Chapter 25: Bleeding Out
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He almost called Rachel twice.
Once on Tuesday night at 1:30 A.M. when he couldn't sleep, and another time when he walked to the mailbox and hallucinated that he saw her name on the return address of an envelope from his insurance company.
Both times the temptation arose, he had to shut his phone off to make it go away.
He hated himself for being just as stubborn as she was.
At the end of a very long week of not working and being stuck in the house where he'd lived with his ex, Frank was grateful for the excuse to leave town. Although his flight wasn't set to leave for another four hours, he couldn't stand being at home, so he drove to the airport way ahead of schedule.
His biggest mistake was daring to turn on the radio.
". . . so I'm saving all my love for you . . ."
He frantically turned the dial to escape her voice, but the next station did not offer him relief.
"If somebody loves you, won't they always love you . . ."
He angrily punched the dial to silence her voice once and for all. But even driving in absolute silence was no cure for the lingering echo of her lyrics in his ears.
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His plane landed in Dallas/Fort Worth International at one o'clock in the afternoon. After weeks of not having any obligations, Frank felt a welcome surge of importance walking through the airport in a suit and tie, knowing he had somewhere to be.
Mr. Richard Gallagher, Jr. was a high profile art collector in his mid-seventies. He lived in a handsome estate in Highland Park, with his two dogs, his much younger wife, and a team of housekeepers and groundskeepers.
He smelled of absinthe and tobacco, and had a firm handshake and friendly eyes.
"Are you interested in art, Mr. Farmer?"
"You can call me Frank. And no, not in the slightest."
Mr. Gallagher laughed loudly at Frank's blunt response. "Good. I know you won't try and steal any of my pieces."
He spoke as if Frank were already working for him, which Frank found surprising.
"We've had two break-in attempts in the last six months. I refuse to move house; as you can imagine it would be quite the undertaking," the man said as he slapped the curved bottom of a Grecian marble statue.
Frank narrowed his eyes as he inspected the large window paneling. "Your home is designed for elegance, not for security."
"Hell, I know that. This entire house is a work of art. We had a real mess on our hands after storm season last summer."
"I can only imagine," Frank murmured, fascinated by the vaulted details on the hallway ceiling. "Does this house have a cellar?"
"It has two," he said proudly. "One on the east wing, and one on the west. I'll show you them later on."
He led Frank into a high-ceilinged billiard room lined with large Impressionist paintings. "Cigar?" he asked, proffering a Robusto with his right hand.
Frank shook his head, mildly intrigued by the larger than life paintings that covered the walls. It was hard to believe this man lived here – it looked more like a museum than a home.
"Ah, these are some of my favorites," the old man spoke as he gestured to the wall. "Fragonard's 'A Philosopher Reading,' and Fantin-Latour's 'Queen of the Night.'"
Frank stopped in the middle of the vast room, dwarfed by the image before him. A beautiful, ghostly woman reclined on what looked like a throne of clouds, her head in her hand, gazing out at the evening sky. "What did you say this painting was called?" he asked, scarcely able to believe he'd heard the man correctly.
"'Queen of the Night.'" The old man smiled wryly behind his cigar. "What man wouldn't want one of those, eh?"
What man indeed.
Frank could only chuckle at the irony, his hands numb as he stared at the angelic figure before him. The woman in the painting looked nothing like Rachel. But the idea that he would have to walk past this image every day if he worked for this man, knowing its perfectly given title, being reminded of her every time he entered this room – it was too much for him.
He allowed Mr. Gallagher to continue boasting his way around the extravagant house, showcasing his million dollar paintings and his trophy wife and his wine collection. At the end of the tour, Frank felt utterly bereft.
This man did not need a bodyguard as much as he needed an updated security system and a glorified gallery guard.
Frank turned down Mr. Gallagher's offer without a second thought.
He went to bed early that night back at his hotel, feeling the pressure of his impending flight home the next morning. He swore the familiar scent of her perfume clung to the bed sheets as he felt himself drifting to sleep.
He dreamed vividly of Rachel that night. His mind had superimposed her likeness within the erotic painting he had seen at Gallagher's mansion, taunted by the auspice that he had seen her emerging from the clouds this way before . . .
The dream morphed and shifted back to the night he first watched her "Run To You" music video, hypnotized by images of her face and body that existed in some impossible harmony between provocative and angelic.
He woke gently to the sound of the radiator in his hotel room, allowing the scattered pieces of the strange memory to take shape. He still recalled the light weight of the pencil falling from his fingers as he had lost all sovereignty over his extremities. The way the air in the room had been cold, but he had seemed to radiate heat. The mild burn in the back of his throat from his coffee, the snug strain of his suspenders on his shoulders, the glowing pull of the television screen upon his defenseless gaze.
He recalled the confusion he'd felt, seeing her as more than just an entitled celebrity, receiving the lyrics she sang as some kind of hidden message intended only for him. This heartbreakingly beautiful woman had become the object of his every effort overnight. This was why he had been hired; it was his purpose, and her powerfully sung words had encouraged him to protect her with the blazing intensity of a militaristic zealot. He would be no less fanatic than the stalker who had broken into her home—he would fight this psychopathic behavior with his own.
A wild sort of possessiveness had overtaken him from that moment. He remembered how he had sat there, impaired by overwhelmed senses for several minutes after the video had ended. Then he had stood up, paced the room, and opened every one of his gun cases in a manic rush, hungering for some way to settle the strange surge of masculine energy that had taken over his body after watching her on the screen.
He had then painstakingly wired the radio transmitter into the small enameled cross, which he planned to give her that evening. It wasn't the first time he had given one of his clients a similar token, but it never held quite the same significance before. He suspected it had mostly to do with her being a woman.
Frank breathed heavily at the memory, eyes wide open in the dark room. He had always supposed it was the 'forbidden fruit' aspect of Rachel Marron that had made their relationship so intense. It could not have been because he had actually loved her. The purely flesh-driven attraction he'd had to her for so long seemed to be clouding his ability to discern his true feelings for her. Or perhaps, like so many things in his life, he had repressed the feelings out of fear.
He compared it to the feelings he had experienced when he'd thought he was in love with other women before her. In those times he'd felt he had autonomy over his decisions. With Rachel he'd had no choice. His body, heart, and soul had been ravaged by her in one swift stroke. As he had been trained to fight against such attacks, he had shielded himself from the blow like a committed soldier.
It had taken ten years for him to only now realize his wound had been open the entire time. Now he was bleeding out.
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His words haunted her.
"You torture me, Rachel. You still torture me!"
Torturing Frank Farmer had been her life's mission a decade ago. But now she felt like a villain in the face of his stunning accusation.
What on earth could he have meant by it? Was it anything she dared to imagine?
Rachel stared around her dark bedroom. Everything personal had been packed away, and now her surroundings were barren and cold. The shelves and surfaces were all empty. All she had left on her nightstand was her cell phone and some chapstick. The emptiness of everything around her seemed to reflect the bare bones she felt she'd become.
It killed her to think she had hurt him with every affair she'd had since he left. But it killed her more to learn just how closely he'd paid attention despite trying to remove himself from every aspect of her life.
Where would they have ended up if they hadn't parted ways? Somehow Rachel thought they would've been worse off.
The time apart had offered them both time to grow. It was human to fall back into old habits, but even when he had been shouting at her, she hadn't felt attacked. She felt like a willing victim to an onslaught of long-contained passion. Because when he raised his voice at her, and when his eyes blazed like that, it meant he cared deeply. Even now, hundreds of miles away from him, she felt it.
She sat up in bed and turned the lamp on, allowing her eyes to adjust as she thought back on his fervent confessions. He had not been able to escape her, seeing her everywhere on television and magazines, hearing her on the radio. Rachel could concede that this would make it difficult for him to lay aside his feelings, but she hadn't been able to forget him as quickly as he had accused her of. Though she may not have had to look at photos of him or see him on television every other day, it still stung. In fact the absence of any media footprint almost made her question his existence. Instead of being bombarded with his image, she was left in the dark, forever frustrated by a string of burning questions in the back of her mind: "Where is he now? Who is he protecting? Is he even in the same country? Is he even alive? Is he loving another woman? Does he have a family of his own?"
It was the mystery of his whereabouts that had tortured her. For him, it had been the opposite—it was the lack of mystery—being unable to let her go because the media would not allow it. Perhaps that was the true reason he'd lived under a rock.
Rachel sighed and placed her head in her hands. She wished she was not such a prideful, stubborn bitch. Maybe then she could make some romantic declaration in a love letter. Her way of writing to him all those years had been to write songs. It seemed they'd fallen on deaf ears with Frank.
She shook the sleep from her body and reluctantly got out of bed. Without bothering to put her slippers on, she wandered into the hall and made her way quietly into her music studio. Flicking the light on, she walked over to the spot where she had carelessly tossed the collectible albums he had gifted her, and lifted them with loving hands to place them on the wall with the rest.
She had avoided packing away her record collection all week. It had occupied the space on that wall for so many years, she couldn't bring herself to do it. It would have to be a project for Fletcher and his friends.
Her eyes began to water as she stood back and took in all the faces of fellow songwriters and singers throughout the ages. Surely they had all been through similar struggles. Wanting to be with someone, but knowing their fame would be a hindrance to a healthy relationship. It wasn't fair. With any other potential partner, they wanted her because of her fame. With Frank, he wanted her and only her. Her fame was an undesirable quality to him.
There could not have been one person on that wall of prolific artists who didn't also wish they could fade into obscurity. Celebrity status was only a blessing for so long before it became a burden.
She ran her fingers along the shelves, tracing the edges of each beloved album, reliving memories she associated with each one. The irony was a torment. The entire world surely had associated positive memories with so many of her own songs. Meanwhile, she could barely bring herself to listen to some of them because she remembered how miserable, unhappy, depressed, and lonely she was while recording them. No one else would ever know. They would continue playing her iconic songs on repeat, dancing and singing along in carefree obliviousness.
They would never know her struggle, and that's the way it should be. Because as soon as the world knew of a celebrity's struggle, they became famous for their struggle alone.
There were only a handful of people closest to her who really knew her. And Frank Farmer knew her best of all.
The man who knew her best was the man who would distance himself the furthest.
Knowing she'd have no hope of falling back asleep, Rachel pulled the saddest album she owned from its shelf and placed it on the record player.
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Ever since 9/11, TSA always stopped him for a wand search when he was flagged for firearms in his checked luggage. He hated walking anywhere in public while unarmed. He felt naked without his gun.
Years of domestic travel had turned Frank into something of an elitist when it came to waiting in the airport. As a result, he couldn't bring himself to sit by the gate; instead he usually found himself in the closest sky lounge where at least some of the general public could be mitigated.
He absorbed his surroundings with a slow once-over of the large room, which seemed about three-quarters full to capacity. A diverse crowd of people bustled about, most of them solo travelers with the exception of two or three small families. The room looked to have been recently updated, evidenced by a piece of leftover scaffolding roped off in the far corner, and the lingering odor of fresh paint in the dry air. Over the bar, a large TV was broadcasting headlines of recent updates in Elizabeth Smart's disappearance, and a crowd of casual observers had gathered around that area. He stopped only to grab a drink before he made his way strategically to the opposite side of the room, weaving between pieces of luggage and their owners to claim a spot by the windows.
Staring out at the planes on the apron brought him some level of comfort in the midst of the chaos. At the sight of a Boeing 737, he was momentarily whisked away by the memory of taking his father on his very first flight. Herb Farmer had never been fond of technological advancement. "They weren't flying this behemoth down at Kitty Hawk!"
It was a welcome memory to the alternative of being on a tarmac ten years ago. It was incredible how much more pain Frank felt recalling his kiss with Rachel Marron than he did recalling his first flight with his dead father.
Being so secure in himself without a partner, Frank had often been the recipient of pursuit by other women before he had a chance to plan any pursuit of his own. He could count on two hands the number of times another woman had inflicted a hasty kiss upon him when he was practically unaware. He had always let the woman be the first to initiate. While Rachel had been the first to pursue him, he had been the one to initiate their first kiss. It was such a far cry from where they'd ended up, desperately clutching each other for dear life on the tarmac just a few months later.
His eyes glazed over as he observed the sluggish shuffle of airplanes outside the window now. Safely anonymous in the public setting, he lost himself to the comforting vibration of plane engines rattling the glass and the constant shadows of passing clouds shifting sunlight in all directions around him.
He had thought he was hallucinating when her plane had come to a stop just yards away from where he stood. He couldn't bring himself to move a muscle, couldn't urge his lungs to take a single breath as he waited in pure disbelief.
She emerged at the top of the airstair and began to race towards him, her gaze never leaving her target. He had almost laughed at the cinematic drama of it all, watching her run, in her oversized coat and her Jackie Onassis hair scarf. Only one thought seemed to cycle tremulously through his head: 'attack me, attack me, please attack me.'
As if she had heard the demands of his inner thoughts, she threw her arms around him, knocked against him with all her lovely, reckless momentum, and pressed her lips to his. This world-famous goddess who had previously despised him, now gripped him with a white-knuckled fervor that made his knees quake. His arm was throbbing with pain, and his chest was tight with agony, but he didn't care. Didn't care about the danger of being on an active tarmac, surrounded by moving aircraft. Didn't care about the dozens of pairs of eyes watching their scandalous display. Didn't care that this was a final farewell and perhaps the last time he would ever experience such passion in his life.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" A woman's voice softly interrupted his flashback. He turned from the window to look at her, and shook his head once, unable to form words.
Her wavy blond hair was cut short to just above her shoulders, and her dark blue eyes were framed by a trendy pair of oversized reading glasses which she removed upon sitting. From the visible laugh lines on her elegant face, she looked to be at least forty. She was easily the most attractive woman in the room, and he couldn't help but feel flattered that she had chosen to sit across from him. He knew immediately that her choice was intentional, having seen that there were plenty of other available seats by the windows where she would not have to be facing a stranger.
Because he was a red-blooded male, he clocked the absence of a wedding ring on her left hand.
"The mimosas here are pretty weak," she said with a smile as she set down her half finished glass.
He allowed himself a moment of recovery before responding. "I hadn't noticed."
She gestured to the glass of orange juice by his hand. "Screwdriver?"
He smirked. "I don't take vodka with my orange juice."
She paused, staring suspiciously at his drink, then looked up at his face with a pretty, dimpled grin. "What are you, an air marshal?"
Frank chuckled, slightly impressed by how close her assessment of his identity actually was.
"Would I tell you if I was?" he retorted.
She tilted her head in consideration. "If I'm not on your flight you might."
"1033 to LAX."
She shrugged and gestured to herself with both hands. "228 to Tampa."
He laughed and shook his head. "I'm not an air marshal."
"Damn, you had me excited for a second." She pushed her blond hair behind one ear and looked him up and down. "You don't look like a California boy. Why are you headed to L.A?"
He hesitated to give too much information any time a stranger probed him, but her unique charisma put him at ease. "I live there. I came to Fort Worth for an interview."
She flashed her dimples again with another smile. "Oh, so you were interviewing to be an air marshal?"
His heart beat slightly faster when he realized she was flirting with him.
"No, I was . . ."
He stopped speaking, the smile fading from his face. It was a desirable scenario to be in for any single man, but he did not feel single. The feeling of cheating on a woman was not something Frank was familiar with in the slightest, but this was uncomfortably close to what he'd imagined it might feel like.
Unbidden images of Rachel's nude body lying in his bed flashed before him. He could nearly feel her warmth in his arms, could nearly hear the familiar silk of her voice across his ears . . .
"Bittersweet memories . . . That is all I'm taking with me . . ."
The woman across from him narrowed her eyes in confusion as she watched him rise from his chair. With barely a breath, he excused himself, and abandoned his suitcase by the window to walk in the opposite direction.
The singing grew stronger over the sounds of the crowd, and by the time he reached his destination, he was face to face with Rachel Marron through the TV screen above the bar.
Never were there more self-aware lyrics uttered, he thought, as she stared directly into his soul. And she had not even written them herself.
Still, after all these years, after so many other experiences, it possessed him and bewitched him from every angle, in every cell of his body, in every fiber of his being.
The video footage of her singing in one of her concerts was familiar—he had seen clips of this particular performance many times. It was the first live performance she had given of her signature song, and everyone seemed to be familiar with it. Nearly every person seated at the bar appeared entranced by her through the screen, and even one of the female bartenders was singing along with a campy sort of flair.
Rachel Marron was an integral part of the cultural zeitgeist, one which could not be avoided even if Frank left his career behind to become a monk. No matter what he did, he would have to continue living in the constant hum of her overarching presence. It would take years off his life with every song he had to listen to, and every TV clip he had to watch.
Her beauty, even on video, was otherworldly. He could have stood there in a trance for fifteen minutes straight and he wouldn't have known how long it had been. At some point during the time he had left California and this moment, Frank realized he was still very much ready to die for Rachel Marron, but he was not ready to die without her.
The second her song ended, reality crashed against him like a wave of cold water. The sounds of the people and planes taking off grew in volume, as if he were descending from a cloud. He moved swiftly across the room to reclaim his luggage, unperturbed that the mysterious woman who had previously sat across from him was not there.
He began to weave his way back through the crowded room, only stopping to quickly change direction when he spotted the same woman standing near the bar. He pretended he didn't hear her calling out, considering it lucky that he hadn't introduced himself by name. He left through the exit in as fast a pace he could manage without appearing suspicious. On his way through the hall, a female employee offered him a cheery "Have a safe flight, sir!" He did a double-take, only because she was black. He felt like kicking himself for it.
At the same moment, his phone began buzzing in his pocket. He angrily snatched it out to see that the caller was indeed his ex-wife. Frank had never before been so upset that weapons were not permitted in a carry-on. He would have given anything to throw his knives at the nearest drywall.
Flustered, he accidentally accepted the call then hung up just as quickly. He had barely made it a few feet further when his phone went off again with Leah's name lighting up the screen.
"Jesus fucking Christ."
He hadn't had the wherewithal to monitor the volume of his expletive, which caused a nearby four-year-old to tug her father's jacket, exclaiming, "Daddy! That man said a naughty word!"
Frank didn't offer them so much as an apologetic glance.
He was nearly late for his flight, his phone would not stop ringing, the woman from the sky lounge was probably gaining on him, and all the while Rachel's lyrics were still stuck in his head.