by Tim LaHaye
“You don’t have to persuade me, Buck,” Bruce said. “I’m on your side. The question now is, what does Carpathia want? Do you think if he talks to you in private he’ll reveal his true self? or threaten you? or let you know he’s aware that you know the truth?”
“For what purpose?”
“To intimidate you. To use you.”
“Maybe. Maybe all he wants to do is try to read me, try to determine whether he succeeded in brainwashing me, too.”
“It’s pretty dangerous business, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“I hope that’s not all you’ve got to say, Bruce. I was hoping for a little more counsel.”
“I’ll pray about it,” Bruce said. “But right now I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Well, at least I have to call Steve back. I don’t know whether Carpathia wants to talk by phone or in person.”
“Can you wait until Monday?”
“Sure. I can tell him I assumed he wanted me to call him back during business hours, but I can’t guarantee he won’t call me in the meantime.”
“He has your new number?”
“No. Steve calls my voice mail in New York.”
“Easy enough to ignore.”
Buck shrugged and nodded. “If that’s what you think I should do.”
“Since when have I become your adviser?”
“Since you became my pastor.”
When Rayford returned from running errands that morning, he realized from her body language and terse comments that he had offended Chloe. “Let’s talk,” he said.
“About what?”
“About how you have to cut me some slack. I was never very good at this parenting thing, and now I’m having trouble treating you like the adult that you are. I’m sorry I called you a schoolgirl. You handle Buck any way you think is right, and ignore me, all right?”
Chloe smiled. “I was ignoring you already. I don’t need your permission for that.”
“Then you forgive me?”
“Don’t worry about me, Dad. I can’t stay mad at you for long anymore. Seems to me we need each other. I called Buck, by the way.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “No answer. I guess he wasn’t watching for my call.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“No voice mail yet, I guess. I’ll see him at church tomorrow.”
“Will you tell him you called?”
Chloe smiled mischievously. “His phone will show it.”
Buck spent the rest of the day tweaking his cover story for Global Weekly on the theories behind the disappearances. He felt good about it, deciding it might be the best work he had ever done. It included everything from the tabloidlike attack by Hitler’s ghost, UFOs, and aliens, to the belief that this was some sort of cosmic evolutionary cleansing, a survival-of-the-fittest adjustment in the world’s population.
In the middle of the piece, Buck had included what he believed was the truth, of course, but he did not editorialize. It was, as usual, a third-person, straight news-analysis article. No one but his new friends would know that he agreed with the airline pilot and the pastor and several others he interviewed—that the disappearances had been a result of Christ’s rapture of his church.
Most interesting to Buck was the interpretation of the event on the part of other churchmen. A lot of Catholics were confused, because while many remained, some had disappeared—including the new pope, who had been installed just a few months before the vanishings. He had stirred up controversy in the church with a new doctrine that seemed to coincide more with the “heresy” of Martin Luther than with the historic orthodoxy they were used to. When the pope had disappeared, some Catholic scholars had concluded that this was indeed an act of God. “Those who opposed the orthodox teaching of the Mother Church were winnowed out from among us,” Peter Cardinal Mathews of Cincinnati, a leading archbishop, had told Buck. “The Scripture says that in the last days it will be as in the days of Noah. And you’ll recall that in the days of Noah, the good people remained and the evil ones were washed away.”
“So,” Buck concluded, “the fact that we’re still here proves we’re the good guys?”
“I wouldn’t put it so crassly,” Archbishop Mathews had said, “but, yes, that’s my position.”
“What does that say about all the wonderful people who vanished?”
“That perhaps they were not so wonderful.”
“And the children and babies?”
The bishop had shifted uncomfortably. “That I leave to God,” he said. “I have to believe that perhaps he was protecting the innocents.”
“From what?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t take the Apocrypha literally, but there are dire predictions of what might be yet to come.”
“So you would not relegate the vanished young ones to the winnowing of the evil?”
“No. Many of the little ones who disappeared I baptized myself, so I know they are in Christ and with God.”
“And yet they are gone.”
“They are gone.”
“And we remain.”
“We should take great solace in that.”
“Few people take solace in it, Excellency.”
“I understand that. This is a very difficult time. I myself am grieving the loss of a sister and an aunt. But they had left the church.”
“They had?”
“They opposed the teaching. Wonderful women, most kind. Most earnest, I must add. But I fear they have been separated as chaff from wheat. Yet those of us who remain should be confident in our standing with God as never before.”
Buck had been bold enough to ask the archbishop to comment on certain passages of Scripture, primarily Ephesians 2:8-9: “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast.”
“Now you see,” the archbishop said, “this is precisely my point. People have been taking verses like that out of context for centuries and trying to build doctrine on them.”
“But there are other passages just like those,” Buck said.
“I understand that, but, listen, you’re not Catholic, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, see, you don’t understand the broad sweep of the historical church.”
“Excuse me, but explain to me why so many non-Catholics are still here, if your hypothesis is right.”
“God knows,” Archbishop Mathews had said. “He knows hearts. He knows more than we do.”
“That’s for sure,” Buck said.
Of course Buck left his personal comments and opinions out of the article, but he was able to work in the Scripture and the archbishop’s attempt to explain away the doctrine of grace. Buck planned to transmit the finished article to the Global Weekly offices in New York on Monday.
As he worked, Buck kept an ear open for the phone. Very few people had his new numbers. Only the Steeles, Bruce, and Alice, Verna Zee’s secretary. He expected his second laptop, his desktop computer, fax machine, and other office equipment, along with files from the office, to arrive at the Chicago bureau Monday. Then he would feel more at home and equipped to work out of the second bedroom.
Buck had half expected to hear from Chloe. He thought he had left it with Rayford that she would call at her convenience. Maybe she was the type who didn’t call men, even when she had missed their call. On the other hand, she was not quite twenty-one yet, and he admitted he had no idea about the customs and mores of her generation. Maybe she saw him as a big brother or even a father figure and was repulsed by the idea that he might be interested in her. That didn’t jibe with her look and her body language from the night before, but he hadn’t been encouraging then, either.
He simply wanted to do the right thing, to talk with her—to clarify that the timing was bad for them, and that they should become close friends and compatriots in the common cause. But then he felt foolish. What if she had not even considered anything
more than that? He would be explaining away something that wasn’t even there.
But maybe she had phoned when he was with Bruce that morning. He would just call her. Invite her to see his new place when she had time, and then they would have their talk. He would play it by ear, trying to determine what her expectations had been, and then either let her down easy or ignore a subject that didn’t need to be raised.
Rayford answered the phone. “Chloe!” he called out. “Buck Williams for you!”
He could hear her voice in the background. “Could you tell him I’ll call him back? Better yet, I’ll see him in church tomorrow.”
“I heard that,” Buck said. “Fair enough. See you then.”
Apparently she’s not wasting any energy worrying about us, Buck decided. He dialed his voice mail in New York. The only message was from Steve Plank.
“Buck, what’s the deal? How long does it take to get settled? Do I have to call the Chicago bureau? I’ve left messages there, but old man Bailey told me you’d be working out of your own place.
“Did you get my message that Carpathia wants to talk to you? People don’t make a habit of making him wait, my friend. I’m stalling him, telling him you’re in transit, relocating, and all that. But he had sort of hoped to see you this weekend. I honestly don’t know what he wants, except that he’s still high on you. He’s not holding a grudge over your standing him up on his invitation to that meeting, if you’re worried about that.
“Tell you the truth, Buck, the newsman in you would have wanted to be there and should have been there. But you’d have been as rattled by it as I have been. A violent suicide before your eyes is no easy thing to forget.
“Listen, call me so I can get you two together. Bailey tells me you’re putting the finishing touches on the theory article. If you can get with Carpathia soon enough, you can include his ideas. He’s made no secret of them, but an exclusive quote or two wouldn’t hurt either, right? You know where to reach me any time of the day or night.”
Buck stored the message. What was he supposed to do? It sounded as if Carpathia wanted a private face-to-face. Not many days before, Buck would have jumped at the chance. To interview the leading personality in the world on the eve of the delivery of your most important cover story? Still, Buck was a new believer, convinced that Carpathia was the Antichrist himself. He had seen the man’s power. And Buck was just getting started in his faith. He didn’t know much about the Antichrist. Was the man omniscient like God? Could he read Buck’s mind?
Carpathia obviously could manipulate people and brainwash minds. But did that mean he knew what people were thinking, too? Was Buck able to resist Carpathia only because he had the Spirit of Christ within him? He wished there was something in the Bible that specifically outlined the powers of the Antichrist. Then he would know what he was dealing with.
At the very least, Carpathia had to be curious about Buck. He must have wondered, when Buck slipped away from the conference room where the murders had been committed, whether there had been some glitch in his own mind-control powers. Otherwise, why erase from everyone else’s mind not only the murders, replacing them with a picture of a bizarre suicide, but also the memory that Buck had been there at all?
Clearly, Nicolae had tried to cover himself by making everyone else forget Buck was there. If such a move was supposed to make Buck doubt his own sanity, it hadn’t worked. God had been with Buck that day. He saw what he saw, and nothing could shake that. There was no second-guessing, no twinge of wondering if he was merely in denial. One thing was sure, he would not tell Carpathia what he knew. If Carpathia was certain Buck had not been tricked, he would have no recourse but to have him eliminated. If Buck could keep Carpathia thinking he had succeeded, it would give them one small advantage in the war against the forces of evil. What Buck or the Tribulation Force might do with that advantage, he could not fathom.
But he did know one thing. He would not return Steve Plank’s call until Monday.
Rayford was glad he and Chloe had decided to go early to church. The place was jammed every week. Rayford smiled at his daughter. Chloe looked the best he had seen her since coming home from college. He wanted to tease her, to ask her if she was dressing for Buck Williams or for God, but he let it go.
He took one of the last spots in the parking lot and saw cars lined up around the block, looking for places on the street to park. People were grieving. They were terror-stricken. They were looking for hope, for answers, for God. They were finding him here, and the word was spreading.
Few people who sat under the earnest and emotional teaching of Bruce Barnes could come away doubting that the vanishings had been the work of God. The church had been snatched away, and they had all been left behind. Bruce’s message was that Jesus was coming again in what the Bible called the Glorious Appearing seven years after the beginning of the Tribulation. By then, he said, three-fourths of the world’s remaining population would be wiped out, and probably a larger percentage of believers in Christ. Bruce’s exhortation was not a call to the timid. It was a challenge to the convinced, to those who had been persuaded by God’s most dramatic invasion of human life since the incarnation of Jesus Christ as a mortal baby.
Bruce had already told the Steeles and Buck that a quarter of the earth’s population would die during the second, third, and fourth judgments from the Seven-Sealed Scroll of Revelation. He cited Revelation 6:8, where the apostle John had written, “So I looked, and behold, a pale horse. And the name of him who sat on it was Death, and Hades followed with him. And power was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword, with hunger, with death, and by the beasts of the earth.”
But what was to come after that was even worse.
A minute or two after they had settled in their seats, Rayford felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned just as Chloe did. Buck Williams sat directly behind them in the fourth row and had touched them simultaneously. “Hey, strangers,” he said. Rayford stood and embraced Buck. That alone told him how much had changed in him in just a matter of weeks. Chloe was cordial, shaking Buck’s hand.
After they were seated again, Buck leaned forward and whispered, “Chloe, the reason I was calling was that I wondered—”
But the music had begun.
Buck stood to sing with everyone else. Many seemed to know the songs and the words. He had to follow as the words were projected on the wall and try to pick up the melodies. The choruses were simple and catchy, but they were new to him. Many of these people, he decided, had had plenty of exposure to church—more than he had. How had they missed the truth?
After a couple of choruses, a disheveled Bruce Barnes hurried to the pulpit—not the large one on the platform, but a small lectern at floor level. He carried his Bible, two large books, and a sheaf of papers he was having trouble controlling. He smiled sheepishly.
“Good morning,” he began. “I realize a word of explanation is in order. Usually we sing more, but we don’t have time for that today. Usually my tie is straighter, my shirt fully tucked in, my suit coat buttoned. That seems a little less crucial this morning. Usually we take up an offering. Be assured we still need it, but please find the baskets on your way out at noon, if indeed I let you out that early.
“I want to take the extra time this morning because I feel an urgency greater even than the last few weeks. I don’t want you to worry about me. I haven’t become a wild-eyed madman, a cultist, or anything other than what I have been since I realized I had missed the Rapture.
“I have told my closest advisers that God has weighed heavily upon me this week, and they are praying with me that I will be wise and discerning, that I will not go off half-cocked and shooting at some new and strange doctrine. I have read more, prayed more, and studied more this week than ever, and I am eager to tell you what God has told me.
“Does God speak to me audibly? No. I wish he would. I wish he had. If he had, I probably would not be here today. But he wanted me to accept him by faith, not by hi
s proving himself in some more dramatic way than simply sending his Son to die for me. He has left us his Word, and it gives us all we need to know.”
Buck felt a lump in his throat as he watched his new friend beg and plead and cajole his listeners to hear, to understand, to make themselves available to God for the instruction God wanted them to have. Bruce told his own story yet again, how he had lived a phony life of pietism and churchianity for years, and how when God came to call, he had been found wanting and had been left behind, without his wife and precious children. Buck had heard the story more than once, yet it never failed to move him. Some sobbed aloud. Those hearing it for the first time got Bruce’s abbreviated version. “I never want to stop telling what Christ has done for me,” he said. “Tell your stories. People can identify with your grief and your loss and your loneliness. I will never again be ashamed of the gospel of Christ. The Bible says that the Cross offends. If you are offended, I am doing my job. If you are attracted to Christ, the Spirit is doing his work.
“We’ve already missed the Rapture, and now we live in what will soon become the most perilous period of history. Evangelists used to warn parishioners that they could be struck by a car or die in a fire and thus they should not put off coming to Christ. I’m telling you that should you be struck by a car or caught in a fire, it may be the most merciful way you can die. Be ready this time. Be ready. I will tell you how to get ready.
“My sermon title today is ‘The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,’ and I want to concentrate on the first, the rider of the white horse. If you’ve always thought the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse was a Notre Dame football backfield, God has a lesson for you today.”
Buck had never seen Bruce so earnest, so inspired. As he spoke he referred to his notes, to the reference books, to the Bible. He began to perspire and often wiped sweat from his brow with his pocket handkerchief, which he took time to admit he knew was a faux pas. It seemed to Buck that the congregants, as one, merely chuckled with him as encouragement to keep on. Most were taking notes. Nearly everyone followed along in a Bible, their own or one provided in the pews.