by Tim LaHaye
Carpathia's opponent did not withdraw, but he eschewed the final debate, removed all advertising to keep from chasing bad money with good, and virtually disappeared from the news. Rumor had it that he voted in absentia and would not even be in Bucharest on election day. That proved true when he was unavailable for comment following a defeat that bore out the polls.
Pundits claimed that Carpathia could have run for the top office in the nation and won in a walk. And they suggested that that should be his next race.
Irene was sitting up at 11:30 pm, an hour past Chloe's curfew and half an hour before Rayford was expected
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home. She had called Chloe's phone four times, the last time at 11:20, threatening to call the police if she didn't get a call back in ten minutes. She was frantic, praying, and about to make that call when the phone rang and the caller ID showed it was Chloe.
"Where are you?"
"Just finished having a tire changed, Mom. Sorry. Directly home after that."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"Sorry. I got so busy trying to find someone to help; then I left my phone in the car. It won't happen again. I'm fine."
No way Irene would be able to sleep. She just wanted to hug her daughter. The girl infuriated her, and because of the hint of a slur in Chloe's voice, Irene wasn't entirely sure she believed her. But above all that, Chloe was still her daughter, and Irene was relieved beyond measure to know she was all right. It would be good to be up when Rayford returned too.
Irene was satisfied with her decision to leave Rayford out of this crisis until he got home. She knew he had to be on the ground and likely headed away from O'Hare, but there was no sense troubling him when he could do nothing. When she saw a car pull into the driveway, moving a little too quickly, she thought it might be him. It wasn't like Rayford to pull in fast, but he did always seem eager to get to bed when he had been gone a long time and got back this late.
Irene jumped when she heard a thud and a crash, including glass breaking. She raced outside to find Chloe
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painfully stepping from her car and swearing. She had smashed her right headlight into the corner of the garage, and her mouth was bloody from banging her lips on the steering wheel.
"Were you not even wearing a seat belt?" Irene said, reaching to embrace her. "Chloe!"
"Thanks for caring that I'm okay!" Chloe spat, running past Irene and into the house.
Irene smelled liquor on her breath. "Chloe!"
She had left the car running and even in gear. Irene debated following her to prove she cared more about her than the car, but she couldn't leave it that way. She carefully backed up and parked it in the garage.
Irene decided she had better attempt to talk to Chloe, but as she mounted the stairs she heard, "Don't come up here! I'm fine! Just leave me alone!"
"What are you doing about your mouth?"
"Don't worry. I won't get blood on your precious carpet!"
"I'm not worried about the carpet, honey. I'm worried about you."
"I told you I'm fine; now leave me alone!"
"Chloe, have you been drinking? Were you driving drunk?"
Irene couldn't tell whether it was the bathroom door or Chloe's bedroom door, but something slammed so loud it shook the house. And woke Raymie.
"What's goin' on?" he whined from the top of the stairs.
"Nothing," Irene whispered from the landing. "Everything's okay now. Go back to bed."
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She went back outside. While she was in the driveway sweeping the glass, Rayford pulled in. She greeted him with a kiss, but she couldn't hide her fear and anger, and of course he saw the damage.
"All right," he said, "I'll bite."
Abdullah Ababneh was up early as usual and getting ready to go to the airfield. Yasmine had breakfast cooking. The kids were sleeping, but something was wrong. Yasmine would not maintain eye contact with Abdullah.
"Are you all right?" he said.
"I am fine," she said evenly.
"Do you need to talk with me about something? something I have done or not done? something I have forgotten?"
"No," she said, but he was struck that she appeared as sad and downcast as he had ever seen her.
"I can call and go in late if we need to talk," he said.
"Perhaps later," she said. "Not now."
"But there is something then?"
"There is something, but I am not prepared to discuss it."
"Am I in trouble?"
She smiled but her eyes still showed dread. "No, Abdullah," she said. "It's nothing like that."
"Are you in trouble then?" He said it to elicit a smile, but her hesitation made something stab in the pit of his stomach.
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She shook her head. "Later, please."
"When?"
"When I am ready."
"This evening?"
She stopped her work and faced him. "When I am ready, Abdullah. Now please, stop pressing me."
"I just want to know and to help."
"I know."
"Call me if you need me to come home."
Suddenly she was crying, but as he approached her, she waved him off. "Please, just eat and go."
"I didn't mean to make you sad," he said.
She shook her head. "Frankly, it touches me that you seem to care so much."
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THIRTY-SEVEN
This was the last thing Rayford needed after a long day of flying. His heavy had sat more than an hour on the runway at Heathrow due to weather and traffic before the long flight home, so passengers and crew had grown testy.
One thing was sure: Chloe was his daughter. Yes, even more than she was Irene's. Who knew why? The father-daughter thing? Temperaments? Competition? From what Irene said, it was clear that only Rayford would be able to talk to her, and who knew if even that would work?
"Go to bed, Irene."
"I won't sleep till I hear how it went."
"If you're awake when I come in, I'll tell you."
"I will be. Trust me."
They climbed the steps together, Rayford peeling off to
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Chloe's bathroom, where he stood outside the closed door. "I'm home," he said.
"Hi, Dad," he heard, and she sounded resigned.
"Can we talk when you're ready?"
"Yeah. Wait for me in my room."
Rayford stretched out on her bed. A mistake. He nearly dozed. But he knew she dreaded facing him. The last thing he wanted was for her to find him sleeping. He sat up and scanned the room. Pin neat. Just the way he liked to live. Her walls were covered with academic and citizenship and extracurricular awards.
Rayford moved back to the bathroom. "You 'bout ready, hon?" he said.
"Can't get this lip to stop bleeding," she said.
"I'll get some ice."
When he got back upstairs Chloe was sitting on her bed with a bloody washcloth over her mouth. He sat next to her and handed her a plastic sandwich bag full of crushed ice.
"Thanks. Sorry, Dad."
"For what?"
"The garage. The car."
"How about lying to your mother?"
"I didn't lie to her! I just didn't answer my phone."
"You said you had a flat tire. Your spare hasn't been touched."
"Oh, yeah, that. Okay, sorry for lying to Mom too."
"You'll have to tell her that."
Chloe scowled and nodded.
"What else are you sorry for?"
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She shrugged. "I think that's it."
"So you were where you said you were going to be tonight?"
She nodded. "I was at the library. Have a couple of books to prove it."
"How long were you there?"
"The whole time."
Rayford shook his head and stood quickly. "You're about to really tick me off, Chloe."
"What?"
"You think I don't know the library closes
at nine? And you think I can't smell alcohol on your breath even over all that mouth wash you used? And you think I don't know you're a better driver than one who bashes into the garage when you're sober?"
That did it and Chloe broke down. "I'm sorry, Dad. For all of it."
"What were you drinking and where did you get it?"
"Dad, don't make me get anyone else in trouble. I was at Sherry's and she raided the refrigerator and her dad's liquor cabinet."
"Are you sick or just drunk?"
"Just tipsy, I think. Guess I'll know in a while, won't I?"
"You're impaired; I'll tell you that. You want the speech now or in the morning?"
"I want the sentence first."
"You're sure?"
She nodded miserably.
"You're going to apologize to your mother, and you're going to mean it. You scared her to death."
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"I know."
"She loves you with all her heart. You know that too, don't you?"
"She has a strange way of showing it sometimes, Dad."
"But you know, don't you?"
"Yes, I know."
"You're going to pay to have the car and the garage fixed, and you're not going to borrow either of the other cars. While yours is in the shop, you're out of luck. Besides that, you're grounded for the next two weeks."
"Might as well get the speech out of the way now too," Chloe said, "so I can put this behind me and start over."
Does that ever sound like me, Rayford thought. "Fair enough. Let me tell you what disappoints me the most, Chloe. This is so beneath you. You're smart, and not just academically. You have street smarts and you're intelligent. You start getting into this kind of nonsense and you're going to see your grades slip, your scholarship chances dry up, your acceptances to good schools disappear. You want to be a professional person, a successful, self-made woman. Well, this is self-made too, and it's a mess. Is this what you want?"
She shook her head.
"Don't do something now that will stay with you the rest of your life. Can you imagine if you'd hit another car while under the influence? Or a pedestrian? Killed someone?"
"Don't get dramatic now, Dad."
"Don't kid yourself, Chloe. This happens every day.
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You'd never forgive yourself, and your life would never be the same."
Chloe wept openly now, her lip fat. "I don't want you to be disappointed in me, Dad. I want you to respect me."
"That's not easy tonight, is it?"
She shook her head.
He embraced her, rocking her as she sobbed. "Do me a favor?" he said.
She pulled back. "What?"
"Do the hard thing and do it first."
"What?"
"Your mother is still awake, and she needs to hear from you."
"Oh, Dad, no! Not tonight! Tomorrow?"
He just looked at her, and she trudged toward the master bedroom.
Irene wondered what was taking so long. She had to admit she was jealous that Chloe would talk to Rayford but never to her--at least not in a civil tone.
When the door opened and the dim light from the hall invaded, she could tell from the silhouette that it was Chloe and not Rayford. Irene quickly sat up and gathered her crying daughter in her arms.
"I'm so sorry," Chloe managed. "It won't happen again."
"I'm just relieved you weren't hurt worse," Irene said.
"I lied to you, Mom. I was only at the library long
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enough to check out a couple of books, and then we were at Sherry's and we were all drinking. I didn't have a flat tire, and I ignored your phone calls till I thought I'd better try to buy some time. I shouldn't have been driving, and I'm sorry about the garage and the car."
"How's your mouth?"
"It'll be all right in the morning. Does this mean you forgive me?"
"Of course, sweetheart. I love you."
"Thanks, Mom. I love you too."
"I could use one more apology though."
"For what?"
"For how you talked to me today about Raymie."
Chloe sighed. "I'm tired. We'd better not talk about this."
"You're not sorry then?"
"I'm sorry if I was disrespectful, but I've got to tell you, Mom, we disagree on this. Raymie's way too young for you to be trying to push your religion on him."
"Good night, Chloe."
Abdullah Ababneh found himself preoccupied all day-- not a good thing when flying fighter jets. He taught, he trained pilots, he flew test flights. And all he could think of was Yasmine. He felt responsible for her, and with good reason.
Such a sweet girl. She always had been. A good mother. A good wife. He wanted that she at least be
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happy, as happy as a woman could be in his culture. Life was harder for women than for men; he was sure of that.
Abdullah had always been able to tell when something was troubling Yasmine. Though she was naturally quiet, there was also something about her carriage, her very presence, that changed when anything was on her mind. She had acted this way when first she realized that he was not as rigid in his religious practices as he had been when they met.
What she didn't know, of course, was that he had never been as pious as he put on. He wanted to impress his own parents, who were true Muslim believers. And he wanted to impress Yasmine so she would marry him.
But when she had broached the subject about what was up with him, why he had seemed to change, he was surprised at what she had to say. He had feared, of course, that she was going to express alarm, disappointment, concern. Actually the opposite was true. She had danced around the subject for a long time, then eventually admitted that she had also been shirking her prayer life when he was not around. "I had no idea what you would think, Abdullah. What would you have thought if I refused to pray with you at the appointed times?"
He had to think about that one. It was one thing to decide such things for himself. And it might have been similar if he had decided for her that she could become more lax in her religious life. But for her, on her own, to choose to privately rebel like that, well, he didn't know what he thought or might have said or done had he known.
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"Does it make you feel guilty?" he had said.
"Sometimes. Less now than at first. At first I wondered if Allah would hate me, cast me out, kill me. Did you fear the same, Abdullah?"
He smiled and nodded. "Yes, at first. But now I wonder if he even exists."
"Careful."
"I know. But if he is such an exacting, stringent god, how does he allow his people to turn on him like this?"
"Do you miss him, Abdullah?"
"Miss him? No. I never really knew him. You?"
She smiled shyly and shook her head.
Since that conversation a couple of years before, they had not discussed it. Neither prayed except in public, when it was expected and would have horrified others if they hadn't. But religion was not practiced in their home, not even with their children. They attended the mosque just enough to deflect suspicion.
But what could be on Yasmine's mind now? Could anything be as dire as, in essence, losing one's religion? All Abdullah wanted was to get home to see if she was ready to talk about whatever was on her mind. And yet another part of him dreaded knowing.
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THIRTY-EIGHT
Buck Williams--even he had embraced the nickname now--had never been to the White House. But now as he sat in the Oval Office with his boss and his boss's boss and a photographer, not to mention both President Gerald Fitzhugh and his wife, Wilma, Buck fought to keep his composure. Inside he felt like a kid, eager to get out of here and tell one and all where he had been, whom he had been with, and gush every detail.
But, of course, this was not about him. This was about a president elected for a second term and having been chosen a second time as Global Weekly's Newsmaker of the Year. Buck could save his enthusiasm for late
r. Now he had to look and sound and act professional. He wanted this to not be the highlight of his career. He foresaw international assignments and--he hoped-- more cover stories.
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Buck wasn't even half the president's age, but his charm kicked in the moment he met the man and the First Lady. He maintained eye contact, listened, didn't talk about himself, and yet was able to empathize and show true interest when they talked about their home and their children. Mrs. Fitzhugh clearly seemed to connect with Buck, and the president had to notice.
Gerald Fitzhugh quickly lost his formal air, crossed his legs, gestured more broadly, was funnier than normal. At one point he stood and shed his suit coat, his wife whispering that he might want to reconsider that, due to the magazine photographer capturing every moment.
"Ah, it's all right, Wilma," he said. "It's not like I can run again anyway."
Cameron had expected the president to be vulgar and profane, which was his reputation. Fitzhugh had often been compared to a young Lyndon Johnson. Perhaps it was because of the presence of his wife, but Fitzhugh did not utter so much as a mild epithet the whole time. His outbursts were legendary among staff members, but Buck found him merely robust and youthful. Exuberant.
Buck's style was not to come in with a prescribed list of questions he would have to keep referring to. Rather, he listed on a small index card five areas he wanted the president to discuss. He hoped to not refer to it unless he thoroughly blanked, and he planned to base his follow-up questions on Fitzhugh's responses. That made it less formal, more like a conversation than an interview, and allowed Cameron to remain engaged rather than
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constantly scanning a notebook. His colleagues had proved more helpful than he had expected, suggesting tough questions and even tougher follow-ups, predicting the stock answers.