by Tim LaHaye
Buck phoned Pan-Con Airlines, knowing Rayford Steele’s flight left at eight the next morning. He told the reservation clerk his traveling companion was Chloe Steele. “Yes,” she said, “Ms. Steele is flying complimentary in first class. There is a seat open next to her. Will you be a guest of the crew as well?”
“No.”
He booked a cheap seat and charged it to the magazine, then upgraded to the seat next to Chloe. He would say nothing that night about going to Chicago.
It had been ages since Buck had worn a tie, but this was, after all, the Carlisle Hotel dining room. He wouldn’t have gotten in without one. Fortunately they were directed to a private table in a little alcove where he could stash his bag without appearing gauche. His tablemates assumed he needed the bag for his equipment, not aware he had packed a change of clothes, too.
Chloe was radiant, looking five years older in a classy evening dress. It was clear she and Hattie had spent the late afternoon in a beauty salon.
Rayford thought his daughter looked stunning that evening, and he wondered what the magazine writer thought of her. Clearly this Williams guy was too old for her.
Rayford had spent his free hours before dinner napping and then praying that he would have the same courage and clarity he’d had with Hattie. He had no idea what she thought except that he was “sweet” for telling her everything. He wasn’t sure whether that was sarcasm or condescension. He could only hope he had gotten through. That she had spent time alone with Chloe might have been good. Rayford hoped Chloe wasn’t so antagonistic and closed minded that she had become an ally against him with Hattie.
At the restaurant Williams seemed to gaze at Chloe and ignore Hattie. Rayford considered this insensitive, but it didn’t seem to bother Hattie. Maybe Hattie was matchmaking behind his back. Rayford himself had said nothing about Hattie’s new look for the evening, but that was by design. She was striking and always had been, but he was not going down that path again.
During dinner Rayford kept the conversation light. Buck said to let him know when he was ready to be interviewed. After dessert Rayford spoke to the waiter privately. “We’d like to spend another hour or so here, if it’s all right.”
“Sir, we do have an extensive reservation list—”
“I wouldn’t want this table to be less than profitable for you,” Rayford said, pressing a large bill into the waiter’s palm, “so boot us out whenever it becomes necessary.”
The waiter peeked at the bill and slipped it into his pocket. “I’m sure you will not be disturbed,” he said. And the water glasses were always full.
Rayford enjoyed answering Williams’s initial questions about his job, his training, his background and upbringing, but he was eager to get on with his new mission in life. And finally the question came.
Buck tried to concentrate on the captain’s answers but felt himself trying to impress Chloe, too. Everyone in the business knew he was one of the best in the world at interviewing. That and his ability to quickly sift through the stuff and make a readable, engaging article of it had made him who he was.
Buck had breezed through the preliminaries, and he liked this guy. Steele seemed honest and sincere, smart and articulate. He realized he had seen a lot of Rayford in Chloe. “I’m ready,” he said, “to ask your idea of what happened on that fateful flight to London. Do you have a theory?”
The captain hesitated and smiled as if gathering himself. “I have more than a theory,” he said. “You may think this sounds crazy coming from a technically minded person like me, but I believe I have found the truth and know exactly what happened.”
Buck knew this would play well in the magazine. “Gotta appreciate a man who knows his mind,” he said. “Here’s your chance to tell the world.”
Chloe chose that moment to gently touch Buck’s arm and ask if he minded if she excused herself for a moment.
“I’ll join you,” Hattie said.
Buck smiled, watching them go. “What was that?” he said. “A conspiracy? Were they supposed to leave me alone with you, or have they heard this before and don’t want to rehash it?”
Rayford was privately frustrated, almost to the point of anger. That was the second time in a few hours that Chloe had somehow been spirited away at a crucial time. “I assure you that is not the case,” he said, forcing himself to smile. He couldn’t slow down and wait for their return. The question had been asked, he felt ready, and so he stepped off the edge of a social cliff, saying things he knew could get him categorized as a kook. As he had done with Hattie, he outlined his own spotty spiritual history and brought Williams up to the present in a little over half an hour, covering every detail he felt was relevant. At some point the women returned.
Buck sat without interrupting as this most lucid and earnest professional calmly propounded a theory that only three weeks before Buck would have found absurd. It sounded like things he had heard in church and from friends, but this guy had chapter and verse from the Bible to back it up. And this business of the two preachers in Jerusalem representing two witnesses predicted in the book of Revelation? Buck was aghast. He finally broke in.
“That’s interesting,” he said. “Have you heard the latest?” Buck told him what he had seen on CNN during his few brief minutes at his apartment. “Apparently thousands are making some sort of a pilgrimage to the Wailing Wall. They’re lined up for miles, trying to get in and hear the preaching. Many are converting and going out themselves to preach. The authorities seem powerless to keep them out, despite the opposition of the Orthodox Jews. Anyone who comes against the preachers is struck dumb or paralyzed, and many of the old orthodox guard are joining forces with the preachers.”
“Amazing,” the pilot responded. “But even more amazing, it was all predicted in the Bible.”
Buck was desperate to maintain his composure. He wasn’t sure what he was hearing, but Steele was impressive. Maybe the man was reaching to link Bible prophecy with what was happening in Israel, but no one else had an explanation. What Steele had read to Buck from Revelation appeared clear. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was mumbo jumbo. But it was the only theory that tied the incidents so closely to any sort of explanation. What else would give Buck this constant case of the chills?
Buck focused on Captain Steele, his pulse racing, looking neither right nor left. He could not move. He was certain the women could hear his crashing heart. Was all this possible? Could it be true? Had he been exposed to a clear work of God in the destruction of the Russian air corps just to set him up for a moment like this? Could he shake his head and make it all go away? Could he sleep on it and come to his senses in the morning? Would a conversation with Bailey or Plank set him straight, snap him out of this silliness?
He sensed not. Something about this demanded attention. He wanted to believe something that tied everything together and made it make sense. But Buck also wanted to believe in Nicolae Carpathia. Maybe Buck was going through a scary time where he was vulnerable to impressive people. That wasn’t like him, but then, who was himself these days? Who could be expected to be himself during times like these?
Buck didn’t want to rationalize this away, to talk himself out of it. He wanted to ask Rayford Steele about his own sister-in-law and niece and nephew. But that would be personal, that would not relate to the story he was working on. This had not begun as a personal quest, a search for truth. This was merely a fact-finding mission, an element in a bigger story.
In no way did Buck even begin to think he was going to pick a favorite theory and espouse it as Global Weekly’s position. He was supposed to round up all the theories, from the plausible to the bizarre. Readers would add their own in the Letters column, or they would make a decision based on the credibility of the sources. This airline pilot, unless Buck made him look like a lunatic, would come off profound and convincing.
For the first time in his memory Buck Williams was speechless.
Rayford was certain he was not getting through. He only hoped this
writer was astute enough to understand, to quote him correctly, and to represent his views in such a way that readers might look into Christianity. It was clear that Williams wasn’t buying it personally. If Rayford had to guess, he’d say Williams was trying to hide a smirk—or else he was so amused, or amazed, that he couldn’t frame a response.
Rayford had to remind himself that his purpose was to get through to Chloe first and then maybe to influence the reading public, if the thing found its way into print. If Cameron Williams thought Rayford was totally out to lunch, he might just leave him out, along with all his cockamamie views.
Buck did not trust himself to respond with coherence. He still had chills, yet he felt sticky with sweat. What was happening to him? He managed a whisper. “I want to thank you for your time, and for dinner,” he said. “I will get back to you before using any of your quotes.” That was nonsense, of course. He had said it only to give himself a reason to reconnect with the pilot. He might have a lot of personal questions about this, but he never allowed people he interviewed to see their quotes in advance. He trusted his recorder and his memory, and he had never been accused of misquoting.
Buck looked back up at the captain and saw a strange look cross his face. He looked—what? Disappointed? Yes, then resigned.
Suddenly Buck remembered who he was dealing with. This was an intelligent, educated man. Surely he knew that reporters never checked back with their sources. He probably thought he was getting a journalistic brush-off.
A rookie mistake, Buck, he reprimanded himself. You just underestimated your own source.
Buck was putting his equipment away when he noticed Chloe was crying, tears streaming down her face. What was it with these women? Hattie Durham had been weeping when she and the captain had finished talking that afternoon. Now Chloe.
Buck could identify, at least with Chloe. If she was crying because she had been moved by her father’s sincerity and earnestness, it was no surprise. Buck had a lump in his throat, and for the first time since he had lain facedown in fear in Israel during the Russian attack, he wished he had a private place to cry.
“Could I ask you one more thing, off the record?” he said. “May I ask what you and Hattie were talking about this afternoon in the club?”
“Buck!” Hattie scolded. “That’s none of your—”
“If you don’t want to say, I’ll understand,” Buck said. “I was just curious.”
“Well, much of it was personal,” the captain said.
“Fair enough.”
“But, Hattie, I don’t see any harm in telling him that the rest of it was what we just went over. Do you?”
She shrugged.
“Still off the record, Hattie,” Buck said, “do you mind if I ask your reaction to all this?”
“Why off the record?” Hattie snapped. “The opinions of a pilot are important but the opinions of a flight attendant aren’t?”
“I’ll put you on the machine if you want,” he said. “I didn’t know you wanted to be on the record.”
“I don’t,” she said. “I just wanted to be asked. It’s too late now.”
“And you don’t care to say what you think—”
“No, I’ll tell you. I think Rayford is sincere and thoughtful. Whether he’s right, I have no idea. That’s all beyond me and very foreign. But I am convinced he believes it. Whether he should or not, with his background and all that, I don’t know. Maybe he’s susceptible to it because of losing his family.”
Buck nodded, realizing he was closer to buying Rayford’s theory than Hattie was. He glanced at Chloe, hoping she had composed herself and that he could draw her out. She still had a tissue pressed under her eyes.
“Please don’t ask me right now,” she said.
Rayford was not surprised at Hattie’s response, but he was profoundly disappointed with Chloe’s. He was convinced she didn’t want to embarrass him by saying how off the wall he sounded. He should have been grateful, he guessed. At least she was still sensitive to his feelings. Maybe he should have been more sensitive to hers, but he had decided he couldn’t let those gentilities remain priorities anymore. He was going to contend for the faith with her until she made a decision. For tonight, however, it was clear she had heard enough. He wouldn’t be pushing her anymore. He only hoped he could sleep despite his remorse over her condition. He loved her so much.
“Mr. Williams,” he said, standing and thrusting out his hand, “it’s been a pleasure. The pastor I told you about in Illinois really has a handle on this stuff and knows much more than I do about the Antichrist and all. It might be worth a call if you want to know any more. Bruce Barnes, New Hope Village Church, Mount Prospect.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Buck said.
Rayford was convinced Williams was merely being polite.
Talking to this Barnes was a great idea, Buck thought. Maybe he’d find the time the next day in Chicago. That way he could pursue this for himself and not confuse the professional angle with his own interest.
The foursome moseyed to the lobby. “I’m going to say my good-nights,” Hattie said. “I’ve got the earlier flight tomorrow.” She thanked Rayford for dinner, whispered something to Chloe—which seemed to get no response—and thanked Buck for his hospitality that morning. “I may just call Mr. Carpathia one of these days,” she said. Buck resisted the urge to tell her what he knew about Carpathia’s immediate future. He doubted the man would have time for her.
Chloe looked as if she wanted to follow Hattie to the elevators and yet wanted to say something to Buck as well. He was shocked when she said, “Give us a minute, will you, Daddy? I’ll be right up.”
Buck found himself flattered that Chloe had hung back to say good-bye personally, but she was still emotional. Her voice was quavery as she formally told him what a good time she had had that day. He tried to prolong the conversation.
“Your dad is a pretty impressive guy,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “Especially lately.”
“I can see why you might agree with him on a lot of that stuff.”
“You can?”
“Sure! I have a lot of thinking to do myself. You give him a hard time about it though, huh?”
“I used to. Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“You can see how much it means to him.”
Buck nodded. She seemed on the edge emotionally again. He reached to take her hand. “It’s been wonderful spending time with you,” he said.
She chuckled, as if embarrassed about what she was thinking.
“What?” he pressed.
“Oh, nothing. It’s silly.”
“C’mon, what? We’ve both been silly today.”
“Well, I feel stupid,” she said. “I just met you and I’m really gonna miss you. If you get through Chicago, you have to call.”
“It’s a promise,” Buck said. “I can’t say when, but let’s just say sooner than you think.”
CHAPTER 22
Buck did not sleep well. Partly he was excited about his morning surprise. He could only hope Chloe would be happy about it. The larger part of his mind reeled with wonder. If this was true, all that Rayford Steele had postulated—and Buck knew instinctively that if any of it was true, all of it was true—why had it taken Buck a lifetime to come to it? Could he have been searching for this all the time, hardly knowing he was looking?
Yet even Captain Steele—an organized, analytical airline pilot—had missed it, and Steele claimed to have had a proponent, a devotee, almost a fanatic living under his own roof. Buck was so restless he had to leave his bed and pace. Strangely, somehow, he was not upset, not miserable. He was simply overwhelmed. None of this would have made a bit of sense to him just days before, and now, for the first time since Israel, he was unable to separate himself from his story.
The Holy Land attack had been a watershed event in his life. He had stared his own mortality in the face and had to acknowledge that something otherworldly—yes, super
natural, something directly from God Almighty—had been thrust upon those dusty hills in the form of a fire in the sky. And he had known beyond a doubt for the first time in his life that unexplainable things out there could not be dissected and evaluated scientifically from a detached Ivy League perspective.
Buck had always prided himself on standing apart from the pack, for including the human, the everyday, the everyman element in his stories when others resisted such vulnerability. This skill allowed readers to identify with him, to taste and feel and smell those things most important to them. But he had still been able, even after his closest brush with death, to let the reader live it without revealing Buck’s own deep angst about the very existence of God. Now, that separation seemed impossible. How could he cover this most important story of his life, one that had already probed closest to his soul, without subconsciously revealing his private turmoil?
He was, he knew by the wee hours, leaning over the line. He wasn’t ready to pray yet, to try to talk to a God he had ignored for so long. He hadn’t even prayed when he became convinced of God’s existence that night in Israel. What had been the matter with him? Everyone in the world, at least those intellectually honest with themselves, had to admit there was a God after that night. Amazing coincidences had occurred before, but that had defied all logic.
To win against the mighty Russians was an upset, of course. But Israel’s history was replete with such legends. Yet to not defend yourself and suffer no casualties? That was beyond all comprehension—apart from the direct intervention of God.
Why, Buck wondered, hadn’t that made more of an impact on his own introspective inventory? In the lonely darkness he came to the painful realization that he had long ago compartmentalized this most basic of human needs and had rendered it a nonissue. What did it say about him, what despicable kind of a subhuman creature had he become, that even the stark evidence of the Israel miracle—for it could be called nothing less—had not thawed his spirit’s receptiveness to God?