by Tim LaHaye
Buck sat on the floor in line and moved when he had to. He called up his archived files on the Rosenzweig interview and did a word search on Carpathia. He recalled having been embarrassed to admit to Rosenzweig that he had never heard of the man. As the interview transcripts scrolled past, he hit the pause button and read. When he noticed his low battery light flashing, he fished an extension cord out of his bag and plugged the computer into a socket along the wall. “Watch the cord,” he called out occasionally as people passed. One of the women behind the counter hollered at him that he’d have to unplug.
He smiled at her. “And if I don’t, are you going to have me thrown out? Arrested? Cut me some slack today, of all days!” Hardly anyone took note of the crazy man on the floor yelling at the counter woman. Such rarely happened in the Pan-Con Club, but nothing surprised anyone today.
Rayford Steele disembarked on the helipad at Northwest Community Hospital in Arlington Heights, where the pilots had to get off and make room so a patient could be flown to Milwaukee. The other pilots hung around the entrance, hoping to share a cab, but Rayford had a better idea. He began walking.
He was about five miles from home, and he was betting he could hitch a ride easier than finding a cab. He hoped his captain’s uniform and his clean-cut appearance would set someone’s mind at ease about giving him a ride.
As he trudged along, his trenchcoat over his arm and his bag in his hand, he had an empty, despairing feeling. By now Hattie would be getting to her condo, checking her messages, trying to get calls through to her family. If he was right that Irene and Ray Jr. were gone, where would they have been when it happened? Would he find evidence that they had disappeared rather than being killed in some related accident?
Rayford calculated that the disappearances would have taken place late evening, perhaps around 11 p.m. central time. Would anything have taken them away from home at that hour? He couldn’t imagine what, and he doubted it.
A woman of about forty stopped for Rayford on Algonquin Road. When he thanked her and told her where he lived, she said she knew the area. “A friend of mine lives there. Well, lived there. Li Ng, the Asian girl on Channel 7 news?”
“I know her and her husband,” Rayford said. “They still live on our street.”
“Not anymore. They dedicated the noon newscast to her today. The whole family is gone.”
Rayford exhaled loudly. “This is unbelievable. Have you lost people?”
“’Fraid so,” she said, her voice quavery. “About a dozen nieces and nephews.”
“Wow.”
“You?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m just getting back from a flight, and I haven’t been able to reach anybody.”
“Do you want me to wait for you?”
“No. I have a car. If I need to go anywhere, I’ll be all right.”
“O’Hare’s closed, you know,” she said.
“Really? Since when?”
“They just announced it on the radio. Runways are full of planes, terminals full of people, roads full of cars.”
“Tell me about it.”
As the woman drove, sniffling, into Mount Prospect, Rayford felt fatigue he had never endured before. Every few houses had driveways jammed with cars, people milling about. It appeared everyone everywhere had lost someone. He knew he would soon be counted among them.
“Can I offer you anything?” he asked the woman as she pulled into his driveway.
She shook her head. “I’m just glad to have been able to help. You could pray for me, if you think of it. I don’t know if I can endure this.”
“I’m not much for praying,” Rayford admitted.
“You will be,” she said. “I never was before either, but I am now.”
“Then you can pray for me,” he said.
“I will. Count on it.”
Rayford stood in the driveway and waved to the woman till she was out of sight. The yard and the walk were spotless as usual, and the huge home, his trophy house, was sepulchral. He unlocked the front door. From the newspaper on the stoop to the closed drapes in the picture window to the bitter smell of burned coffee when he opened the door, everything pointed to what he dreaded.
Irene was a fastidious housekeeper. Her morning routine included the coffeepot on a timer kicking on at six, percolating her special blend of decaf with an egg. The radio was set to come on at 6:30, tuned to the local Christian station. The first thing Irene did when she came downstairs was open the drapes at the front and back of the house.
With a lump in his throat Rayford tossed the newspaper into the kitchen and took his time hanging up his coat and sliding his bag into the closet. He remembered the package Irene had mailed him at O’Hare and put it in his wide uniform pocket. He would carry it with him as he searched for evidence that she had disappeared. If she was gone, he sure hoped she had been right. He wanted above all else for her to have seen her dream realized, for her to have been taken away by Jesus in the twinkling of an eye—a thrilling, painless journey to his side in heaven, as she always loved to say. She deserved that if anybody did.
And Raymie. Where would he be? With her? Of course. He went with her to church, even when Rayford didn’t go. He seemed to like it, to get into it. He even read his Bible and studied it.
Rayford unplugged the coffeepot that had been turning itself off and then back on for seven hours and had ruined the brew. He dumped the mess and left the pot in the sink. He flicked off the radio, which was piping the Christian station’s network news hookup into the air, droning on about the tragedy and mayhem that had resulted from the disappearances.
He looked about the living room, dining room, and kitchen, expecting to see nothing but the usual neatness of Irene’s home. His eyes filling with tears, he opened the drapes as she would have. Was it possible she had gone somewhere? Visited someone? Left him a message? But if she had and he did find her, what would that say about her own faith? Would that prove this was not the Rapture she believed in? Or would it mean she was lost, just like he was? For her sake, if this was the Rapture, he hoped she was gone. But the ache and the emptiness were already overwhelming.
He switched on the answering machine and heard all the same messages he had heard when he had gotten through from O’Hare, plus the message he had left. His own voice sounded strange to him. He detected in it a fatalism, as if he knew he was not leaving a message for his wife and son, but only pretending to.
He dreaded going upstairs. He moseyed through the family room to the garage exit. If only one of the cars was missing. And one was! Maybe she had gone somewhere! But as soon as he thought of it, Rayford slumped onto the step just inside the garage. It was his own BMW that was gone. The one he had driven to O’Hare the day before. It would be waiting for him when the traffic cleared.
The other two cars were there, Irene’s and the one Chloe used when she was home. And all those memories of Raymie were there, too. His four-wheeler, his snowmobile, his bike. Rayford hated himself for his broken promises to spend more time with Raymie. He’d have plenty of time to regret that.
Rayford stood and heard the rattle of the envelope in his pocket. It was time to go upstairs.
It was nearly Buck Williams’s turn at the head of the line at the Pan-Con Club counter when he found the material he had been looking for on disk. At some point during their several days of taping, Buck had raised the issue of every other country trying to curry favor with Dr. Rosenzweig and hoping to gain access to his formula for its own gain.
“This has been an interesting aspect,” Rosenzweig had allowed, his eyes twinkling. “I was most amused by a visit from the vice president of the United States himself. He wanted to honor me, to bring me to the president, to have a parade, to confer a degree, all that. He diplomatically said nothing about my owing him anything in return, but I would owe him everything, would I not? Much was said about what a friend of Israel the United States has been over the decades. And this has been true, no? How could I argue?
“But I pretended to see the awards and kindnesses as all for my own benefit, and I humbly turned them down. Because you see, young man, I am most humble, am I not?” The old man had laughed uproariously at himself and relayed several other stories of visiting dignitaries who worked at charming him.
“Was anyone sincere?” Buck had asked. “Did anyone impress you?”
“Yes!” Rosenzweig had said without hesitation. “From the most perplexing and surprising corner of the world—Romania. I do not know if he was sent or came on his own, but I suspect the latter because I believe he is the lowest-ranking official I entertained following the award. That is one of the reasons I wanted to see him. He asked for the audience himself. He did not go through typical political and protocol channels.”
“And he was . . . ?”
“Nicolae Carpathia.”
“Carpathia like the—?”
“Yes, like the Carpathian Mountains. A melodic name, you must admit. I found him most charming and humble. Not unlike myself!” Again he had laughed.
“I’ve not heard of him.”
“You will! You will.”
Buck had tried to lead the old man. “Because he’s . . .”
“Impressive, that’s all I can say.”
“And he’s some sort of a low-level diplomat at this point?”
“He is a member of the lower house of Romanian government.”
“In the senate?”
“No, the senate is the upper house.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t feel bad that you don’t know, even though you are an international journalist. This is something only Romanians and amateur political scientists like me know. That is something I like to study.”
“In your spare time.”
“Precisely. But even I had not known of this man. I mean, I knew someone in the House of Deputies—that’s what they call the lower house in Romania—was a peacemaker and leading a movement toward disarmament. But I did not know his name. I believe his goal is global disarmament, which we Israelis have come to distrust. But of course he must first bring about disarmament in his own country, which not even you will see in your lifetime. This man is about your age, by the way. Blond and blue-eyed, like the original Romanians, who came from Rome, before the Mongols affected their race.”
“What did you like so much about him?”
“Let me count,” Rosenzweig had said. “He knew my language as well as his own. And he speaks fluent English. Several others also, they tell me. Well educated but also widely self-taught. And I just like him as a person. Very bright. Very honest. Very open.”
“What did he want from you?”
“That was what I liked the best. Because I found him so open and honest, I asked him outright that question. He insisted I call him Nicolae, and so I said, ‘Nicolae’ (this is after an hour of pleasantries), ‘what do you want from me?’ Do you know what he said, young man? He said, ‘Dr. Rosenzweig, I seek only your goodwill.’ What could I say? I said, ‘Nicolae, you have it.’ I am a bit of a pacifist myself, you know. Not unrealistically. I did not tell him this. I merely told him he had my goodwill. Which is something you also have.”
“I suspect that is not something you bestow easily.”
“That is why I like you and why you have it. One day you must meet Carpathia. You would like each other. His goals and dreams may never be realized even in his own country, but he is a man of high ideals. If he should emerge, you will hear of him. And as you are emerging in your own orbit, he will likely hear of you, or from you, am I right?”
“I hope you are.”
Suddenly it was Buck’s turn at the counter. He gathered up his extension cord and thanked the young woman for bearing with him. “Sorry about that,” he said, pausing briefly for forgiveness that was not forthcoming. “It’s just that today, of all days, well, you understand.”
Apparently she did not understand. She’d had a rough day, too. She looked at him tolerantly and said, “What can I not do for you?”
“Oh, you mean because I did not do something you asked?”
“No,” she said. “I’m saying that to everybody. It’s my little joke because there’s really nothing I can do for anybody. No flights are scheduled today. The airport is going to close any minute. Who knows how long it will take to clear all the wreckage and get any kind of traffic moving again? I mean, I’ll take your request and everything, but I can’t get your luggage, book you a flight, get you a phone, book you a hotel room, anything we love to do for our members. You are a member, aren’t you?”
“Am I a member!”
“Gold or platinum?”
“Lady, I’m, like, a kryptonite member.”
He flashed his card, showing that he was among the top 3 percent of air travelers in the world. If any flight had one seat in the cheapest section, it had to be given to him and upgraded to first class at no charge.
“Oh, my gosh,” she said, “tell me you’re not the Cameron Williams from that magazine.”
“I am.”
“Time? Honest?”
“Don’t blaspheme. I’m from the competition.”
“Oh, I knew that. The reason I know is that I wanted to get into journalism. I studied it in college. I just read about you, didn’t I? Youngest award winner or most cover stories by someone under twelve?”
“Funny.”
“Or something.”
“I can’t believe we’re joking on a day like this,” he said.
She suddenly clouded over. “I don’t even want to think about it. So what could I do for you if I could do anything?”
“Here’s the thing,” Buck said. “I have to get to New York. Now don’t give me that look. I know it’s the worst place to try to get to right now. But you know people. You know pilots who fly on the side, charter stuff. You know what airports they would fly out of. Let’s say I had unlimited resources and could pay whatever I needed to. Who would you send me to?”
She stared at him. “I can’t believe you asked me that.”
“Why?”
“Because I do know someone. He flies these little jets out of like Waukegan and Palwaukee airports. He’s expensive and he’s the type who would charge double during a crisis, especially if he knew who you were and how desperate.”
“There won’t be any hiding that. Give me the info.”
Hearing it on the radio or seeing it on television was one thing. Encountering it for yourself was something else again. Rayford Steele had no idea how it would feel to find evidence that his own wife and son had vanished from the face of the earth.
At the top of the stairs he paused by the family photos. Irene, always one for order, had hung them chronologically, beginning with his and her great grandparents. Old, cracked black and whites of stern-faced, rawboned men and women of the Midwest. Then came the faded color shots of their grandparents on their fiftieth wedding anniversaries. Then their parents, their siblings, and themselves. How long had it been since he had studied their wedding photos, Irene with her ancient hairstyle and his so-called fashions from decades past?
And those family pictures with Chloe eight years old, holding the baby! How grateful he was that Chloe was still here and that somehow he would connect with her! But what did this all say about the two of them? They were lost. He didn’t know what to hope and pray for. That Irene and Raymie were still here and that this was not what it appeared?
He could wait no longer. Raymie’s door was open a crack. His alarm was beeping. Rayford turned it off. On the bed was a book Raymie had been reading. Rayford slowly pulled the blankets back to reveal Raymie’s Bulls pajama top, his underpants, and his socks. He sat on the bed and wept, nearly smiling at Irene’s harping about Raymie’s not wearing socks to bed.
He laid the clothes in a neat pile and noticed a picture of himself on the bed table. He stood smiling inside the terminal, his cap tucked under his arm, a 747 outside the window in the background. The picture was signed, “To Raymie with love, Dad.” U
nder that he had written, “Rayford Steele, Captain, Pan-Continental Airlines, O’Hare.” He shook his head. What kind of a dad autographs a picture for his own son?
Rayford’s body felt like lead. It was all he could do to force himself to stand. And then he was dizzy, realizing he hadn’t eaten in hours. He slowly made his way out of Raymie’s room without looking back, and he shut the door.
At the end of the hall he paused before the French doors that led to the master suite. What a beautiful, frilly place Irene had made it, decorated with needlepoint and country knickknacks. Had he ever told her he appreciated it? Had he ever appreciated it?
There was no alarm to turn off here. The smell of coffee had always roused Irene. Another picture of the two of them, him looking confidently at the camera, her gazing at him. He did not deserve her. He deserved this, he knew, to be mocked by his own self-centeredness and to be stripped of the most important person in his life.
He approached the bed, knowing what he would find. The indented pillow, the wrinkled covers. He could smell her, though he knew the bed would be cold. He carefully peeled back the blankets and sheet to reveal her locket, which carried a picture of him. Her flannel nightgown, the one he always kidded her about and which she wore only when he was not home, evidenced her now departed form.
His throat tight, his eyes full, he noticed her wedding ring near the pillow, where she always supported her cheek with her hand. It was too much to bear, and he broke down. He gathered the ring into his palm and sat on the edge of the bed, his body racked with fatigue and grief. He put the ring in his jacket pocket and noticed the package she had mailed. Tearing it open, he found two of his favorite homemade cookies with hearts drawn on the top in chocolate.
What a sweet, sweet woman! he thought. I never deserved her, never loved her enough! He set the cookies on the bedside table, their essence filling the air. With wooden fingers he removed his clothes and let them fall to the floor. He climbed into the bed and lay facedown, gathering Irene’s nightgown in his arms so he could smell her and imagine her close to him.