had been correct. The framed picture was gone. Its absence sent a cold chill up his spine.

Turning then, his eyes scoured the rest of the room. What else was missing? Slowly, all of the rest of the pieces fell into place. Although their bedroom had not been decorated heavily with mementos, there had been a smattering of personal touches here and there. Their wedding photo had been one such item. Looking to the dresser, Frank noticed that yet another photo was missing. The one of the 5 of them, the last one taken of them together before Michael died.

A sudden panic grabbed hold of him and refused to let go. Why would she remove just those items?

Something else took over just then, a part of him that was hurt and wounded, a part that needed answers….now.

He immediately began to open dresser drawers, tearing through each one as a man possessed. After opening but two such drawers, one thing became very apparent. A good portion of her clothes were gone. Backing away from the dresser, his eyes now turned toward the closet. With the same fierce determination, he renewed his search. But once the door was open, he froze. No further investigation was needed. She'd taken her suitcases.

She'd left him.

An eerie calmness washed over him as he slowly backed away from the open closet door and sat on the end of their bed. His eyes now took on the same look that they'd had when he had been told just yesterday morning that he had indeed killed Nina. Empty…..despondent…..lifeless.

She'd left him.

The one hope that he'd had left was slowly slipping away from him. The light was dimming, taking what was left of his soul with it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that she was his only shot at any sort of redemption. He needed her in order to heal, and without her there beside him, he knew the situation was hopeless.

He wasn't sure how long he had sat there. Minutes…..hours……it could have been even days as far as he knew. As part of his mind resurfaced, he looked up then and caught a reflection of himself in the dresser mirror.

At first, his image was almost foreign to him. His eyebrows drew together as if he were trying to figure out some difficult puzzle. Something happened then. Something inside Frank Donovan…..snapped.

Disjointed thoughts flooded his mind and nearly blinded him. The other part of him now demanded attention, the part that he had somehow quieted for the past 48 hours or so.

He watched the confused look in his eyes turn to blinding, unadulterated hatred. What was inside of him had caused all of this, had driven his wife and children from his life. It had been the thing that made him pull that trigger and take an innocent woman's life. It had been the thing that wanted him to touch the women, to revel in the lustful thoughts that had been at the heart of his betrayal.

Standing suddenly, the uncontrollable rage causing him to visibly shake, Frank paced to the mirror, intent on staring down the thing that lived within him. Gripping the side of the furniture, he steadied himself. Eyes blazing, he was bound and determined to rid himself of what needed to be destroyed.

Destroyed……

He needed to eliminate it, to end its existence. That's when a crystal clear thought entered his head.

The gun.

He had the means of stopping it. All it would take was one final shot. He had killed an innocent. Surely doing this would be a much easier task, a just reward for a life filled with sins and transgressions.

His hand slowly reached behind his back and withdrew the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. His eyes momentarily dropped to the object that he now held. He needed to do this. This was his only shot at redemption.

And with a chilling calmness, Frank raised his head once more, and looked at his own reflection.

"Time to die," he told the man on the other side of the mirror as he chambered the first round.

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