The Rapture: Evil Advances / Before They Were Left Behind

by Tim LaHaye

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll try to behave.”

  “Don’t make light of it,” Irene said. “Please.”

  “Fair enough. I guess a little religion won’t hurt him, but you know my concerns.”

  “It’s not like he’s going to become a missionary or a pastor,” she said. “Although that wouldn’t be all bad. He’s just a young boy very interested in the things of God, as I am.”

  “He’s only interested because you are.”

  “And what’s wrong with that? Aren’t we supposed to be examples to him?”

  “Not of fundamentalists.”

  Irene made a face. “It’s not fair to use inflammatory language, Rafe. Fundamentalists have come to be known as people who kill those they disagree with. When was the last time you heard of a Christian doing that?”

  “Granted. But do you know what someone asked me the last time I went to that new church with you? They asked what God was doing in my life.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said He was blessing my socks off. You’d have thought I’d made their day. Now what’s all this both you and Raymie are trying to tell me about the preacher and some hobbyhorse he’s on lately?”

  “It’s not a hobbyhorse,” Irene said. “It’s one of the major thrusts of this church. They believe in Bible prophecy, which says that Jesus is coming back someday, and we don’t know when. That’s why I wish you’d come with us this Sunday, because Pastor Billings is finishing up his series on the topic and he’s really going to put it all together. It’s amazing.”

  “So it is a hobbyhorse.”

  Irene shook her head and looked away, as if interested in the muted highlights on TV.

  Rayford used the occasion to peek at the sports section of the paper. He fully expected her to scold him for not listening, but she was not talking. Rayford found something intriguing in the paper and was soon reading for real.

  “I’m reading everything I can get my hands on about the rapture of the church,” Irene said.

  “Hmm?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s what Raymie was trying to tell me. Jesus is coming back and all that.”

  Suddenly she was engaged again. “Can you imagine, Rafe? Jesus coming back to get us before we die?”

  “Yeah, boy,” he said, peeking over the top of his newspaper, “that would kill me.”

  She was not amused. “If I didn’t know what would happen to me,” she said, “I wouldn’t be so glib about it.”

  “I do know what would happen to me,” he said. “I’d be dead, gone, finis. But you, of course, you would fly right up to heaven.”

  He hadn’t meant to offend her. He was just having fun. When she turned away he rose and pursued her. He spun her around and tried to kiss her, but she was cold. “Come on, Irene,” he said. “Tell me thousands wouldn’t just keel over if they saw Jesus coming back for all the good people.”

  She pulled away in tears. “I’ve told you and told you. Saved people aren’t good people, they’re—”

  “Just forgiven, yeah, I know,” he said, feeling rejected and vulnerable in his own living room. He returned to his chair and his paper. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m happy for you that you can be so cocksure.”

  “I only believe what the Bible says,” Irene said.

  Rayford shrugged. He wanted to say, “Good for you,” but he didn’t want to make a bad situation worse. In a way he envied her confidence, but in truth he wrote it off to her being a more emotional, more feelings-oriented person. He didn’t want to articulate it, but the fact was, he was more intelligent. He believed in rules, systems, laws, patterns, things you could see and feel and hear and touch.

  If God was part of all that, okay. A higher power, a loving being, a force behind the laws of nature, fine. Let’s sing about it, pray about it, feel good about our ability to be kind to others, and go about our business. Rayford’s greatest fear was that this religious fixation would not fade like Irene’s Amway days, her Tupperware phase, and her aerobics spell. He could just see her ringing doorbells and asking if she could read people a verse or two. Surely she knew better than to dream of his tagging along.

  Irene had become a full-fledged religious fanatic, and somehow that freed Rayford to daydream without guilt about Hattie Durham.

  Buck Williams had never seen Jim Borland like this. The longtime religion editor of Global Weekly had been a Princeton religious studies major a couple of decades before, and while they did not see eye to eye on everything, Buck considered Jim one of the savvy veterans on the staff.

  But here was Borland, moping about the New York office, appearing in shock. Buck was dying to ask him what was wrong, but Borland surprised him by knocking softly on his door. “You got a minute?”

  “Sure, Jimmy. What’s up?”

  “You know where I am on this God stuff, right?”

  “God stuff?” Buck said.

  “The whole religious thing. I mean, I’m the religion guy but not that religious, okay? I come from the school of thought that believes a little bit of god is in everybody—whoever or whatever you consider god. Probably a strength for someone in my job.”

  “As long as you know about and understand a lot of religions, sure.”

  Borland reluctantly sat when Buck pointed to a chair. “Well, you know I was in Eastern Europe on some religious confab stories. Somebody invited me to what they call an evangelistic crusade. No interest. None. I have always wondered what these evangelists were thinking when they decided to call these mass rallies crusades, when they’re the first ones to howl when we remind them of the shame of the Crusades in the name of their God.”

  “Right. So you don’t go.”

  “No, I go.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, and here’s why. The so-called crusade is being held in Albania, okay? And the evangelist is not an American TV–type guy. I mean, I guess he’s an American citizen now, but it’s this Gonzalo Islando from Argentina. Heard of him?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Came to this country when he was young, patterned himself after Moody, Sunday, Graham—those types. Preaching salvation to the masses, you know.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I’m intrigued, because this is real cross-cultural stuff. This guy may be a naturalized American citizen by now, but he’s an Argentine and he’s preaching in Albania. Might be interesting. I’m thinking maybe I’ll catch him in some cultural gaffe, some ignorant move. So I check it out, and guess what? I end up going back two more nights in a row.”

  “That impressive, eh?”

  “Well, no. He wasn’t that big a deal. I’ll give him this—he knew the culture, was self-effacing, handled the press well, was self-deprecating, had a sense of humor, really seemed to love and care about the people of Albania—who knows why? As a preacher he was good, I guess. These guys are pretty simple, you know. Nothing deep. Nothing earth-shattering. You hear one hellfire-and-brimstone-except-that-Jesus-died-for-your-sins sermon, you’ve heard ’em all. I decided he was no charlatan; he really believes this stuff. You can’t earn your way to heaven, trust in the blood of Christ—all that.”

  “So you became a believer.”

  Borland snorted. “Hardly. I became convinced of Islando’s sincerity; that’s all. What got to me was the response. I’ve been to these things before, Williams, and I’ve always found them a little strange and amusing. There’s lots of emotion, a bunch of people following each other like sheep, people coming forward and getting saved—you know the drill.”

  “Sure.”

  “But this is different. Islando holds this deal at a stadium that holds around fifty thousand, and it’s packed. There’s cheesy music, then people witnessing or giving testimony or whatever they call it when they tell everybody else how bad they used to be and how good they are now because of Jesus. Then Islando preaches this simple message—pretty much the same every night. Being good isn’t good enough. You can’t ear
n it. Trust Jesus.”

  “Same old same old.”

  “Except that people start getting out of their seats and coming forward long before he invites them to. And it’s not just a bunch of counselors getting into position. I’ve seen that happen. It serves as a sort of priming of the pump. You realize the first thousand people down there are part of the deal, carrying their Bibles and their literature and wearing their badges.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “But not this time. Well, some of them, sure, but there were people weeping, crying out. It was like they couldn’t wait to get down there and pray and repent and get saved. There were way more converts than counselors at first, and it was a mess. I thought it was interesting. I was racking my brain to remember what it was that made Islando’s message so compelling to so many, and I couldn’t come up with it. Like I said, I went back the next night and the next, and thinking back on it, I can hardly tell you the difference between one service and the next. Except the response. That first night was the most I’d ever even heard of, let alone seen. But the next night topped that, and the next was even bigger. Buck, that was last week. Those meetings are still going on and getting bigger every night. It’s like that whole nation is going Christian.”

  “True definition of revival.”

  “I guess. Just blew me away.”

  “And so?”

  “So that’s not all. I’m on my way back to France, and I hear this Texas-based guy—fella by the name of Sandy Tibbitts out of San Antonio, younger than Islando but at this thing more than forty years himself—is doing the same thing in the Ukraine. Well, I’m a long way from Ukraine, but this I have to see. I can tell by the look on your face you’ve never heard of Tibbitts; neither had I. I find out he’s some kind of a Southerner and a Baptist, so I’m guessing big hair and slick suit and a wide grin, plus a lot of media, right?

  “None of that. Discover this guy spends most of his time overseas, doing the same kind of thing Islando does, only a little less slick, a little less organized, more simple and direct. Not polished, just a loud, powerful preacher who somehow connects with people on some elemental level. And the same thing is happening. These people are running down the aisles to get Jesus.”

  “So is it worth a story?”

  “That’s just it, Buck. I don’t know what to do with it. These types of guys have been around forever, but as an observer of the religious world, I’ve got to tell you, I’ve never seen anything like this. These guys aren’t healers, aren’t miracle workers—those types naturally draw big crowds and lots of response. But here are these two flat-out salvation preachers seeing some sort of response even they have never seen before. I talked to them both, and they both used the same word for it: harvest.”

  “Sounds like a horror movie,” Buck said. “The Harvest of the Dead.”

  “Um-hmm.” It was clear Borland’s mind was somewhere else.

  “This is really bothering you, Jimmy. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess because I’m finding out that it’s happening all over the place. All over the world. Anybody involved in this game—even if they’re sincere and not just playing at it for who knows what motive—is seeing the same kind of thing. It’s becoming a story as big as all the natural disasters. But what can I write about it? The whole world is coming to Christ? I’d be laughed out of the profession.”

  “Truth never hurts. But maybe all the disasters are causing this renewed interest in God.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” Borland said. “Sure, people are scared, and they want to somehow keep nature from falling in on them, but wouldn’t the conventional response be to blame God or to question Him? These people seem to be genuinely embracing Him, and this is from all over. You know, Buck, the U.S. is not immune.”

  “To what?”

  “Same phenomenon, and it’s happening in churches all over. Attendance is up. Conversions are up. No one knows what to make of it.”

  “Well, there’s your angle, your story. But frankly, you seem handcuffed by it.”

  Borland stood and looked out at the Manhattan skyline. “That’s the best assessment I’ve heard about its impact on me,” he said. “I flat don’t know what to make of it. Are we experiencing another revival, this one global? It’s been a century since the last one. Something’s up, Buck. Something’s happening, and I have no idea what it is.”

  “Tell me something, Jim. You ever envy these people, wish you had a little of what they’ve found in all this?”

  “Seriously? No. I don’t believe the message, don’t get it, consider people weak who go that route. But I can’t deny that whatever appeal this ever had has somehow escalated. People are getting religion like never before, and it’ll be interesting to see what it means to society as a whole.”

  TEN

  “WE CAN BE KIND,” Matei told a pale and whimpering Ecaterina as she cowered in the backseat. “This is not your fault. This is Stefan’s fault. You have to suffer, and he will be forced to care for you.”

  “I’m sitting in someone’s blood,” she said, her voice quavery. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “My associate here is going to give you an injection to dull the pain. Then we are going to break your tibias. Without the anesthetic, you would pass out.”

  “No, no!” she wailed. “You don’t have to do that! Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  “You can sit still for the injection. This has to be done. You don’t have to understand it. We don’t have to understand it. We’re trying to make it as easy as possible. But I warn you, nothing can make this pain-free. The less you move about, however, the better. We will leave you where Stefan can find you, and it would be wise of you to tell him immediately that you should be moved only by professionals and treated as soon as possible.”

  “Oh, please!”

  “Hush.”

  “What did he do? Why aren’t you hurting him?”

  “Trust me, he is already suffering. Now the best thing you can do is submit to the injection. This is going to happen either way.”

  “Do you have to break both legs?”

  “Afraid so. You must be totally dependent on Stefan for a while.”

  “I’m going to kill him,” she said. “Whatever he did, I had nothing to do with it.”

  Whether Lazar acted too quickly following the administering of the anesthetic or Ecaterina simply had too low a pain threshold, she passed out from the pain of the first break.

  “Do I need to do the other?” Lazar said.

  “It will be easier,” Matei said. “We’ll just have to be careful moving her. And Stefan better hope we reach him so he can get to her before she’s fully into shock.”

  The park bench where they placed her, wrapped in a scratchy woolen blanket and quivering uncontrollably, was six blocks from Stefan’s place.

  When they reached him by phone, he cursed them, sobbing.

  “Are you up for a while, sir?” Fortunato said on the phone at about midnight.

  “I plan to retire by 1 AM,” Carpathia said. “Come now.”

  A few minutes later Leon sat across from him in his parlor. “Before I left the car,” Fortunato said, “I assigned the arson.”

  “I am stunned, troubled, I must admit, by Vasile’s not cracking yet.”

  “He will by dawn.”

  “Likely.”

  Leon told Nicolae of the other complications and how he had dealt with them.

  “You actually had an innocent old woman tossed into the Danube?” Nicolae said, narrowing his eyes at Fortunato.

  Leon nodded, heart racing.

  “Stand please.”

  “Sorry, sir?”

  “Stand, I said, Leon!”

  Fortunato stood, tensing.

  Carpathia approached and looked up into his face. They were nearly nose to nose. “And you had an innocent young woman’s shins shattered?”

  Leon nodded slightly, preparing his defense.

  Carpathia spread his arms wide and b
eckoned Fortunato close. He wrapped his arms around the big man and squeezed tight. “I love you, Leon! Do you know that? I love you.”

  And Fortunato basked in the affection.

  His phone chirped. “I should take this,” he managed, his face pressed into Carpathia’s shoulder.

  “Certainly.”

  It was Stefan, hysterical. “You didn’t have to do this, you—” and he raged profanely. “Do you know what I had to do?”

  “About what, Stefan?”

  “You know about what, you filthy excuse for a man! I had to shoot her!”

  “That’s distasteful. Shoot whom?”

  “You know who! She was dying anyway! There was no time to call anyone. She regained consciousness and nearly passed out again when she saw her legs. You destroyed her, Leon! Her shin bones were showing! She was bleeding to death!”

  “I’m sorry, Stefan, but I do not know to whom you are referring.”

  “You lying scum! I had to kill my own girlfriend!”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have done that. However she hurt herself was surely treatable by competent medical professionals.”

  “Tell me where my mother is, Leon! I mean it! I’ll kill you if anything’s happened to her.”

  “You’ll kill me? Perhaps you can accomplish that when you return my four thousand, hmm? But don’t let too much time pass. Unlucky things keep happening to those around you.”

  “I’ll kill you!”

  “Excuse me, will you, Stefan? I need to place another call.”

  “Don’t hang up on me! I’ll—”

  Click.

  “Matei,” Leon said a moment later, seated again under the beam of Carpathia’s smile. “We’d best put the young man out of his misery. He’s no good to me anymore.”

  “Done.”

  By dawn Bucharest police were searching for the murderers of Ecaterina and Stefan and beginning to process a missing person’s report on one Paraschiva Marin, who had not shown up for work.

  There was also the matter of a suspicious fire on the grounds of the breeding ranch of the son of the president of the republic, which had taken the lives of sixteen purebred Arabian stallions valued at millions of euros.