The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (11 page)

For years he had tolerated church. They had gone to one that demanded little and offered a lot. They made many friends and had found their doctor, dentist, insurance man, and even country club entrée in that church. Rayford was revered, proudly introduced as a 747 captain to newcomers and guests, and even served on the church board for several years.

When Irene discovered the Christian radio station and what she called “real preaching and teaching,” she grew disenchanted with their church and began searching for a new one. That gave Rayford the opportunity to quit going at all, telling her that when she found one she really liked, he would start going again. She found one, and he tried it occasionally, but it was a little too literal and personal and challenging for him. He was not revered. He felt like a project. And he pretty much stayed away.

Rayford noticed another bit of Irene’s handwriting. It was labeled her prayer list, and he was at the top. She had written, “Rafe, for his salvation and that I be a loving wife to him. Chloe, that she come to Christ and live in purity. Ray Jr., that he never stray from his strong, childlike faith.” Then she had listed her pastor, political leaders, missionaries, world conflict, and several friends and other relatives.

“For his salvation,” Rayford whispered. “Salvation.” Another ten-dollar church word that had never really impressed him. He knew Irene’s new church was interested in the salvation of souls, something he’d never heard in the previous church. But the closer he had gotten to the concept, the more he had been repelled. Didn’t salvation have something to do with confirmation, baptism, testifying, getting religion, being holy? He hadn’t wanted to deal with it, whatever it was. And now he was desperate to know exactly what it meant.

Ken Ritz radioed ahead to airports in suburban New York, finally getting clearance to touch down at Easton, Pennsylvania. “You know,” Ritz said, “these are the old stompin’ grounds of Larry Holmes, once the heavyweight champion of the world.”

“The guy that beat Ali?”

“One and the same. If he was still around, whoever was takin’ people might’ve got a knock on the noggin from ol’ Larry. You can bet on that.”

The pilot asked personnel in Easton if they could arrange a ride to New York City for his passenger.

“You’re joking, right, Lear?”

“Didn’t mean to, over.”

“We got a guy can get him to within a couple of miles of the subway. No cars in or out of the city yet, and even the trains have some kind of a complicated route that takes them around bad sites.”

“Bad sites?” Buck repeated.

“Say again,” Ritz radioed.

“Haven’t you been watching the news? Some of the worst disasters in the city were the result of disappearing motormen and dispatchers. Six trains were involved in head-ons with lots of deaths. Several trains ran up the back of other ones. It’ll be days before they clear all the tracks and replace cars. You sure your man wants to get into midtown?”

“Roger. Seems like the type who can handle it.”

“Hope he’s got good hiking boots, over.”

It cost Buck another premium for a ride close enough to the train that he could walk the rest of the way. His driver had not even been a cabbie, nor the vehicle a cab. But it might as well have been. It was just as decrepit and unsafe.

A two-mile walk got him to the train platform at about noon, where he waited more than forty minutes with a mass of humanity, only to find himself among the last half who had to wait another half hour for the next train. The zigzag ride took two hours to get to Manhattan, and all during the trip Buck tapped at the keys on his laptop or stared out the window at the gridlock that went on for miles. He knew many of his locally based colleagues would have already filed similar reports, so his only hope of scoring with Steve Plank and having this see publication was if his were more powerfully or eloquently written. He was in such awe of the scene that he doubted he could pull it off. At the very least he was adding drama to his own memoirs. New York City was at a standstill, and the biggest surprise was that they were letting people in at all. No doubt many of these, like him, lived here and needed to get to their homes and apartments.

The train lurched to a stop, far short of where he had been told it would reach. The garbled announcement, the best he could make out, informed passengers that this was the new last stop. Their next jog would have put them in the middle of a crane site where cars were being lifted off the track. Buck calculated about a fifteen-mile walk to his office and another five to his apartment.

Fortunately, Buck was in great shape. He put everything into his bag and shortened the strap so he could carry it close to his body without it swinging. He set off at what he guessed was a four-mile-per-hour pace, and three hours later he was hurting. He was sure he had blisters, and his neck and shoulders were tired from the bag and strap. He was sweating through his clothes, and there was no way he was going to get to his apartment before stopping in at the office.

“Oh, God, help me,” Buck breathed, more exasperated than praying. But if there was a God, he decided, God had a sense of humor. Leaning against a brick wall in an alley in plain sight was a yellow bicycle with a cardboard sign clipped to it. It read, “Borrow this bike. Take it where you like. Leave it for someone else in need. No charge.”

Only in New York,
he thought.
Nobody steals something that’s free.

He thought about breathing a prayer of thanks, but somehow the world he was looking at didn’t show any other evidence of a benevolent Creator. He mounted the bike, realized how long it had been since he had been aboard one, and wobbled off till he found his balance. It wasn’t long before he cruised into midtown between the snarl of wreckage and wreckers. Only a few other people were traveling as efficiently as he was—couriers on bikes, two others on yellow bikes just like his, and cops on horseback.

Security was tight at the
Global Weekly
building, which somehow didn’t surprise him. After identifying himself to a new desk clerk, he rode to the twenty-seventh floor, stopped in the public washroom to freshen up, and finally entered the main suites of the magazine. The receptionist immediately buzzed Steve Plank’s office, and both Steve and Marge Potter hurried out to embrace and welcome him.

Buck Williams was hit with a strange, new emotion. He nearly wept. He realized he, along with everyone else, was enduring a hideous trauma and that he had no doubt been running on adrenaline. But somehow, getting back to familiar territory—especially with the expense and effort it had taken—made him feel as if he had come home. He was with people who cared about him. This was his family. He was really, really glad to see them, and it appeared the feeling was mutual.

He bit his lip to keep from clouding up, and as he followed Steve and Marge down the hall past his tiny, cluttered office and into Steve’s spacious office/conference room, he asked if they had heard about Lucinda Washington.

Marge stopped in the corridor, bringing her hands to her face. “Yes,” she managed, “and I wasn’t going to do this again. We’ve lost several. Where does the grieving start and end?”

With that, Buck lost it. He couldn’t pretend any longer, though he was as surprised as anyone at his own sensitivity. Steve put an arm around his secretary and guided her and Buck into his office, where others from the senior staff waited.

They cheered when they saw Buck. These people, the ones he had worked with, fought with, feuded with, irritated, and scooped, now seemed genuinely glad to see him. They could have no idea how he felt. “Boy, it’s good to be back here,” he said, then sat and buried his head in his hands. His body began to shake, and he could fight the tears no longer. He began to sob, right there in front of his colleagues and competitors.

He tried to wipe the tears away and compose himself, but when he looked up, forcing an embarrassed smile, he noticed everyone else was emotional, too. “It’s all right, Bucky,” one said. “If this is your first cry, you’ll discover it won’t be your last. We’re all just as scared and stunned and grief stricken as you are.”

“Yeah,” another said, “but his personal account will no doubt be more compelling.” Which made everyone laugh and cry all the more.

Rayford talked himself into calling the Pan-Con Flight Center early in the afternoon. He learned that he was to report in for a Friday flight two days later. “Really?” he said.

“Don’t count on actually flying it,” he was told. “Not too many flights are expected to be lifting off by then. Certainly none till late tomorrow, and maybe not even then.”

“There’s a chance I’ll get called off before I leave home?”

“More than a chance, but that’s your assignment for now.”

“What’s the route?”

“ORD to BOS to JFK.”

“Hmm. Chicago, Boston, New York. Home when?”

“Saturday night.”

“Good.”

“Why? Got a date?”

“Not funny.”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Captain. I forgot who I was talking to.”

“You know about my family?”

“Everybody here knows, sir. We’re sorry. We heard it from the senior flight attendant on your aborted Heathrow run. You got the word on your first officer on that flight, didn’t you?”

“I heard something but never got any official word.”

“What’d you hear?”

“Suicide.”

“Right. Awful.”

“Can you check on something for me?”

“If it’s in my power, Captain.”

“My daughter is trying to get back this way from California.”

“Unlikely.”

“I know, but she’s on her way. Trying anyway. She’ll more than likely try to fly Pan. Can you check and see if she’s on any of the manifests coming east?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. There are precious few, and you know none of them will be landing here.”

“How about Milwaukee?”

“Don’t think so.” He was tapping computer keys. “Where would she originate?”

“Somewhere near Palo Alto.”

“Not good.”

“Why?”

“Hardly anything coming out of there. Let me check.”

Rayford could hear the man talking to himself, trying things, suggesting options. “Air California to Utah. Hey! Found her! Name Chloe with your last name?”

“That’s her!”

“She checked in at Palo Alto. Pan put her on a bus to some outlying strip. Flew her to Salt Lake City on Air California. First time out of the state for that plane, I’ll bet. She got on a Pan-Con plane, oh, an oldie, and they took her to, um, oh brother. Enid, Oklahoma.”

“Enid? That’s never been on our routes.”

“No kidding. They were overrun with Dallas’s spillover, too. Anyway, she’s flying Ozark to Springfield, Illinois.”

“Ozark!”

“I just work here, Cap.”

“Well, somebody’s trying to make it work, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, the good news is, we’ve got a turboprop or two down there that can get her up into the area, but it doesn’t say where she might land. It might not even come up on this screen because they won’t know till they get close.”

“How will I know where to pick her up?”

“You may not. I’m sure she’ll call you when she lands. Who knows? Maybe she’ll just show up.”

“That would be nice.”

“Well, I’m sorry for what you’re going through, sir, but you can be grateful your daughter didn’t get on Pan-Con directly out of Palo Alto. The last one out of there went down last night. No survivors.”

“And this was after the disappearances?”

“Just last night. Totally unrelated.”

“Wouldn’t that have been a kick in the teeth?” Rayford said.

“Indeed.”

When the other senior writers and editors drifted back to their offices, Steve Plank insisted Buck Williams go home and rest before coming back for an eight o’clock meeting that evening.

“I’d rather get done now and go home for the night.”

“I know,” the executive editor said, “but we’ve got a lot to do and I want you sharp.”

Still, Buck was reluctant. “How soon can I get to London?”

“What have you got there?”

Buck filled Steve in on his tip about a major U.S. financier meeting with international colleagues and introducing a rising European politico. “Oh, man, Buck,” Steve said, “we’re all over that. You mean Carpathia.”

Buck was stunned. “I do?”

“He was the guy Rosenzweig was so impressed with.”

“Yeah, but you think he’s the one my informant is—”

“Man, you
have
been out of touch,” Steve said. “It’s not that big a deal. The financier has to be Jonathan Stonagal, who seems to be sponsoring him. I told you Carpathia was coming to address the U.N., didn’t I?”

“So he’s the new Romanian ambassador to the U.N.?” Buck said.

“Hardly.”

“What then?”

“President of the country.”

“Didn’t they just elect a leader, what, eighteen months ago?” Buck said, remembering Dirk’s tip that a new leader would seem out of place and time.

“Big shake-up there,” Steve said. “Better check it out.”

“I will.”

“I don’t mean you. I really don’t think there’s much of a story. The guy is young and dashing and all that, charming and persuasive as I understand it. He had been a meteoric business star, making a killing when Romanian markets opened to the West years ago. But as of last week he wasn’t even in their senate yet. He was only in the lower house.”

“The House of Deputies,” Buck said.

“How did you know that?”

Buck grinned. “Rosenzweig educated me.”

“For a minute there I thought you really did know everything. That’s what you get accused of around here, you know.”

“What a crime.”

“But you play it with such humility.”

“That’s me. So, Steve, why don’t you think it’s important that a guy like Carpathia comes from nowhere to unseat the president of Romania?”

“He didn’t exactly come from nowhere. His businesses were built on Stonagal financing. And Carpathia has been a disarmament crusader, very popular with his colleagues and the people.”

“But disarmament doesn’t fit with Stonagal. Isn’t he a closet hawk?”

Plank nodded.

“So there are mysteries.”

“Some, but, Buck, what could be bigger than the story you’re on? You haven’t got time to fool with a guy who becomes president of a nonstrategic country.”

“There’s something there, though, Steve. My guy in London tips me off. Carpathia’s tied in with the most influential nonpolitician in the world. He goes from lower house to president without a popular election.”

“And—”

“There’s more? Which side of this argument are you on? Did he have the sitting president killed or something?”

“Interesting you should say that, because the only wrinkle in Carpathia’s history is some rumors that he was ruthless with his business competition years ago.”

“How ruthless?”

“People took dirt naps.”

“Ooh, Steve, you talk just like a mobster.”

“And listen, the previous president stepped down for Carpathia. Insisted on his installation.”

“And you say there’s no story here?”

“This is like the old South American coups, Buck. A new one every week. Big deal. So Carpathia’s beholden to Stonagal. All that means is that Stonagal will have free rein in the financial world of an Eastern European country that thinks the best thing that ever happened to it was the destruction of Russia.”

“But, Steve, this is like a freshman congressman becoming president of the United States in an off-election year, no vote, president steps aside, and everybody’s happy.”

“No, no, no, big difference. We’re talking Romania here, Buck.
Romania.
Nonstrategic, scant gross national product, never invaded anybody, never anyone’s strategic ally. There’s nothing there but low-level internal politics.”

“It still smells major to me,” Buck said. “Rosenzweig was high on this guy, and he’s an astute observer. Now Carpathia’s coming to speak at the U.N. What next?”

“You forget he was coming to the U.N.
before
he became president of Romania.”

“That’s another puzzle. He was a nobody.”

“He’s a new name and face in disarmament. He gets his season in the sun, his fifteen minutes of fame. Trust me, you’re not going to hear of him again.”

“Stonagal had to be behind the U.N. gig, too,” Buck said. “You know Diamond John is a personal friend of our ambassador.”

“Stonagal is a personal friend of every elected official from the president to the mayors of most medium-sized cities, Buck. So what? He knows how to play the game. He reminds me of old Joe Kennedy or one of the Rockefellers, all right? What’s your point?”

“Just that Carpathia is speaking at the U.N. on Stonagal’s influence.”

“Probably. So what?”

“He’s up to something.”

“Stonagal’s always up to something, keeping the skids greased for one of his projects. OK, so he gets a businessman into Romanian politics, maybe even gets him installed as president. Who knows, maybe he even got him his little audience with Rosenzweig, which never amounted to anything. Now he gets Carpathia a little international exposure. That happens all the time because of guys like Stonagal. Would you rather chase this nonstory than tie together a cover piece that tries to make sense of the most monumental and tragic phenomenon in the history of the world?”

“Hmm, let me think about that,” Buck said, smiling, as Plank punched him.

“Man, you can sure chase rabbit trails,” the executive editor said.

“You used to like my instincts.”

“I still do, but you’re a little sleep-deprived right now.”

“I’m definitely not going to London? Because I’ve got to tell my guy.”

“Marge tried to reach the guy who was supposed to meet your plane. She can tell you how to get through and all that. But be back here by eight. I’m bringing in the department editors interested in the various international meetings coming here this month. You’re going to be tying that coverage together, so—”

“So they can all hate me in the same meeting?” Buck said.

“They’ll feel important.”

“But
is
it important? You want me to ignore Carpathia, but you’re going to complicate my life with, what was it, an ecumenical religious convention and a one-world-currency confab?”

“You
are
short on sleep, aren’t you, Buck? This is why I’m still your boss. Don’t you get it? Yes, I want coordination and I want a well-written piece. But think about it. This gives you automatic entrée to all these dignitaries. We’re talking Jewish Nationalist leaders interested in one world government—”

“Unlikely and hardly compelling.”

“—Orthodox Jews from all over the world looking at rebuilding the temple, or some such—”

“I’m being overrun by Jews.”

“—international monetarists setting the stage for one world currency—”

“Also unlikely.”

“But this will let you keep an eye on your favorite power broker—”

“Stonagal.”

“Right, and heads of various religious groups looking to cooperate internationally.”

“Bore me to death, why don’t you? These people are discussing impossibilities. Since when have religious groups been able to get along?”

“You’re still not getting it, Buck. You’re going to have access to all these people—religious, monied, political—while trying to write a piece about what happened and why it happened. You can get the thinking of the greatest minds from the most diverse viewpoints.”

Buck shrugged in surrender. “You’ve got a point. I still say our department editors are going to resent me.”

“There’s something to be said for consistency.”

“I still want to try to get to Carpathia.”

“That won’t be hard. He’s already a media darling in Europe. Eager to talk.”

“And Stonagal.”

“You know he never talks to the press, Buck.”

“I like a challenge.”

“Go home and take a load off. See you at eight.”

Marge Potter was preparing to leave as Buck approached. “Oh yes,” Marge said, setting down her stuff and flipping through her notebook. “I tried Dirk Burton several times. Got through once to his voice mail and left him your message. Received no confirmation. OK?”

“Thanks.”

Buck wasn’t sure he’d be able to rest at home with everything flying through his brain. He was pleasantly surprised when he reached street level to find that representatives of various cab companies were posted outside office buildings, directing people to cabs that could reach certain areas via circuitous routes. For premium fares, of course. For thirty dollars, in a shared cab, Buck was let off two blocks from his apartment. In three hours he would have to be back at the office, so he made arrangements with the cabbie to meet him at the same spot at seven forty-five. That, he decided, would be a miracle. With all the cabs in New York, he had never before had to make such an arrangement, and to his knowledge had never even seen the same cabbie twice.

Rayford was pacing, miserable. He came to the painful realization that this was the worst season of his life. He had never even come close before. His parents had been older than those of his peers. When they had died within two years of each other, it had been a relief. They were not well, not lucid. He loved them and they were no burden, but they had virtually died to him years before, due to strokes and other ailments. When they did pass, Rayford had grieved in a way, but mostly he was just sentimental about them. He had good memories, he appreciated the kindness and sympathy he received at their funerals, and he got on with his life. Whatever tears he shed were not from remorse or heartache. He felt primarily nostalgic and melancholy.

The rest of his life had been without complication or pain. Becoming a pilot was akin to rising to any other highly paid professional level. You had to be intelligent and disciplined, accomplished. He came through the ranks in the usual way—military-reserve duty, small planes, then bigger ones, then jets and fighters. Finally he had reached the pinnacle.

He had met Irene in Reserve Officer Training Corps in college. She had been an army brat who had never rebelled. Many of her chums had turned their backs on military life and didn’t even want to own up to it. Her father had been killed in battle and her mother married another military man, so Irene had seen or lived on nearly every army base in the United States.

They were married when Rayford was a senior in college and Irene a sophomore. She dropped out when he went into the military, and everything had been on schedule since. They had Chloe during their first year of marriage but, due to complications, waited another eight years for Ray Jr. Rayford was thrilled with both children, but he had to admit he had longed for a namesake boy.

Unfortunately, Raymie came along during a bleak period for Rayford. He was thirty and feeling older, and he didn’t enjoy having a pregnant wife. Many people thought, because of his premature but not unattractive gray hair, that he was older, and so he endured the jokes about being an old father. It was a particularly difficult pregnancy for Irene, and Raymie was a couple of weeks late. Chloe was a spirited eight-year-old, so Rayford disengaged as much as possible.

Irene, he believed, slipped into at least some mild depression during that time and was short tempered with him and weepy. At work Rayford was in charge, listened to, and admired. He had been rated for the biggest, latest, and most sophisticated planes in the Pan-Continental stable. His work life was going swimmingly; he didn’t enjoy going home.

He had drunk more during that period than ever before or since, and the marriage had gone through its most trying time. He was frequently late getting home and at times even fibbed about his schedule so he could leave a day early or come back a day late. Irene accused him of all manner of affairs, and because she was wrong, he denied them with great vigor and, he felt, justified anger.

The truth was, he was hoping for and angling for just what she was charging. What frustrated him so was that, despite his looks and bearing, it just wasn’t in him to pull it off. He didn’t have the moves, the patter, the style. A flight attendant had once called him a hunk, but he felt like a geek, an egghead. Sure, he had access to any woman with a price, but that was beneath him. While he toyed with and hoped for an old-fashioned affair, he somehow couldn’t bring himself to stoop to something as tawdry as paying for sex.

Had Irene known how hard he was trying to be unfaithful, she would have left him. As it was, he had indulged in that make-out session at the Christmas party before Raymie was born, but he was so inebriated he could hardly remember it.

The guilt and nearly spoiling his image straightened him up and made him cut down on his drinking. Seeing Raymie born sobered him even more. It was time to grow up and take as much responsibility as a husband and father as he did as a pilot.