The Rapture: Evil Advances / Before They Were Left Behind

by Tim LaHaye

  Normally Irene would have glared at Rayford, daring him to again deny the boy after having promised him so many times. But she just waited in the kitchen, out of sight, hoping, praying.

  “Maybe next week, sport,” Rayford said. “Come watch the game with me, eh?”

  “Maybe next week,” Raymie said, and Irene was impressed.

  “Don’t say I didn’t ask,” Rayford said.

  “Then don’t say you didn’t promise.”

  Irene heard the front door slam and Rayford calling out, “Hey! Raymie!”

  She bitterly wanted to scold Rayford and ask what he expected, but she merely came in and sat next to him, watching the game with him.

  Later, while tucking Raymie in, she urged him to try to be understanding. “I know Dad’s disappointed you many times, but we have to love him and accept him. And it wouldn’t hurt you to do the right thing, even if he doesn’t.”

  “Like watch the Bears with him? You know I’m more into basketball. I’ll watch the Bulls with him in the spring.”

  After they had prayed together, Raymie said, “Mom, is Dad going to hell?”

  She sighed. “Frankly, I can’t tell where your dad is on all this. He claims to believe in God, and it’s not for us to say.”

  “Well, I’m not letting him go to hell. What if his plane crashed or he got hit by a car or—”

  “Oh, Raymie! Please don’t talk like that.”

  “Well, it’s either true or it’s not, Mom. I mean, Pastor Billings talks about that all the time. We never know how much time we have on this earth.”

  “I know.”

  Maybe Raymie would be the catalyst to bring Rayford to Christ. Irene would have no trouble with that.

  Lucinda Washington, Global Weekly’s Chicago bureau chief, had insisted that Cameron Williams visit her the next time he came through the city. It had not been that long since his story ran on the abortive Russian invasion of Israel. “You know you need to talk to me,” she had e-mailed him.

  She was right. And though she refused to call him by his nickname, he loved seeing and talking with her. She was like a second mother. Fiftyish and heavyset with a dark chocolate complexion, she was beloved by her employees, to whom she was ferociously loyal. They especially seemed to appreciate that when she was elevated from their ranks to be their superior, she had not moved to a corner office.

  “What would I find there but more stuff to look at out of more windows? The authority, such as it is, doesn’t come from the office. It comes from the heart.”

  “Cue the violins,” Buck had said, and she just sat smiling and shaking her head.

  “I read something in your piece, Cameron,” she said.

  “I figured you would.”

  “Between the lines,” she added.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “God got your attention, didn’t He?”

  Buck sat facing her in her cluttered digs, slouching uncomfortably in a straight-backed chair, his feet crossed on a corner of her desk. He nodded.

  “If you were my son I’d whup you upside the head, sitting like that, tearing up your spine.”

  “You don’t still smack Lionel, do you?” Buck said, peeking at the photo of the smooth-faced youngster.

  “Can’t catch him anymore, but he knows I can still take him.”

  Lionel was around twelve. Buck wanted to keep talking about the boy to keep Lucinda out of his head. As much as he admired her, she would not let up on him.

  “And I can still take you, Mister Senior Writer all up into your young self. Tell me where you found that Scripture you used in your cover piece. They watch me like a hawk, so I can hardly ever get away with that. Next thing you know, they’ll be letting you start proselytizing.”

  Buck told her that Chaim Rosenzweig, an avowed agnostic like himself, had put him in touch with religious scholars.

  “You couldn’t call me? I’ve been in the Word longer than those old coots, and I see stuff in the Old Testament they’ve missed.”

  “You’d have pointed me to the same passages?”

  “’Course I would! You think that wasn’t the first thing that came to my mind when I heard of a massive attack gone bad? Prophesied, honey. Shouldn’t have surprised anybody who knew a thing about the Bible. Which you don’t.”

  “I do now.”

  “You don’t know much, but I daresay what you do know has shaken you to your core.”

  “You got that right, Lucy.”

  She cocked her head and glared at him.

  “Lucinda.” She was anything but a Lucy; she had told him too many times to count.

  “Cameron, why doesn’t your Ivy-League head just admit you don’t know as much as you thought you knew, humble yourself a mile or two, and come to church with me and mine? For one thing, it’d be a cultural thing you’ve never experienced before. Even if our enthusiasm and our music and all overwhelm you, if you keep your ears—and your mind—open, you might just learn something from people you didn’t think had a thing to teach you.”

  “Now don’t say that, Lucinda. I’ve told you and told you I’ve learned a lot from you.”

  She seemed to assess him. “God’s gonna get you yet, boy. I mean, you were right there when it happened. And then you read ancient texts that look like they could have been written yesterday. You can’t deny the miracle. You can’t deny the hand of God. You can’t even claim to still be an agnostic.”

  Buck shook his head. “You’re right as always.”

  “You’re just a step away from Jesus.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I can’t deny the supernatural in what happened. It makes no sense otherwise. But if God protected Israel—”

  “If?”

  “Okay, so why did God protect Israel, a nation that denies Jesus as the Messiah?”

  “Humph,” Lucinda said. “So you are thinking. Well, let me ask you this: would you rather have a God who treats His children like they deserve to be treated? The Bible calls the Jews His chosen people time after time after time. He’s not going to un-choose them. He’s going to do what He promised, regardless of how they respond.”

  THREE

  CHLOE STEELE and her roommate strolled across the Stanford campus to their dorm from intramural volleyball, Chloe feeling scruffy in kneepads and a sweaty uniform.

  “What?” Amy said in the twilight.

  “What what?”

  “You’re looking away again. Crying?”

  Chloe swore. “I wasn’t going to do this!”

  “It’s hard,” Amy said.

  “He’s not worth it!”

  “You’re right, Chlo’; he’s not. But he was a big part of your life for a long time.”

  “Not even a whole semester. Just a few months, really.”

  “But you loved him. It’s all right for you to grieve.”

  “I wish I was grieving. I wish Ricky were dead.”

  “Oh, don’t say that!”

  “The way he treated me? And now married already? I mean it.”

  “I’ve been through this, you know,” Amy said as they mounted the stairs.

  “You have? No, I didn’t know.”

  “First semester, senior year of high school.”

  “A year ago?”

  Amy nodded.

  “Tell me. The worst part of this is feeling so unique, so alone.”

  “You’re kidding, Chloe. If we started a club we’d have to have the meetings in the stadium. Everybody’s been dumped.”

  “That’s it, isn’t it? I was just flat dumped.”

  “His wife can have him, Chloe.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Amy threw back her head and laughed. “That’s the best you can come up with? You want Ricky dead, and you spear him with ‘You can say that again’? You of the silver tongue?”

  Chloe had to smile. “I could invest the time he’s not worthy of by coming up with creative insults.”

  “More creative than that? What, like his mother wea
rs combat boots?”

  They entered their room, and Chloe fell onto her bed. “This is just so maddening! I want to kick someone, punch something.”

  “Ricky.”

  “Yeah, but no. I can’t ever let on how much he hurt me. I just have to do something with this anger.”

  Amy sat on the floor beside Chloe’s bed. “What’s your GPA?”

  “You know.”

  “Off the charts, yeah. But it’s still not as high as you’re capable of.”

  “What’re you, my dean?”

  “No, I’m just sayin’.”

  “What?” Chloe said.

  “Channel your angry energy into why you’re here. You can do better than the dean’s list. You could push toward a 4.0 the rest of the way and graduate summa cum laude.”

  “Oh, please!”

  “You could! I know you. I see you work and read and study. You’re not that far from straight As. Do it, Chloe. At least think about it.”

  Chloe rolled up onto her side. “You’ll do it with me?”

  “Ha! Not on your life! I’m here to also have fun, and anyway, I could work twice as hard as you—hey, I do—and accomplish only half. How unfair is that? But I’d support you. Give up your extracurricular stuff, maybe all but one thing—and don’t make it volleyball; you’re not good enough.”

  “You should talk!”

  “But maybe you give up everything except debate and pour yourself into studying.”

  “No guys?”

  “Are you kidding? What fun you’d be, seeing someone while sniffling over your old boyfriend. I mean, are you available already? Really?”

  “No.”

  “Then write off guys for a while. You’re never going to go long without one. I see the way they look at you.”

  “You do not!”

  “’Course I do! I pretend they’re looking at me. Don’t tell me you don’t notice, Chloe. Don’t even try that with me.”

  “I notice a little.”

  “Anyway, think about it. It’d be so cool to know someone who conquered this place.”

  “Academically? No one really does that.”

  “Then be the first.”

  Abdullah Ababneh—such a lover of Western culture, particularly the United States, that he had become known within the Royal Jordanian Air Force as Abdullah Smith, or Smitty—had hit the skids.

  His wife, Yasmine, had become an infidel to Islam, a Christian. He had forbade it, they had fought, and she had left with the children. That had catapulted him into a descent into alcohol and adultery that exposed his own phony allegiance to Allah, and now he was living in a small barracks at the Amman air station.

  Abdullah had long been a star pilot. Young and articulate and even dashing, he had been admired by his superiors and mates. But now he sensed their pity, their sideward glances. How he had fallen! It was all he could do to drag himself off his cot every morning and pretend to be praying. He carried out his duties like an automaton, never smiling, rarely conversing. His immediate superior officer told Abdullah he was worried about him, but Abdullah assured him he was just depressed, out of sorts.

  “It will work itself out,” he said. “I still believe the passage of time will help, provided Yasmine lets me see the children.”

  “You cannot win her back? She was so good for you.”

  Abdullah did not have the heart to tell the man that his wife had virtually died. She must be considered dead to him; that was certain. At times he believed that Allah would forgive him if he murdered her. In fact, perhaps that was Allah’s will.

  But Abdullah could not, for in spite of himself and all that he knew, he still loved Yasmine with his whole being. He would sooner kill himself than lay a hand on her. Perhaps she would repent of her blasphemy and come back to Islam and to him.

  Yet he knew better. Though he had ripped to pieces many of her letters, still he kept several. He did not understand everything in them, but one thing was clear: she was devout in her new faith. And she pleaded with him to consider it for himself. Yasmine Ababneh was not about to be dissuaded.

  Things that had always endeared Irene to Rayford now irritated him. Her fastidiousness, for one thing. He knew he was being irrational. What else would account for such a good trait making him so crazy? Rayford was growing suspicious of Irene, of all things. This church switch had not made her more obnoxious, as he had feared. If anything, she was sweeter, easier to get along with. The sudden encouraging of his Sunday activities had to be some sort of ruse, but she acted genuinely interested, laid out his clothes, helped him get ready. All this while getting herself and Raymie ready for church.

  Weekday mornings, especially Rayford’s off days, were the same. He was an early riser even when he didn’t have a flight, but he was rarely up before she was. The aroma of her special coffee blend, set on automatic timer to start heating up at six, roused him early. And though he tried, he only rarely succeeded in getting out of bed and into his workout clothes by the time her radio, tuned to the irrepressibly cheerful host of the local Christian station, came on at six-thirty.

  Irene had taken to setting out Rayford’s clothes, tuning the workout-room TV to ESPN, and being sure the bathroom was all his when he was ready to shower. By the time he descended the stairs, Irene had opened the drapes at the front and back of the house, and sunlight bathed the place. She had become a dream come true, and somehow he hated it.

  It wasn’t that she had become some perfect little Goody Two-Shoes. No, he could tell when he had frustrated her, angered her, made her want to attack. But somehow she restrained herself. She might stomp off, even slam a door, but when she had gathered herself, she was cheerful and helpful and even loving again. She was forgiving him without his asking, and it was driving him crazy.

  Rayford had grown tired of the nagging and resultant bickering, mostly over church, his use of time, and his not spending enough time with Raymie. But now, this way, all those things were like the elephants in the room. He knew they were at the forefront of his wife’s mind, and in some ways he’d rather have argued about them than pretend they didn’t exist. On the other hand, if she was going to let these things slide, he could get used to that.

  As Rayford pumped away on his stationary bike or rower or free weights, trying to concentrate on the sports news, he couldn’t deny that he knew what was really causing his discomfort with Irene. She was pushing forty. In many ways he was proud of her. She worked out too, kept in shape, and he’d never had even a twinge of hesitation in introducing her as his wife. She had never been a classic beauty, a head turner, but she retained a youthful cuteness, and she could be described as vivacious. She had personality. People liked her.

  So what was the problem?

  Hattie Durham.

  Rayford couldn’t quit thinking about her. Young, tall, curvy, blonde, gorgeous. And while Rayford had never bought into the old saws about blondes being dumb—in fact, he knew many intelligent ones—it was true that Hattie was not the sharpest blade of grass on the lawn. It wasn’t that she was dense; she had to be somewhat on the ball to already be so close to becoming a senior flight attendant, still shy of her twenty-seventh birthday. But she was a very young twenty-six, despite traveling the world. She was not well-read, not up on the news, and seemed to have no worldview other than her own interests.

  But she was sure fun to look at. And be around. And it was clear she was enamored with Rayford, which is what made him so disciplined in his daily workouts. Was he actually hoping something might come of Hattie’s flirtations? He knew better than to risk his marriage and family and reputation on a midlife fling.

  If Irene were a shrew, liberal-minded people might understand some dalliance with a younger woman. No one he knew would question his taste, even if they questioned his judgment. Rayford believed Irene had been edging toward driving him away with her badgering and cajoling. That had made him look forward to flights with Hattie even more. There was a spring in his step when he knew she was on the schedule. />
  But now, suddenly, Irene was acting like they were courting again. She was putting her best foot forward for some reason. Killing him with kindness? Trying to prove that her newfound religion had really changed her? This was worse than if she’d banged him on the head with her Bible every day.

  Despite his mental turmoil, at least the cessation of fighting gave him some peace. Trouble was, Irene would have had the right to stay on his case about Raymie. Rayford had slid into simply slothful parenting. After having done fairly well scheduling time for the kids—especially when Chloe, his distaff image—was home, he was now failing with Raymie.

  FOUR

  BUCK WAS as alarmed as anyone at the increase in war around the globe and a seemingly corresponding escalation of natural disasters. The months since the attempted Russian invasion of Israel had seen records set in the United States for tornadoes, earthquakes, hurricanes, and forest fires. President Gerald Fitzhugh had declared so many disaster areas that the novelty seemed to wear off. Charities began advertising aggressively, competing for funds, claiming some sites were worse off than others, when the truth was that any locale slammed by some force of nature had been left destitute.

  And war. South America reeled under revolutions in several nations at once. The U.S. announced newer, tougher sanctions on Cuba for human-rights violations, and a new cold war settled over U.S.-Russian relations. Northern Ireland had erupted again. The Arab-Israeli conflict reached new heights. North Korea threatened her entire hemisphere.

  Every day brought more devastating news of conflict and disaster, and even Buck had to agree that there seemed to be almost a palpable hum in the air. He had drawn comfort from daily e-mails to and from Lucinda Washington. “Nobody in New York is interested in my take on this,” she transmitted one morning, “but you know we’re heading toward something, Cameron. Things can’t just keep getting worse without something having to give.”

  How could he argue with that? Doomsdayers predicted the end of the world as he knew it, but what did that mean? The whole place blows up? A pandemic takes more than half the lives on the planet? World War III breaks out? What?