Question Mark (33 page)

“Yeah, the book reads like fiction and I didn’t see it coming either. People back then thought he would make it through the war, too. They thought someone greener, someone who cracked under pressure would be the one shot down, but…I guess you never know. It’s like the Glenn Miller story.”

Mark frowned. “The big band guy?”

Zane nodded. “He conducted the Army Air Force Band and went missing in action. The story goes that his plane went down in bad weather in the English Channel. But, like I said, he wasn’t out flying missions or anything—so no one figured on losing him. It makes it worse in a way, and like with Richtfeld, you get so invested into his life as you read, that when the author is taking you through that last flight, you have no doubt he’s coming out alive. It slams into you sideways when you read about the crash—and that girl.”

Mark made a sad noise in agreement, recalling the young French girl and her family who witnessed the crash landing of Richtfeld’s plane and rushed to help him. There was no question the author wrote a gripping story, but Zane was right. It made it harder to accept and understand.

“What scenes are you doing on location today?” Mark asked, happy that they were having a normal conversation.

“The scene with the girl where he’s trapped in the cockpit.”

“You’re joking.”

He almost smiled and Mark’s lips parted nervously. “I’m totally serious.”

“So…I’m allowed to watch filming?” God, why had Zane’s answer made him so much more anxious? Mark’s stomach was flipping around like crazy.

“Of course. You’ll come with me to hair and makeup—” Mark momentarily pictured that makeup guy  glaring at him and he hoped nothing bad would happen. “Then, I think we’ll be driven out to the location for filming. The craft crew built a partial replica of Richtfeld’s plane and moved it out to a tree line off of the airstrip. It will come across better than doing all of that on a green screen. We’ll do the crash sequences digitally, but for the scenes today, I get to be in this giant prop.”

Zane, whether or not he realized it, was bright with pleasure as he spoke about his job. It was so obvious he loved what he did for a living in spite of all the trouble being famous created in his personal life. Mark sensed a familiar pang of inferiority deep in his gut, but for once he refused to give it his full attention. He had to believe in what Zane said and prove that he was strong enough to fight for him.

They approached the gates leading onto set and the flashes started sparking away. Zane’s face shut down and Mark leaned quietly back in his seat, almost surprised he was still next to the bodyguard when they rubbed arms. He was trying to imagine what it would be like on set, seeing Zane do his job up close. The surreality hit him again.

Mark was on a movie set with a man he cared about more than he thought possible. So weird! A year ago, Zane Whitlow was just some faraway person that Mark watched at a theater or on cable. He’d even gone to see
The Mercenary
with Rafe.

Now, here he was, packed in next to that same star after what he could only describe as Zane’s revenge sex the night before. Mark was going to watch him work from behind the camera instead of from the audience. 

As sweat bloomed on his brow, Mark realized what his problem was. The scenes Zane was shooting today were probably some of the final scenes in the movie itself—the iconic moment—of Richtfeld as his life ends.

Mark would be watching Zane filming the death sequence. He swallowed thickly and tried to keep his breaths even. His eyes shot worriedly to Zane who was watching the driver. Zane caught him and when he saw Mark’s expression, he latched onto his hand.

“What is it?” Concern laced Zane’s voice and that old look was in his eyes. Mark wanted to wrap his arms around the other man’s neck and hold on tight.

They pulled up in front of the building they’d left from last night and Mark could only shake his head, too overcome to speak.

***

“Alright, here’s how we’re going to work this scene,” Loren said, gathering close to Zane and the young lady cast as “Adelaide, The French Girl,” at Richtfeld’s crash site. “We’ll do Mari’s shots first. Starting with her bare feet running along the dirt path here, up over the stiles, and out into the field. We’ll get her legs cutting through the tall grass on her way to the plane, but these first shots are only of her feet and they’ll serve as the opening sequence of the movie as well.”

Loren turned to Mari and pointed out her starting position. “The ground’s been cleared as well as possible so you can run full tilt on the path we’ve marked and the camera will follow on the track. I want your footsteps to pound—pulse with speed, you know—and as the audience sees your feet running, they’re going to hear you breathing. So, big breaths in and out and push yourself. Sound editing will pump it up later. We’ll get a few takes of that and let you have a rest before we do a couple more. The last two, toward the end of the path, I’m going to have you calling out the line—
‘Monsieur! Monsieur! Je suis venue… I am coming!’
—got it?”

Mari nodded quickly and smiled, thrilled to be able to run herself to death take after take. Zane had settled into character and the impact of the scenes was weighing on him. Even so, he couldn’t fight the smile her enthusiasm brought to his face.

“Zane,” Loren turned back to him and pointed at the fake plane that looked like authentic P-51 fuselage that had been slammed into the earth a couple times. “We’ll have you get in the plane after Mari’s takes and a camera will be on you as she yells out her lines. I want to get your reaction to hearing someone coming, faint and far off, while knowing you’re not going to make it.”

Zane nodded and stepped into the background as the crew settled. He didn’t want to be too close to Mark right now because of how raw he felt. The emotions for the next scene had to come from somewhere, and the wellspring inside of Zane was brimming with Mark. He knew exactly where the man he loved was waiting on set, but Zane wouldn’t go to him.

Loren called for quiet and the sudden silence was unnerving. A low mist had settled over the ground and as Mari fell into position, the hush of the morning almost became a feeling inside Zane’s chest. Loren called out to Mari and she moved.

Feet pounding step by step and with breaths heaving, she ran down the path and over the stiles into the field toward a dying man.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Wrapped up in his own coat once again, Mark was huddled in a chair one of the crew members found for him, eyes glued to a monitor. He’d been hooked up with a headset so he could hear the sound, which was more tinny and rough than he thought it’d be. He guessed that sort of thing was touched up in editing, too.

Zane filled the little screen in front of him from his shoulders to the top of his head, the jet canopy and his pilot’s seat took up the rest of the background. Mark had to tell himself over and over again that he was just looking at makeup—the scratches and fake blood were screwing with his calm.

They were between takes and the director had climbed a step stool to lean into the fuselage and chat about the scene. Mark could hear everything they said and though some of it was technical camera angle stuff, most of it was about the scene itself and the emotion they wanted to convey.

Mark had read on a fan site that Zane was known for sort of injecting himself into his roles, taking on as much of a character as he could so that the line between himself and the person being portrayed was unclear. The webpage mentioned that Zane disagreed with this—claiming he wasn’t really a method actor. But from where Mark was sitting, he didn’t know if he could go along with that. Zane was mesmerizing, even unedited and untouched. The reality he put into the moment was physically striking to witness and they hadn’t even rolled film.

Loren eased back and climbed down the ladder and everyone waited while a couple guys adjusted the cockpit canopy and plane setting for the right shot. Zane’s face turned to camera and his eyes closed. Mark wondered what he was thinking.

Quiet was called and the set stilled. Loren yelled out, “Okay, Zane, Mari is running—and go!”

Off camera Mari’s voice could be heard faintly crying out,
“Monsieur, Monsieur!”

Mark’s jaw dropped open as Zane jerked in his seat, looking straight into camera. Mari’s call sounded again and tears welled in Zane’s eyes. His lips parted and he looked like he was fighting for air as a red stain bloomed on his white scarf. Tears broke past his lower lids and rolled toward his temples as he sat strapped into his seat, the nose of the plane jutting into the sky.

It was when Zane groped at his neck and brought blood covered fingers up in front of his eyes, his ruined voice gasping out a frightened,
“No—”
that Mark had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from making a noise. The tears were contagious and the scene so realistic on the monitor that Mark felt like he was really watching Zane fight for air. His own eyes were filling as he watched blood spread over the scarf. Zane banged at the cockpit canopy with the flat of one palm until he could barely lift his arms at all.

Mari yelled,
“Je suis venue… I am coming!”

Zane’s struggles in his seat were steadily weakening, his gasps shorter and farther apart.
“God…”
he pleaded gutturally, and Mark was swiping at his eyes, fighting for his composure.

Mari called out one last
“Monsieur!
” and the bloodied palm fell from the canopy to his chest, his body shifting one last time. His chest heaved upward once, then twice as the light slowly died in Zane’s eyes. The blood spread and the camera zoomed in as the life went out of him. The set was silent and still; no one heard a thing. Loren waited another few moments and said quietly, “Cut. Good.”

Everyone remained where they were for a hushed breath or two, then the crew moved slowly to reset the scene as Loren jogged back to the plane and called out to Zane. Mark removed his headset and walked away until he wasn’t seeing or hearing the chatter around him.

He ran his hands through his hair then plunged them into his pockets, trying to stay loose and keep moving around. He didn’t think it would be possible to watch that scene again and he knew they were going to film it several more times.

Mark was pacing back and forth in the background, waiting for some sort of reprieve and nodding politely if anyone glanced his way. He tried not to look like he was going to lose it. Sighing, he glanced back over his shoulder to where Zane was sitting in the cockpit still talking to Loren.

Mark could not lose this man. He
would not
lose him.

***

Almost two hours passed before Zane was crawling out of the plane and stretching out the kinks from being stuck in one place for so long. He pulled the wet, sticky scarf—the seventh he’d worn that morning—from his neck and passed it off to a wardrobe assistant who offered him a couple of wet wipes in exchange. He swiped at the syrupy goop on his neck and chin and looked through the people milling around doing their jobs as he searched for Mark.

He wasn’t at the monitor where Zane had last seen him and it took several minutes to pick his man out, disengaged from the crew with his back to everyone.

Zane made his way slowly to Mark’s side, pausing to accept a warm coat from the same assistant who passed out wet wipes. Not wanting to startle him, Zane called out softly as he approached, wishing he could snap his fingers and get them out of this fix.

“Mark?” Zane said again when it appeared he hadn’t heard him; still no response.

He reached out to touch Mark’s shoulder and was nearly rocked off his feet as Mark turned into him and wrapped his arms around Zane’s waist. He burrowed his face against Zane’s throat, fake blood residue and all. Mark held on tight and tighter still when Zane’s arms finally moved to return the embrace, one hand resting softly on the back of Mark’s neck and the other on his lower back. Mark murmured something, his soft lips light on the skin of Zane’s throat. 

“What is it?” Zane breathed, his natural protective instincts rising up.

Mark shook his head, staying tight against him until Zane forced him backward with gentle pressure.

“Hey… Tell me.” When Mark finally lifted his eyes, Zane was surprised to see they were red.

“I-I’m begging you to…please,
please
forgive me…” Mark whispered. “This is killing me.”

Zane’s mouth tightened, his mind telling him to slam those defensive walls back into place and ignore the pleading look in Mark’s eyes.
He’ll just do it again!
Zane’s will shouted.
The first minute you aren’t around, he’ll freak out and do something stupid.
Then the words Zane had spoken to Mark the night before came back to him.

Everybody has their own shit.

Zane had lived a long time dealing with things that were out of his control, so when he found something he thought he could master, he smothered it and willed it into something that followed his beck and call.