Outside, the sky was still clear, so the lights inside the bar were off.
Old Frank sat by the window, bathed in the moonlight streaming through. The backlighting made it hard to see his facial features or expression, only the shadowy outline of his profile was visible.
It was like a paper cutout.
Old Frank slightly raised his chin, staring at Young Frank. In those eyes, he could clearly see a mixture of sorrow and madness.
"Then order me to stop."
Young Frank gazed down at his father. His words were both a command and a plea, with a slight tremble in his voice, though it was unclear whether from anger or despair.
At that moment, Young Frank's face was hidden, his expression and eyes unseen; yet the silhouette revealed a trace of sorrow and pain.
He had been running, hiding, refusing to accept his parents' separation, like an ostrich burying its head in the sand, thinking that as long as he ignored it, the crisis wouldn't exist. However, he could no longer escape. The bloody reality was laid bare before him.
It was over. Everything was over.
Young Frank stood there, silently, desperately, staring at his father. His silhouette trembled slightly, and although nothing could be seen, the sound of a world falling apart echoed in his ears. The quiet murmur of the bar only made the moment feel more still and oppressive.
Old Frank couldn't speak.
Young Frank slowly stepped closer to his father, forcing each word through gritted teeth, "Then order me to stop."
The more resolute, fierce, and determined he seemed, the more fragile he became.
His voice was stretched to its breaking point, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
Time froze in that moment, and the silhouette exploded with an unimaginable energy, cutting through all sound in the room like a blade.
Young Frank stared at Old Frank.
Old Frank stared back at Young Frank.
In a brief exchange of glances, father and son stood as if on quicksand, sinking slowly, inevitably, toward the abyss.
Finally, Old Frank spoke, "You can't stop."
Young Frank held his breath.
Old Frank, sensing movement in his son's eyes, quickly tried to call out to him, "Where are you going?"
But it was too late to stop Young Frank.
With a sudden turn, Young Frank stumbled backward, ignoring his father's shouts, barely keeping his footing as he staggered away. The dim light flickered across his face, revealing the struggle, despair, pain, and loss in his eyes.
It was like free fall.
In the end, Young Frank crashed through the bar's doors and stumbled out.
Another Christmas Eve, and once again, it was at the FBI office.
Carl was busy eating takeout, but this time, he wasn't alone.
The phone rang, and Carl stood up abruptly, signaling to his colleagues. Counting, "One, two, three," three agents picked up the phone at the same time.
"This is Hanratty."
"Hello, Carl, Merry Christmas."
The weary voice was unmistakably Young Frank.
Carl quickly gestured to his colleagues, and they prepared to jot down key information.
Carl tried to act nonchalant, "How are you, Dr. Connors?"
But Young Frank sounded unusually calm. "Carl, I haven't been Dr. Connors for months."
Carl: …
Carl cleared his throat, "Alright, it's Christmas Eve, I'm here in the office. What do you want?"
And where was Young Frank?
He was alone in a bar again, another Christmas Eve, still by himself. Different setting, but the same loneliness.
Young Frank doodled on the bar counter with his finger, not answering Carl right away. He was lost in thought for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh.
"Okay."
"I want it to end."
"I, uh, want this all to end. I'm getting married, you know. I'm ready to settle down."
But clearly, Carl wasn't buying it. "You stole nearly four million dollars. Do you think we'd consider that a wedding gift?"
"No."
"This isn't something you can run from, Frank."
Young Frank replied, "I want a truce."
Carl, "There's no truce."
Carl was calm but relentless. "You're going to be caught, and you're going to jail. What do you think is going to happen?"
On Christmas Eve, Young Frank sounded vulnerable and weak. He murmured softly, "Please, Carl, just let me go."
"Please?"
But Carl had a different perspective. "I'm about to catch you, aren't I?"
"The closer I get, the more scared you are. I know you rented a car in Shreveport and are staying in a motel near Lake Charles."
"You want to run? Go ahead. But your checks won't lie like you do."
Shreveport and Lake Charles were both in southern Louisiana, about a three-hour drive from New Orleans.
In that instant, Young Frank knew his father had been right—FBI wasn't giving up, and they were still chasing him.
Young Frank grew frustrated, even a little angry. "Stop chasing me."
Carl took a deep breath, "I can't. It's my job."
Carl expected Young Frank to lash out in fury, but instead, his voice on the other end sounded tired, even amused.
"That's okay, Carl. I just thought I'd ask."
Self-deprecating. Playful.
"Hey, Merry Christmas?"
Young Frank's lips curved into a faint smile, and then he hung up the phone.
This time, Carl didn't get mad.
"I love my job."
"Alright, let's go through the local newspapers in Louisiana for the past two months."
"Engagement announcements. Under Connors."
The other agents froze, smirking in disbelief. "Connors? Come on, that kid's changed his name by now."
Carl shook his head, picking up his takeout box again. "No, he can't change it. She knows him as Connors. If he changes his name, he'll lose the girl."
Carl, once again, was right.
The FBI found the Strongs' house, making a grand entrance on the night of the engagement party.
Young Frank noticed the commotion and rushed to escape, but he couldn't bear to leave Brenda, the woman he loved. In the chaos and confusion, he told her everything—this time, it was all true.
"I'm not a doctor. I never went to medical school. I'm not a lawyer, not a Harvard graduate, and I'm not a Lutheran."
"Brenda, a year and a half ago, when I was sixteen, I ran away from home."
No lies, no omissions, no holding back.
Young Frank laid himself bare before Brenda, revealing who he truly was.
Brenda was overwhelmed and shocked. Clearly, she couldn't keep up with everything; the man she loved seemed like a stranger.
"You're not Lutheran?"
That was Brenda's first reaction.
But Young Frank didn't have time to explain. He had already prepared everything. With cash from the checks, he had two suitcases full of money—enough to support them for a long time and live a hidden, happy life.
Brenda had a thousand questions, but Young Frank had to cut her off.
"Do you love me, Brenda?"
"Yes."
"Do you love me?"
"I love you."
Dragging the suitcases, Young Frank prepared to escape through the window, hurriedly explaining the escape route to Brenda, telling her to wait until her parents were asleep, then take a taxi out of town. They would meet at 10 a.m. at Miami International Airport two days later, and then they'd leave together.
"Frank, please, tell me your name before you go. Please."
"Frank-William-Abagnale Jr."
Finally, he said it.
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