The Rising: Antichrist is Born / Before They Were Left Behind

by Tim LaHaye

  “Here’s what happens next,” Planchette said. “Ms. Ivinisova will remove Nicolae for a week, giving them a chance to regroup, bond, solidify their relationship.”

  Their relationship! They were fine. Better than fine. Marilena was the one who needed time alone with Nicky.

  “Will she be counseling him on his school behavior?”

  Planchette smiled and looked at Viv, who grinned back. “Frankly, Mrs. Carpathia, we are not concerned about that. In fact, we couldn’t be more encouraged. Nicky is showing leadership skills far beyond his age. No wonder an elementary school teacher cannot keep up with him. Who could? He’s displaying political skills that bode well for his future.”

  “I see.” Did she ever see. Nicky had everyone’s number; they were all in his corner. Planchette himself was apparently prepared to ride Nicky’s coattails for years.

  Planchette stood. “I feel we have made some progress. Viviana and the boy will leave in the morning, and you are not to be in contact with them until they return. Understood?”

  “Where will they be?”

  “That is confidential.”

  “Then how would I contact them anyway?”

  “Precisely.”

  Marilena shook her head. Surely they couldn’t expect her to like or accept this, but what choice did she have? This appeared designed to put her in her place and keep her there. She had no options, no power. One false move and she lost her child. Her mind raced with images of kidnapping her own son. Marilena and Nicky would be on the lam, and with no income or prospects—especially with an unwilling son—she would be lucky to last twenty-four hours. And then she would lose him for certain.

  Marilena had never spent a week outside the presence of her son. She couldn’t imagine it, but something deep within her actually looked forward to it.

  __

  Marilena was jolted from a fitful, pain-racked sleep at dawn by the sounds of Viv and Nicky knocking around. Marilena threw on a robe and rushed out, only to find Viv shooing Nicky out the door, his backpack stuffed. “Hurry,” she whispered. “Go!”

  “Wait!” Marilena said. “I need a good-bye.”

  “No, you don’t,” Viv said. “This is best.”

  “Best for whom? Best for what? Why do this?”

  “Marilena, be rational. You traumatized him yesterday. He doesn’t know what to think. A phony compassionate good-bye will only confuse him. Now let him be. We’ll see you next week.”

  “I hate you,” Marilena said.

  Viv sighed. “I know. But I don’t hate you. I pity you. You need time to get your mind right, Marilena. Work on yourself this week, will you?”

  “Viv, what am I to do for transportation?”

  “Where do you need to go?”

  “Back to the doctor.”

  “For?”

  “To get stitches removed.”

  Viv hesitated. “That can wait.”

  “No, it can’t.”

  “Then call a cab. Be resourceful. You’re a grown woman.”

  Marilena stomped back to her room and slammed the door, collapsing onto the bed in tears. When she heard the SUV, she moved to the window and watched the taillights fade into the distance. Was it possible she would never see Nicky again? Had she fallen for a monstrous ruse? Had they decided she was unfit and simply spirited him away?

  She called Planchette, and a groggy woman answered. “No, ma’am,” Marilena was told. “He’s already left for Bucharest.”

  Bucharest? “Please have him call me as soon as you hear from him. It’s an emergency.”

  There was a long pause. “I will do that if you will promise me something.”

  Marilena sat on the edge of her bed, thoroughly puzzled. She didn’t even know this woman. Mrs. Planchette? A daughter? A mistress? And yet she was asking Marilena for a favor? “What?”

  “Promise you won’t mention that I told you where he was.”

  “Why?”

  “I was not supposed to.”

  “Is he with Ms. Ivinisova and my son?”

  A longer pause. “I know nothing more.”

  “Be sure he calls me.”

  “I’ll tell him if you promise.” The woman sounded almost as distraught as Marilena felt.

  “Wait. I’ll agree on one condition.”

  “I have already set the condition, Mrs. Carpathia. You know your end of the bargain.”

  “Ma’am, I must know. Just tell me whether they’re planning to return with my son.”

  Silence was the last thing she wanted to hear. Anything but that.

  “I have no idea,” the woman said at last, but she had paused too long.

  “A face un juramînt; swear to me.”

  “Please,” the woman said, “I know nothing.”

  “Do you have children?” Marilena said. “Are you a mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “I beg you, tell me.”

  “Really,” she said, “I don’t know.”

  “Have him call me,” Marilena said. “I will protect you.”

  Marilena was convinced she was going mad. How had she allowed this? Nicky was all she cared about, all she had to live for. If she could have just a few moments alone with him she could make things right, get back on track, convince him she loved him as dearly as her own life.

  In her robe and barefoot, Marilena caught a glimpse of herself as she passed the mirror on her bureau. She was a crazy woman, her hair Medusa-like, coiling in every direction. Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot with dark circles and bags. She wore a mask of panic and desperation; she was trapped and helpless. She could call a cab, but where would she go? To whom would she run? Who could help?

  How does one tell the authorities that her own child has been kidnapped by his ersatz aunt? What would spur them to intercept the SUV? The wrong move could cost Marilena any prayer of seeing Nicky again.

  Prayer.

  The last port in this storm. To whom should she pray? If Lucifer was behind all this, what kind of god was he? How worthy was he of her allegiance? And yet if she sought help from the other side, might she so enrage Lucifer that she would regret it forever?

  Listen to yourself. You’re mad. Mad.

  “God,” she prayed, “is it too late? Can You help me? I know I am unworthy. I know I am a sinner. I know I have no grounds on which to come to You. But I’m desperate. I need Your help, even though I chose the other path. Help me. Show me what to do. Protect my son.”

  It was as if heaven was silent.

  Marilena marched from room to room, each piercing her with reminders of Nicky. She hyperventilated and had to calm herself. As the pinks and oranges of the rising sun peeked through the curtains, she trembled from the pain in her arm. She downed another pill and considered, for the first time in her life, gulping the rest and floating into nothingness.

  Marilena threw back the draperies with her good arm and groaned in frustration, falling to her knees and crying out. She slammed her fists on the hardwood floor until her hands pulsed as painfully as her forearm. She had been a fool! How had she let things unravel this far?

  “God, help me!” she cried. “Save me!”

  Marilena was aware she had shifted focus. That last desperate call had not been for the return of her son but for the salvation of her soul. Could the true God, a God of love, ignore that request? She felt herself calm ever so slightly, rocking back painfully on her knees. How she longed for peace of mind. But would she recognize it if it came? Would it not be clouded by the desperate longing for her child?

  A faint picture came to mind. A memory. A flash. What was it? Biserică Cristos. Christ Church. Where had she seen that? A sign. With an arrow, pointing off the highway somewhere between the cottage and Nicky’s school. How far away? Too far to walk? And was she in any condition to try?

  Marilena was no mystic. Never had been. It had taken tangible proof to get her to acknowledge that the spiritual realm even existed. But could she attribute this—this whatever it was—to her fran
tic prayer? Her learned mind fought it, but she was without recourse. She wanted to believe with all of her being that this was an answer from God.

  Marilena hurried to the phone and called for the listing, her hands shaking. An answering machine picked up, informing her of the times of Sunday services and that other questions might be answered by church staff anytime after noon, Monday through Friday. She left her first name, her number, and a message. “I need to talk with someone. About God. I don’t know what I need, really, but I would appreciate a call.”

  Having connected with only a machine, Marilena still felt better. She was able to drag herself to the shower and then dress. Hoping someone got that message, she also prayed that the woman at Planchette’s could persuade him to call. She was prepared to say whatever was necessary, promise anything, accede to any condition. Marilena determined to keep her wits about her and get something accomplished in the meantime.

  By ten o’clock, she had forced herself to take another pain pill and have breakfast. Unable to stop herself, Marilena called Planchette’s home again. No answer. Not even a machine. Half an hour later, she called again. A mechanical voice informed her the number was no longer in service.

  Marilena dialed Nicky’s school and asked to speak with Mrs. Szabo.

  “Oh, Mrs. Carpathia, we were just about to call you, but we understood you were on vacation. Mrs. Szabo has had a crisis arise in her family and had to leave us virtually without notice. Her mother died suddenly, and her father is unable to care for himself. Apparently she was the only sibling available. Anyway, we will be announcing a replacement for her as soon as we find one.”

  Panic rising, Marilena resorted to something she had told herself she would never do. She called the university and asked for Sorin. In the years since she had left him, he had never once connected with her without her initiating the contact. She had sent notes, pictures of Nicky, even school reports. When she did hear back, she got cordial notes, thanking her and wishing her the best. Each contained bromides about what a handsome son she had produced and how Sorin hoped she was happy and productive. He even said occasionally that he had heard good reports about her research work.

  Not once, however, had he written or called unbidden. He apparently had no real interest in her or her son’s well-being. Marilena had to face that she had been merely a roadside stop on the highway of his life. She was convinced that if she had not intermittently kept him up to date, he would have forgotten her in no time.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she was told, “but Dr. Carpathia is no longer associated here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s been nearly two years, ma’am.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  “Retired, I believe.”

  She was reeling. “Connect me with Dr. Baduna Marius then, please.”

  “Oh, they left at the same time.”

  Marilena, shaken, asked for one of her former colleagues. But she was in class. “I’m sorry to be such a pest,” Marilena said, but she asked for a woman professor she had known from the psychology department. The woman had always been good for the latest gossip, but they hadn’t spoken in years.

  After the usual how-good-it-is-to-hear-from-you, Marilena got to the point. “Whatever became of my former husband and his lover?”

  “Well, they married, as you know.”

  “Yes, but they left the university?”

  “More than eighteen months ago. Of course, it was only a matter of time. They must have won the lottery, Marilena. Had it been a known prize, we all would have been aware, but—”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Well, not long after you left, right around the time of their marriage actually, Sorin and—what was his name . . . ?”

  “Baduna.”

  “Yes, they started living high on the hog. Oh, I remember when it was. Not long after Mrs. Marius’s funeral. You heard about that.”

  “I was there.”

  “Oh, certainly. Anyway, Sorin and Baduna were suddenly living in the lap of luxury. We speculated that his wife had left him a ton of money or—”

  “I don’t believe she came from money,” Marilena said.

  “—or that he had taken out a massive insurance policy on her.”

  “Unlikely. And don’t companies hesitate to pay for suicides?”

  “Well, he and Sorin somehow came into serious money, because they sold Sorin’s apartment, sold Baduna’s house, and bought a multimillion-leu penthouse condominium in downtown Bucharest.”

  “Impossible.”

  “But true. We all knew it would be only a matter of time before they left here. I’m surprised they stayed so long. They clearly didn’t need the income.”

  “What are they doing now?”

  “Writing, lecturing. Their books don’t sell and their lectures can’t pay much. For all anyone can tell, they’ve virtually retired.”

  Marilena thanked her old associate and became maniacal to find out what Viv Ivins had kept protected behind lock and key for so many years. The woman had never allowed Marilena into her bedroom. Marilena pulled a fork from the kitchen drawer and bent back all the tines but one, fashioning it into a rudimentary pick. Within minutes she had tripped the simple doorknob lock and swung the door open.

  EIGHTEEN

  THE BASEBALL SEASON had proved as dismal as Ray Steele feared. The seniors he had played with the previous three years mostly found reasons to not come out or to drop off the team early. That left Ray as the senior statesman, captain, pitcher, and first baseman.

  He was healthy, but he had lost a few miles an hour off his fastball. Ironically, that made him a smarter pitcher—he had to be—and he led the team in wins. Unfortunately there weren’t enough of those to give Belvidere even a winning season. While he was named MVP, it was Ray’s least fun sports experience in four years. In fact, it soured him on playing over the summer. He would concentrate on his flying and finishing up at the tool and die.

  His father would make that difficult, but Ray decided that was not his problem. At graduation Ray received more accolades than anyone else—scholar-athlete, athlete of the year, and a couple of peer-voted honors: best-looking male and most popular.

  Again such things left Ray feeling empty, though he enjoyed congratulations from many friends, classmates, and parents. Any time someone congratulated his parents, however, Ray heard his dad mutter, “Of course I’m proud of him, but a lot of good it does me.”

  In the fall Ray would attend Purdue University on academic and ROTC scholarships and keep his options open for admittance to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. He didn’t want to mislead the air force into thinking he wanted a military career. This was all a means to an end. He planned to be a commercial pilot and make enough money to have the kind of house and cars—and wife—he wanted.

  Viv’s room proved tidy—no surprise to Marilena. But the individual locks on the closet door and several dresser drawers puzzled her. What was so important that Viv felt the need to protect it so securely?

  Marilena tried picking the locks, but they were not so simple as the one on the door had been, and she didn’t want to leave evidence.

  She soon repented of that as her angst rose. Why no phone call from Reiche Planchette or from Christ Church? Her heart galloped as again she felt isolated and helpless.

  She went outside to the shed near the tiny corral, and as the horse snuffled at her, Marilena found a hammer and long screwdriver. Was the horse now her responsibility? She hadn’t thought of that. She had never mucked out a stall and wondered how cruel it would be to leave Star Diamond wallowing in his own waste for a week. But why should he have it any easier than she? And what made her think it would be only a week? If her son had been stolen, she would be alone the rest of her life. Would the association, Planchette, and his minions allow her to stay here at all?

  Well, this wasn’t the innocent horse’s fault. Later she would find the shovel and do her duty, but Star Diamond had bett
er know to move out when she entered. Marilena had no idea how to maneuver a horse.

  Back in the house she tried to gently pop the lock on Viv’s closet, but the more she worked, the more she scratched the lock and left nicks in the wood. Finally she realized there was no choice but to do what she had to. Marilena threaded the blade of the screwdriver through the C-bolt of the padlock and pressed the blade against the closet doorframe. She pushed with all her weight, and the screwdriver sank into the soft wood, finally splitting it and reaching the wall beneath.

  The lock was not about to pop off, but the frame and wall were slowly giving way. By now she didn’t care what kind of a mess she made. Soon the framing broke free, the wall crumbled at the point of entry, and the lock, still secure to itself, hung from the door.

  Unless Marilena could find a handyman with skill and speed, there would be no hiding this invasion of Viv’s privacy. Marilena didn’t care. Anything this secretive likely pertained to her and her son, and she felt entitled to it.

  Once the door had been forced open, she was confronted with a safe. Fortunately, it was not state-of-the-art and hardly top-of-the-line. It too had a combination lock, but she believed she could break into it with the tools she had. A few minutes later she had bent the door and popped it open. Consequences be hanged. She was in way too deep to turn back now.

  Inside the safe lay an overstuffed accordion file. Not surprisingly, Viv had precisely organized the documents chronologically. They were labeled by year, starting several years before Marilena had met Viv, then skipping ahead to a year or so before they met, containing several pages per year since then.

  Marilena was on to something. She removed and stacked the papers on Viv’s bed. Her heart nearly stopped when she realized what she was looking at—from her own pre–Sorin Carpathia days: correspondence between Viviana Ivinisova and Marilena’s future husband.