by Tim LaHaye
“How about La Guardia?”
“Ask Marge. You know Carpathia will be here tomorrow.”
“You said yourself he was small potatoes. Maybe he’ll still be here when I get back.”
Rayford Steele hadn’t been able to talk his grieving daughter into leaving the house. Chloe had spent hours in her little brother’s room, and then in her parents’ bedroom, picking through their personal effects to add to the boxes of memories her father had put together. Rayford felt so bad for her. He had secretly hoped she would be of comfort to him. He knew she would be eventually. But for now she needed time to face her own loss. Once she had cried herself out, she was ready to talk. And after she had reminisced to the point where Rayford didn’t know if his heart could take any more, she finally changed the subject to the phenomenon of the disappearances themselves.
“Daddy, in California they’re actually buying into the space invasion theory.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Maybe it’s because you were always so practical and skeptical about all that tabloid newspaper stuff, but I just can’t get into it. I mean, it has to be something supernatural or otherworldly, but—”
“But what?”
“It just seems that if some alien life force was capable of doing this, they would also be capable of communicating to us. Wouldn’t they want to take over now or demand ransom or get us to do something for them?”
“Who? Martians?”
“Daddy! I’m not saying I believe it. I’m saying I don’t. But doesn’t my reasoning make sense?”
“You don’t have to convince me. I admit I wouldn’t have dreamed any of this even possible a week ago, but my logic has been stretched to the breaking point.”
Rayford hoped Chloe would ask his theory. He didn’t want to start right in on a religious theme. She had always been antagonistic about that, having stopped going to church in high school when both he and Irene gave up fighting with her over it. She was a good kid, never in trouble. She made grades good enough to get her a partial academic scholarship, and though she occasionally stayed out too late and went through a boy-crazy period in high school, they had never had to bail her out of jail and there was never any evidence of drug use. He didn’t take that lightly.
Rayford and Irene knew Chloe had come home from more than one party drunk enough to spend the night vomiting. The first time, he and Irene chose to ignore it, to act as if it didn’t happen. They believed she was levelheaded enough to know better the next time. When the next time came, Rayford had a chat with her.
“I know, I know, I know, OK, Dad? You don’t need to start in on me.”
“I’m not starting in on you. I want to make sure you know enough to not drive if you drink too much.”
“Of course I do.”
“And you know how stupid and dangerous it is to drink too much.”
“I thought you weren’t starting in on me.”
“Just tell me you know.”
“I think I already said that.”
He had shaken his head and said nothing.
“Daddy, don’t give up on me. Go ahead, give me both barrels. Prove you care.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” he had said. “Someday you’re going to have a child and you won’t know what to say or do either. When you love somebody with all your heart and all you care about is her welfare—”
Rayford hadn’t been able to continue. For the first time in his adult life, he had choked up. It had never happened during his arguments with Irene. He had always been too defensive, concerned too much about making his point to think about how much he cared for her. But with Chloe, he really wanted to say the right thing, to protect her from herself. He wanted her to know how much he loved her, and it was coming out all wrong. It was as if he were punishing, lecturing, reprimanding, condescending. That had caused him to break.
Though he hadn’t planned it, that involuntary show of emotion got through to Chloe. For months she had been drifting from him, from both her parents. She had been sullen, cold, independent, sarcastic, challenging. He knew it was all part of growing up and becoming one’s own person, but it was a painful, scary time.
As he bit his lip and breathed deeply, hoping to regain composure and not embarrass himself, Chloe had come to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, just as she had as a little girl. “Oh, Daddy, don’t cry,” she had said. “I know you love me. I know you care. Don’t worry about me. I learned my lesson and I won’t be stupid again, I promise.”
He had dissolved into tears, and so had she. They had bonded as never before. He didn’t recall ever having to discipline her again, and though she had not come back to church, he had started to drift by then himself. They had become buddies, and she was growing up to be just like him. Irene had kidded him that their children each had their own favorite parent.
Now, just days after Irene and Raymie had disappeared, Rayford hoped the relationship that had really begun with an emotional moment when Chloe was in high school would blossom so they could talk. What was more important than what had happened? He knew now what her crazy college friends and the typical Californian believed. What else was new? He always generalized that people on the West Coast afforded the tabloids the same weight Midwesterners gave the Chicago Tribune or even the New York Times.
Late in the day, Friday, Rayford and Chloe reluctantly agreed they should eat, and they worked together in the kitchen, rustling up a healthy mixture of fruits and vegetables. There was something calming and healing about working with her in silence. It was painful on the one hand, because anything domestic reminded him of Irene. And when they sat to eat, they automatically sat in their customary spots at either end of the table—which made the other two open spots that much more conspicuous.
Rayford noticed Chloe clouding up again, and he knew she was feeling what he was. It hadn’t been that many years since they had enjoyed three or four meals a week together as a family. Irene had always sat on his left, Raymie on his right, and Chloe directly across. The emptiness and the silence were jarring.
Rayford was ravenous and finished a huge salad. Chloe stopped eating soon after she had begun and wept silently, her head down, tears falling in her lap. Her father took her hand, and she rose and sat in his lap, hiding her face and sobbing. His heart aching for her, Rayford rocked her until she was silent. “Where are they?” she whined at last.
“You want to know where I think they are?” he said. “Do you really want to know?”
“Of course!”
“I believe they are in heaven.”
“Oh, Daddy! There were some religious nuts at school who were saying that, but if they knew so much about it, how come they didn’t go?”
“Maybe they realized they had been wrong and had missed their opportunity.”
“You think that’s what we’ve done?” Chloe said, returning to her chair.
“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 s
aying?”
“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 become 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?”