by Tim LaHaye
“You weren’t the only one who did that,” Buck said. “I think that stuff is on Chloe’s computer and maybe Amanda’s.”
“We did not, however, leave anything out. Even encrypted files were copied because we didn’t want to slow the process by being selective. But we never had access to those.”
Buck stared at the ceiling. “Until now, right? That’s what you’re telling me?”
“Sadly, yes,” Tsion said.
Buck stood. “If you’re about to tell me something that will affect my esteem for Bruce and his memory, be careful. He is the man who led me to Christ and who helped me grow and—”
“Put your mind at ease, Cameron. My esteem for Pastor Barnes was only elevated by what I found. I found the encryption-solving files on my own computer. I applied these to Bruce’s files, and within a few minutes, everything encrypted glowed from my screen.
“The files were not locked. I confess I took a peek and noticed many that were merely personal. Mostly memories of his wife and family. He wrote of his remorse over losing them, not being with them, that sort of thing. I felt guilty and did not read everything there. It must have been my old nature that attracted me to other private files.
“Cameron, I confess this excited me to no end. I believed I had found more riches from his personal study, but what I found I thought better to not risk printing. It is on my computer in my bedroom. Painful as it will be, you must see it.”
Nothing would have kept Buck from it. But he mounted the stairs with the same reluctance he had felt digging through the rubble at Loretta’s. Tsion followed Buck into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the high, squeaky bed. A plastic folding chair sat in front of the dresser, on which Tsion’s laptop rested. The screen saver bore the message “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth.”
Buck sat and brushed the touchpad with his finger. The date of the file indicated it had been in Bruce’s computer since two weeks after he had officiated the double wedding of Buck and Chloe and Rayford and Amanda.
Buck spoke into the computer’s microphone. “Open document.”
The screen read:
Personal prayer journal. 6:35 a.m.: My question this morning, Father, is what would you have me do with this information? I don’t know it to be true, but I cannot ignore it. I feel heavily my responsibility as shepherd and mentor to the Tribulation Force. If an interloper has compromised us, I must confront the issue.
Is it possible? Could it be true? I don’t claim special powers of discernment; however, I loved this woman and trusted her and believed in her from the day I met her. I thought her perfect for Rayford, and she seemed so spiritually attuned.
Buck stood, his seat hitting the back of the chair and knocking it to the floor. He bent over the laptop, palms on the dresser. Not Amanda! he thought. Please! What damage might she have done?
Bruce’s journal continued: “They are planning a visit soon. Buck and Chloe will come from New York and Rayford and Amanda from Washington. I will be returning from an international trip. I will have to get Rayford alone and show him what has come to me. In the meantime, I feel impotent, given their proximity to NC. Lord, I need wisdom.”
Buck’s heart raced and he panted. “So where’s the file in question?” he said. “What did he receive and from whom?”
“It’s attached to the previous day’s journal entry,” Tsion said.
“Whatever it is, I’m not going to believe it.”
“I feel the same, Cameron. I feel it deep in my heart. And yet, here we are, despairing.”
Buck said, “Previous entry. Open document.”
That day’s entry: “God, I feel like David when you refused to respond to him. He pleaded with you not to turn away from him. That is my plea today. I feel so desolate. What am I to make of this?”
“Open attached,” Buck said.
The message had been sent from Europe. It was to Bruce, but his last name had been misspelled Barns. The sender was “an interested friend.”
“Scroll down,” Buck said, sick to his stomach. As the computer responded, the phone rang in his pocket.
CHAPTER 9
He flipped his phone open. “This is Buck.”
“I’m trying to reach Cameron Williams of Global Weekly Magazine.”
“Speaking.”
“Lieutenant Ernest Kivisto here. Met you earlier today.”
“Yes, Ernie! What have you got?”
“First off, headquarters is looking for you.”
“Headquarters?”
“The big man. Or at least somebody close to him. I thought I’d widen the search for your wife, so I faxed that sheet to surrounding states. You never know. If she was hurt or got evacuated, she could be anywhere. Anyway, somebody recognized the name. Then a guy named Kuntz said he’d seen you earlier too. Somehow your whereabouts gets into the database and we get word headquarters is looking for you.”
“Thanks. I’ll check in.”
“I know you don’t report to me, and I have no jurisdiction, but since I’m the last one who saw you, I’m gonna have to answer for it if you don’t check in.”
“I said I would check in.”
“I’m not naggin’ ya or anything. I’m just saying—”
Buck was tired of military types covering their own tails. But this was a man he wanted to get back to him as soon as possible if Chloe turned up. “Ernie, I appreciate all you’re doing for me, and you may rest assured that I will not only check in with headquarters, but I will also mention that I got the word from you. You want to spell that last name for me?”
Kivisto did. “Now for the good news, sir. One of the Cell-Sol guys got the fax in his truck. He wasn’t happy about me broadcasting it everywhere. He said I shouldn’t be tying up the whole GC network for a missing person’s bulletin. Anyway, he said they saw a young woman who might fit that description being lifted into one of those Ambu-Vans late yesterday.”
“Where?”
“I’m not sure exactly where, but for sure it was between that block you pointed out to me and where I am now.”
“That’s a pretty big area, Ernie. Can we narrow that at all?”
“Sorry, I wish I could.”
“Can I talk to this guy?”
“I doubt it. He said something about having been awake since the earthquake. I think he’s bedding down in one of the shelters.”
“I didn’t see any Ambu-Vans at your shelter.”
“We’re taking in only the ambulatory.”
“This woman wasn’t?”
“Apparently not. If she had serious ailments, she would have been taken to, just a minute here . . . Kenosha. A couple of hotels right next to each other just inside the city limits have been turned into hospitals.”
Ernie gave Buck the number for the medical center in Kenosha. Buck thanked him and asked, “In case I have trouble getting through, what are the odds I can drive to Kenosha?”
“Got a four-wheel drive?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re gonna need it. I-94 lost every overpass between here and Madison. There’s a couple places you can get on, but then before you get to the next overpass you have to go through single-lane roads, little towns, or just open fields and hope for the best. Thousands are trying it. It’s a mess.”
“I don’t have a helicopter, so I have no choice.”
“Call first. No sense trying a trip like that for nothing.”
Buck couldn’t help feeling as if Chloe were within reach. It bothered him that she might be hurt, but at least she was alive. What would she think about Amanda?
Buck scrolled back down through Bruce’s journal entry and found the e-mail Bruce had received. The message, from the “interested friend” read: “Suspect the root beer lady. Investigate her maiden name and beware the eyes and ears of New Babylon. Special forces are only as strong as their weakest links. Insurrection begins in the home. Battles are lost in the field, but wars are lost from within.”
Buck turned to face Tsion. “What
did you deduce from that?”
“Someone was warning Bruce about somebody within the Tribulation Force. We have only two women. The one with a maiden name Bruce might not know would have been Amanda. I still do not know why he or she referred to her as the root beer lady.”
“Her initials.”
“A. W.,” Tsion said, as if to himself as he righted Buck’s chair. “I do not follow.”
“A&W is an old brand of root beer in this country,” Buck said. “How is she supposed to be the ears and eyes of, what, Carpathia? Is that what we’re supposed to get out of New Babylon?”
“It is all in the maiden name,” Tsion said. “I was going to look it up, but you will see Bruce has already done the work. Amanda’s maiden name was Recus, which meant nothing to Bruce and stalled him for a while.”
“It means nothing to me either,” Buck said.
“Bruce dug deeper. Apparently, Amanda’s mother’s maiden name, before she married Recus, was Fortunato.”
Buck blanched and dropped into the chair again.
“Bruce must have had the same reaction,” Tsion said. “He writes in there, ‘Please God, don’t let it be true.’ What is the significance of that name?”
Buck sighed. “Nicolae Carpathia’s right-hand man, a total sycophant, is named Leonardo Fortunato.”
Buck turned back to Tsion’s computer. “Close files. Re-encrypt. Open search engine. Find Chicago Tribune. Open name search. Ken or Kenneth Ritz, Illinois, U.S.A.”
“Our pilot!” Tsion said. “You are going to get me home after all!”
“I only want to see if the guy’s still alive, just in case.”
Ritz was listed “among patients in stable condition, Arthur Young Memorial Hospital, Palatine, Illinois.”
“How come all the good news is about someone else?”
Buck dialed the number Ernie had given him for Kenosha. It was busy. Again and again for fifteen minutes. “We can keep trying while we’re on the road.”
“The road?” Tsion said.
“In a manner of speaking,” Buck said. He looked at his watch. It was after seven in the evening, Tuesday.
Two hours later, he and Tsion were still in Illinois. The Rover bounced slowly along with hundreds of other cars snaking their way north. Just as many were coming the other way, fifty to a hundred feet from where I-94 once propelled cars at eighty-plus miles an hour in both directions.
While Buck looked for alternate routes or some way to pass poky vehicles, Tsion manned the phone. They powered it from the cigarette lighter to save the battery, and every minute or so Tsion hit the redial button. Either the phone in Kenosha was hopelessly overloaded or it was not working.
For the second day in a row, his first officer, Mac McCullum, awakened Rayford. A tick past 6:30 Wednesday morning in New Babylon, Rayford heard soft but insistent knocking. He sat up, tangled in sheet and blankets. “Gimme a minute,” he slurred, realizing this might be news of his call from Buck. He opened the door, saw it was Mac, and collapsed back into bed. “I’m not ready to wake up yet. What’s up?”
Mac flipped the light on, making Rayford hide his face in the pillow. “I did it, Cap. I did it!”
“Did what?” Rayford said, his voice muffled.
“I prayed. I did it.”
Rayford turned over, covering his left eye and peeking at Mac through a slit in his right. “Really?”
“I’m a believer, man. Can you believe it?”
Keeping his eyes shielded, Rayford reached with his free hand to shake Mac’s. Mac sat on the edge of Rayford’s bed. “Man, this feels great!” he said. “Just a while ago I woke up and decided to quit thinking about it and do it.”
Rayford sat up with his back to Mac and rubbed his eyes. He ran his hands through his hair and felt his bangs brush his eyebrows. Few people ever saw him that way.
What was he to make of this? He hadn’t even debriefed Mac on his meeting with Carpathia from the night before. How he wished it were true. What if it was all a big act, a plot to reel him in and incapacitate him? Surely that had to be Carpathia’s long-range plan—to take at least one member of the opposition out of action.
All he could do until he knew for sure was to take this at face value. If Mac could fake a conversion and the emotion that went along with it, Rayford could fake being thrilled. His eyes finally adjusted to the light, and he turned to face Mac. The usually dapper first officer was wearing his uniform as usual. Rayford had never seen him casual. But what was that? “Did you shower this morning, Mac?”
“Always. What do you mean?”
“You’ve got a smudge on your forehead.”
Mac swiped with his fingers just below the hairline.
“Still there,” Rayford said. “Looks like what Catholics used to get on Ash Wednesday.”
Mac stood and moved to the mirror attached to Rayford’s wall. He leaned close, turning this way and that. “What the heck are you talking about, Ray? I don’t see a thing.”
“Maybe it was a shadow,” Rayford said.
“I’ve got freckles, you know.”
When Mac turned around, Rayford saw it again, plain as day. He felt foolish, making such a big deal of it, but he knew Mac was fastidious about his appearance. “You don’t see that?” Rayford said, standing, grabbing Mac by the shoulders, and turning him back to face the mirror.
Mac looked again and shook his head.
Rayford pushed him closer and leaned in so their faces were side by side. “Right there!” he said, pointing at the mirror. Mac still had a blank stare. Rayford turned Mac’s face toward him, put a finger directly on his forehead, and turned him back toward the mirror. “Right there. That charcoal-looking smudge about the size of a thumbprint.”
Mac’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “Either you’re seeing things, or I’m blind,” he said.
“Wait just a doggone minute,” Rayford said slowly. Chills ran up his spine. “Let me look at that again.”
Mac looked uncomfortable with Rayford staring at him, their noses inches apart. “What are you looking for?”
“Shh!”
Rayford held Mac by the shoulders. “Mac?” he said solemnly. “You know those 3-D images that look like a complicated pattern until you stare at it—”
“Yeah, and you can make out some sort of a picture.”
“Yes! There it is! I can see it!”
“What?!”
“It’s a cross! Oh, my word! It’s a cross, Mac!”
Mac wrenched away and looked in the mirror again. He leaned to within inches of the glass and held his hair back from his forehead. “Why can’t I see it?”
Rayford leaned into the mirror and held his own hair away from his forehead. “Wait! Do I have one too? Nope, I don’t see one.”
Mac paled. “You do!” he said. “Let me look at that.”
Rayford could barely breathe as Mac stared. “Unbelievable!” Mac said. “It is a cross. I can see yours and you can see mine, but we can’t see our own.”
Buck’s neck and shoulders were stiff and sore. “I don’t suppose you’ve driven a vehicle like this one, Tsion,” he said.
“No, brother, but I am willing.”
“No, I’m all right.” He glanced at his watch. “Less than a half hour before I’m supposed to call Rayford.”
The caravan to nowhere finally crossed into Wisconsin, and the traffic weaved west of the expressway. Thousands began to blaze new trails. Thirty to thirty-five miles an hour was top speed, but there were always nuts in all-terrain vehicles who took advantage of the fact that there were no rules anymore. When Buck got inside the city limits of Kenosha, he asked a member of the Global Community Peacekeeping Force for directions.
“You’re gonna go east about five miles,” the young woman said. “And it’s not gonna look like a hospital. It’s two—”
“Hotels, yeah, I heard.”
Traffic into Kenosha was lighter than that heading north, but that soon changed too. Buck could not get within a m
ile of the hospital. GC forces detoured vehicles until it became obvious that anyone getting to those hotels had to do it on foot. Buck parked the Range Rover, and they set off toward the east.
By the time their destination came into view, it was time to call Rayford.
“Mac,” Rayford said, fighting tears, “I can hardly believe this. I prayed for a sign, and God answered. I needed a sign. How can I know who to trust these days?”
“I wondered,” Mac said. “I was hungry for God and knew you had what I needed, but I was afraid you would be suspicious.”
“I was, but I had already said way too much if you were working against me for Carpathia.”
Mac was gazing into the mirror and Rayford was dressing when he heard a brief knock and the door flew open. A young assistant from the communications center said, “Excuse me, sirs, but whichever one of you is Captain Steele has a phone call.”
“Be right there,” Rayford said. “By the way, have I got a smudge on my forehead right here?”
The young man looked. “No sir. Don’t think so.”
Rayford caught Mac’s eye. Then he tucked in his undershirt and slid off down the hall in his stocking feet. Somebody like Fortunato—or worse, Carpathia—could court-martial him for appearing in front of subordinates half dressed. He knew he couldn’t be in the employ of the Antichrist much longer anyway.
Buck stood silently in the Wisconsin wasteland with the phone pressed to his ear. When Rayford finally came on, he said quickly, “Buck, just answer yes or no. Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“This is not a secure phone, so tell me how everyone is without using names, please.”
“I’m fine,” Buck said. “Mentor is safe and OK. She escaped, we believe. Close to reconnecting now.”
“Others?”
“Secretary is gone. Computer techie and wife are gone.”
“That hurts.”
“I know. You?”
“They tell me Amanda went down with a Pan-Con flight into the Tigris,” Rayford said.
“She’s listed on the manifest, if you can believe what’s on the Internet, but you’re not buying it?”