Left Behind: A Novel of the Earth's Last Days

by Tim LaHaye

  “I’m afraid so. Didn’t your mother tell you she believed that Jesus could come back some day and take his people directly to heaven before they died?”

  “Sure, but she was always more religious than the rest of us. I thought she was just getting a little carried away.”

  “Good choice of words.”

  “Hm?”

  “She got carried away, Chloe. Raymie too.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s about as crazy as the Martian invasion theory.”

  Rayford felt defensive. “So what’s your theory?”

  Chloe began to clear the table and spoke with her back to him. “I’m honest enough to admit I don’t know.”

  “So now I’m not being honest?”

  Chloe turned to face him, sympathy on her face. “Don’t you see, Dad? You’ve gravitated to the least painful possibility. If we were voting, my first choice would be that my mom and my little brother are in heaven with God, sitting on clouds, playing their harps.”

  “So I’m deluding myself, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Daddy, I don’t fault you. But you have to admit this is pretty far-fetched.”

  Now Rayford was angry. “What’s more far-fetched than people disappearing right out of their clothes? Who else could have done that? Years ago we’d have blamed it on the Soviets, said they had developed some super new technology, some death ray that affected only human flesh and bone. But there’s no Soviet threat anymore, and the Russians lost people, too. And how did this . . . this whatever it was—how did it choose who to take and who to leave?”

  “You’re saying the only logical explanation is God, that he took his own and left the rest of us?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “Chloe, our own family is a perfect picture of what happened. If what I’m saying is right, the logical two people are gone and the logical two were left.”

  “You think I’m that much of a sinner?”

  “Chloe, listen. Whatever you are, I am. I’m not judging you. If I’m right about this, we missed something. I always called myself a Christian, mostly because I was raised that way and I wasn’t Jewish.”

  “Now you’re saying you’re not a Christian?”

  “Chloe, I think the Christians are gone.”

  “So I’m not a Christian either?”

  “You’re my daughter and the only other member of my family still left; I love you more than anything on earth. But if the Christians are gone and everyone else is left, I don’t think anyone is a Christian.”

  “Some kind of a super Christian, you mean.”

  “Yeah, a true Christian. Apparently those who were taken were recognized by God as truly his. How else can I say it?”

  “Daddy, what does this make God? Some sick, sadistic dictator?”

  “Careful, honey. You think I’m wrong, but what if I’m right?”

  “Then God is spiteful, hateful, mean. Who wants to go to heaven with a God like that?”

  “If that’s where your mom and Raymie are, that’s where I want to be.”

  “I want to be with them, too, Daddy! But tell me how this fits with a loving, merciful God. When I went to church, I got tired of hearing how loving God is. He never answered my prayers and I never felt like he knew me or cared about me. Now you’re saying I was right. He didn’t. I didn’t qualify, so I got left behind? You’d better hope you’re not right.”

  “But if I’m not right, who is right, Chloe? Where are they? Where is everybody?”

  “See? You’ve latched onto this heaven thing because it makes you feel better. But it makes me feel worse. I don’t buy it. I don’t even want to consider it.”

  Rayford dropped the subject and went to watch television. Limited regular programming had resumed, but he was still able to find continuing news coverage. He was struck by the unusual name of the new Romanian president he had recently read about. Carpathia. He was scheduled to arrive at La Guardia in New York on Saturday and hold a press conference Monday morning before addressing the United Nations.

  So La Guardia was open. That was where Rayford was supposed to fly later that evening with an oversold flight. He called Pan-Continental at O’Hare. “Glad you called,” a supervisor said. “I was about to call you. Is your 777 rating up to date?”

  “No. I used to fly them regularly, but I prefer the 747 and haven’t kept my currency this year on the ’77.”

  “That’s all we’re flying east this weekend. We’ll have to get somebody else. And you need to get rated soon, just so we have flexibility.”

  “Duly noted. What’s next for me?”

  “You want a Monday run to Atlanta and back the same day?”

  “On a . . . ?”

  “’47.”

  “Sounds perfect. Can you tell me if there’ll be room on that flight?”

  “For?”

  “A family member.”

  “Let me check.” Rayford heard the computer keys and the distracted voice. “While I’m checking, ah, we got a request from a crew member to be assigned to your next flight, only I think she was thinking you’d be going on that run tonight, Logan to JFK and back.”

  “Who? Hattie Durham?”

  “Let me see. Right.”

  “So is she assigned to Boston and New York?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I’m not, so that question is moot, right?”

  “I guess so. You got any leanings one way or the other?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “She’s gonna ask again, is my guess. You have any objection to her being assigned to one of your upcoming flights?”

  “Well, it won’t be Atlanta, right? That’s too soon.”

  “Right.”

  Rayford sighed. “No objections, I guess. No, wait. Let’s just let it happen if it happens.”

  “I’m not following you, Captain.”

  “I’m just saying if she gets assigned in the normal course, I have no objection. But let’s not go through any gymnastics to make it happen.”

  “Gotcha. And your flight to Atlanta looks like it could handle your freebie. Name?”

  “Chloe Steele.”

  “I’ll put her in first class, but if they sell out, you know I’ve got to bump her back.”

  When Rayford got off the phone, Chloe drifted into the room. “I’m not flying tonight,” he said.

  “Is that good news or bad news?”

  “I’m relieved. I get to spend more time with you.”

  “After the way I talked to you? I figured you’d want me out of sight and out of mind.”

  “Chloe, we can talk frankly to each other. You’re my family. I hate to think of being away from you at all. I’ve got a down-and-back flight to Atlanta Monday and have you booked in first class if you want to go.”

  “Sure.”

  “And I only wish you hadn’t said one thing.”

  “Which?”

  “That you don’t even want to consider my theory. You’ve always liked my theories. I don’t mind your saying you don’t buy it. I don’t know enough to articulate it in a way that makes any sense. But your mother talked about this. Once she even warned me that if I didn’t know for sure I’d be going if Christ returned for his people, I shouldn’t be flip about it.”

  “But you were?”

  “I sure was. But never again.”

  “Well, Daddy, I’m not being flip about it. I just can’t accept it, that’s all.”

  “That’s fair. But don’t say you won’t even consider it.”

  “Well, did you consider the space invaders theory?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I considered everything. This was so far beyond human experience, what were we supposed to think?”

  “OK, so if I take back that I won’t even consider it, what does that mean? We beco
me religious fanatics all of a sudden, start going to church, what? And who says it’s not too late? If you’re right, maybe we missed our chance forever.”

  “That’s what we have to find out, don’t you think? Let’s check this out, see if there’s anything to it. If there is, we should want nothing more than to know if there’s still a chance we can be with Mom and Raymie again someday.”

  Chloe sat shaking her head. “Gee, Dad. I don’t know.”

  “Listen, I called the church your mom was going to.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  He told her about the recording and the offer of the DVD.

  “Dad! A DVD for those left behind? Please!”

  “You’re coming at this as a skeptic, so sure it sounds ridiculous to you. I see no other logical explanation, so I can’t wait to see the DVD.”

  “You’re desperate.”

  “Of course I am! Aren’t you?”

  “I’m miserable and scared, but I’m not so desperate that I’m going to lose my faculties. Oh, Daddy, I’m sorry. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t blame you for checking this out. Go ahead, and don’t worry about me.”

  “Will you go with me?”

  “I’d rather not. But if you want me to . . .”

  “You can wait in the car.”

  “It’s not that. I’m not afraid of meeting someone I disagree with.”

  “We’ll go over there tomorrow,” Rayford said, disappointed in her reaction but no less determined to follow through, for her sake as much as his. If he was right, he did not want to fail his own daughter.

  CHAPTER 10

  Cameron Williams convinced himself he should not call his and Dirk Burton’s mutual friend at Scotland Yard before leaving New York. With communications as difficult as they had been for days and after the strange conversation with Dirk’s supervisor, Buck didn’t want to risk someone listening in. The last thing he wanted was to compromise his Scotland Yard contact’s integrity.

  Buck took both his real and his phony passport and visa—a customary safety precaution—caught a late flight to London out of La Guardia Friday night, and arrived at Heathrow Saturday morning. He checked into the Tavistock Hotel and slept until midafternoon. Then he set out to find the truth about Dirk’s death.

  He started by calling Scotland Yard and asking for his friend Alan Tompkins, a mid-level operative. They were almost the same age, and Tompkins was a thin, dark-haired, and slightly rumpled investigator Buck had interviewed for a story on British terrorism.

  They had taken to each other and even enjoyed an evening at a pub with Dirk. Dirk, Alan, and Buck had become pals, and whenever Buck visited, the three got together. Now, by phone, he tried to communicate to Tompkins in such a way that Alan would catch on quickly and not give away that they were friends—in case the line was tapped.

  “Mr. Tompkins, you don’t know me, but my name is Cameron Williams of Global Weekly.” Before Alan could laugh and greet his friend, Buck quickly continued, “I’m here in London to do a story preliminary to the international monetary conference at the United Nations.”

  Alan sounded suddenly serious. “How can I help you, sir? What does that have to do with Scotland Yard?”

  “I’m having trouble locating my interview subject, and I suspect foul play.”

  “And your subject?”

  “His name is Burton. Dirk Burton. He works at the exchange.”

  “Let me do some checking and call you back.”

  A few minutes later, Buck’s phone rang.

  “Yes, Tompkins from the Yard. I wonder if you would be so kind as to come in and see me.”

  Early on Saturday morning in Mount Prospect, Illinois, Rayford Steele phoned the New Hope Village Church again. This time a man answered the phone. Rayford introduced himself as the husband of a former parishioner. “I know you, sir,” the man said. “We’ve met. I’m Bruce Barnes, the visitation pastor.”

  “Oh, yes, hi.”

  “By former parishioner, I assume you’re telling me that Irene is no longer with us?”

  “That’s right, and our son.”

  “Ray Jr., wasn’t it?”

  “Right.”

  “You also had an older daughter, did you not, a nonattender?”

  “Chloe.”

  “And she—?”

  “Is here with me. I was wondering what you all make of this—how many people have disappeared, are you still meeting, that kind of thing. I know you have a service on Sundays and that you’re offering this DVD.”

  “Well, you know just about everything then, Mr. Steele. Nearly every member and regular attender of this church is gone. I am the only person on the staff who remains. I have asked a few women to help out in the office. I have no idea how many will show up Sunday, but it would be a privilege to see you again.”

  “I’m very interested in that DVD.”

  “I’d be happy to give you one in advance. It’s what I will be discussing Sunday morning.”

  “I don’t know how to ask this, Mr. Barnes.”

  “Bruce.”

  “Bruce. You’ll be teaching or preaching or what?”

  “Discussing. I will be playing the DVD for any who have not heard it, and then we will discuss it.”

  “But you . . . I mean, how do you account for the fact that you are still here?”

  “Mr. Steele, there is only one explanation for that, and I would prefer to discuss it with you in person. If I know when you might come by for the DVD, I’ll be sure to be here.”

  Rayford told him he and perhaps Chloe would come by that afternoon.

  Alan Tompkins waited just inside the vestibule at Scotland Yard. When Buck arrived, Alan formally shook his hand and led him to a rundown compact, which he drove quickly to a dark pub a few miles away. “Let’s not talk till we get there,” Alan said, continually checking his mirrors. “I need to concentrate.” Buck had never seen his friend so agitated and, yes, scared.

  The pair took pints of dark ale to a booth in a secluded corner, but Alan never touched his. Buck, who hadn’t eaten since the flight, switched his empty mug for Alan’s full one and downed it, too. When the waitress came for the mugs, Buck ordered a sandwich. Alan declined, and Buck, knowing his limit, ordered a soda.

  “I know this will be like pouring petrol on a flame,” Alan began, “but I need to tell you this is a nasty business and that you want to stay as far away from it as you can.”

  “Darn right you’re fanning my flame,” Buck said. “What’s going on?”

  “Well, they say it’s suicide, but—”

  “But you and I both know that’s nonsense. What’s the evidence? Have you been to the scene?”

  “I have. Shot through the temple, gun in his hand. No note.”

  “Anything missing?”

  “Didn’t appear to be, but, Cameron, you know what this is about.”

  “I don’t!”

  “Come, come, man. Dirk was a conspiracy theorist, always sniffing around Todd-Cothran’s involvement with international money men, his role in the three-currency conference, even his association with your Stonagal chap.”

  “Alan, there are books about this stuff. People make a hobby of ascribing all manner of evil to the Tri-Lateral Commission, the Illuminati, even the Freemasons, for goodness sake. Dirk thought Todd-Cothran and Stonagal were part of something he called the Council of Ten or the Council of Wise Men. So what? It’s harmless.”

  “But when you have an employee, admittedly several levels removed from the head of the exchange, trying to connect his boss to conspiracy theories, he has a problem.”

  Buck sighed. “So he gets called on the carpet, maybe he gets fired. But tell me how he gets dead or pushed to suicide.”

  “I’m going to tell you something, Cameron,” Alan said. “I know he was murdered.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure he was, too, because I think I’d have had a clue if he was suicidal.”

  “They’re trying to pin it on his remorse over losing people
in the great disappearance, but it won’t wash. He didn’t lose anybody close as far as I know.”

  “But you know he was murdered? Pretty strong words for an investigator.”

  “I know because I knew him, not because I’m an investigator.”

  “That won’t hold up,” Buck said. “I can also say I knew him and that he couldn’t have committed suicide, but I’m prejudiced.”

  “Cameron, this is so simple it would be a cliché if Dirk wasn’t our friend. What did we always kid him about?”

  “Lots of things. Why?”

  “We kidded him about being such a klutz.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “If he was with us right now, where would he be sitting?”

  It suddenly dawned on Buck what Alan was driving at. “He would be sitting to one of our lefts, and he was such a klutz because he was left-handed.”

  “He was shot through the right temple and the so-called suicide weapon was found in his right hand.”

  “So what did your bosses say when you told them he was left-handed and that this had to be murder?”

  “You’re the first person I’ve told.”

  “Alan! What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I love my family. My parents are still living and I have an older brother and sister. I have a former wife I’m still fond of. I wouldn’t mind snuffing her myself, but I certainly wouldn’t want anyone else harming her.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid of whoever was behind Dirk’s murder, of course.”

  “But you’d have all of Scotland Yard behind you, man! You call yourself a law-enforcement officer and you’re going to let this slide?”

  “Yes, and that’s just what you’re going to do!”

  “I am not. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

  “Do something about this and you won’t be alive at all.”

  Buck waved the barmaid over and asked for chips. She brought him a heaping, greasy mass. It was just what he wanted. The ale had worked on him and the sandwich had not been enough to counteract it. He felt light-headed, and he was afraid he might not be hungry again for a long time.

  “I’m listening,” he whispered. “What are you trying to tell me? Who’s gotten to you?”