The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (9 page)

The phone awakened Rayford Steele. He had not moved for hours. It was early evening and beginning to get dark. “Hello?” he said, unable to mask the sleepy huskiness in his voice.

“Captain Steele?” It was the frantic voice of Hattie Durham.

“Yes, Hattie. Are you all right?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! My phone was dead for the longest time, then everything was busy. I thought I was getting a ring on your phone, but you never answered. I don’t know anything about my mother or my sisters. What about you?”

Rayford sat up, dizzy and disoriented. “I got a message from Chloe,” he said.

“I knew that,” she said. “You told me at O’Hare. Are your wife and son all right?”

“No.”

“No?”

Rayford was silent. What else was there to say?

“Do you know anything for sure?” Hattie asked.

“I’m afraid I do,” he said. “Their bedclothes are here.”

“Oh, no! Rayford, I’m sorry! Is there anything I can do?”

“No, thanks.”

“Do you want some company?”

“No, thanks.”

“I’m scared.”

“So am I, Hattie.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Keep trying to get Chloe. Hope she can come home or I can get to her.”

“Where is she?”

“Stanford. Palo Alto.”

“My people are in California, too,” Hattie said. “They’ve got all kinds of trouble out there, even worse than here.”

“I imagine it’s because of the time difference,” Rayford said. “More people on the roads, that sort of thing.”

“I’m scared to death of what’s become of my family.”

“Let me know what you find out, Hattie, OK?”

“I will, but you were supposed to call me. ’Course my phone was dead, and then I couldn’t get through to you.”

“I wish I could say I tried to call you, Hattie, but I didn’t. This is hard for me.”

“Let me know if you need me, Rayford. You know, just someone to talk to or be with.”

“I will. And you let me know what you find out about your family.”

He almost wished he hadn’t added that. Losing his wife and child made him realize what a vapid relationship he had been pursuing with a twenty-seven-year-old woman. He hardly knew her, and he certainly didn’t much care what happened to her family any more than he cared when he heard about a remote tragedy on the news. He knew Hattie was not a bad person. In fact, she was nice and friendly. But that was not why he had been interested in her. It had merely been a physical attraction, something he had been smart enough or lucky enough or naive enough not to have acted upon. He felt guilty for having considered it, and now his own grief would obliterate all but the most common courtesy of simply caring for a coworker.

“There’s my call waiting,” she said. “Can you hold?”

“No, just go ahead and take it. I’ll call you later.”

“I’ll call you back, Rayford.”

“Well, OK.”

Buck Williams followed an excited crowd to an old pay phone that was miraculously working. He wanted to see how many personal calls he could make. He reached Ken Ritz’s voice mail first.

“This is Ritz’s Charter Service. Here’s the deal in light of the crisis: I’ve got Learjets at both Palwaukee and Waukegan, but I’ve lost my other flyer. I can get to either airport, but right now they’re not lettin’ anyone into any of the major strips. Can’t get into Milwaukee, O’Hare, Kennedy, Logan, National, Dulles, Dallas, Atlanta. I can get into some of the smaller, outlying airports, but it’s a seller’s market. Sorry to be so opportunistic, but I’m asking two dollars a mile, cash up front. If I can find someone who wants to come back from where you’re goin’, I might be able to give you a little discount. I’m checkin’ messages tonight and will take off first thing in the morning. Longest trip with guaranteed cash gets me. If your stop is on the way, I’ll try to squeeze you in. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

That was a laugh. How would Ken Ritz get hold of Buck? With his cell phone unreliable, the only thing he could think of was to leave his New York voice-mail number. “Mr. Ritz, my name is Buck Williams, and I need to get as close to New York City as you can get me. I’ll pay the full fare you’re asking in traveler’s checks, redeemable in whatever currency you want.” Sometimes that was attractive to private contractors because they kept up with the differences in currency and could make a little margin on the exchange. “I’m at O’Hare and will try to find a place to stay in the suburbs. Just to save you time, let me just pick somewhere between here and Waukegan. If I get a new number in the meantime, I’ll call it in. Meanwhile, you may leave a message for me at the following New York number.”

Buck was still unable to get through to his office directly, but his voice-mail number worked. He retrieved his new messages, mostly from coworkers checking on him and lamenting the loss of mutual friends. Then there was the welcome message from Marge Potter, who was a genius to think of leaving it there for him. “Buck, if you get this, call your father in Tucson. He and your brother are together, and I hate to tell you here, but they’re having trouble reaching Jeff’s wife and the kids. They should have news by the time you call. Your father was most grateful to hear that you were all right.”

Buck’s voice mail also noted that he still had a saved message. That was the one from Dirk Burton that had spurred his trip in the first place. He would need to listen to it again when he had time. Meanwhile, he left a message for Marge that if she had time and an open line, she needed to let Dirk know Buck’s flight never made it to Heathrow. Of course, Dirk would know that by now, but he needed to know Buck wasn’t among the missing and that he would get there in due time.

Buck hung up and dialed his father. The line was busy, but it was not the same kind of a tone that tells you the lines are down or that the whole system is kaput. Neither was it that irritating recording he’d grown so used to. He knew it would be only a matter of time before he could get through. Jeff must be beside himself not knowing about his wife, Sharon, and the kids. They’d had their differences and had even been separated before the children came along, but for several years the marriage had been better. Jeff’s wife had proven forgiving and conciliatory. Jeff himself admitted he was puzzled that she would take him back. “Call me undeserving, but grateful,” he once told Buck. Their son and daughter, who both looked like Jeff, were precious.

Buck pulled out the number the beautiful blonde flight attendant had given him and chastised himself for not trying again to reach her earlier. It took a while for her to answer.

“Hattie Durham, this is Buck Williams.”

“Who?”

“Cameron Williams, from the
Global
—”

“Oh yes! Any news?”

“Yes, ma’am, good news.”

“Oh, thank God! Tell me.”

“Someone from my office tells me they reached your mother and that she and your sisters are fine.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I wonder why they haven’t called here? Maybe they’ve tried. My phone has been haywire.”

“There are other problems in California, ma’am. Lines down, that kind of a thing. It may be a while before you can talk to them.”

“I know. I heard. Well, I sure appreciate this. How about you? Have you been able to reach your family?”

“I got word that my dad and brother are OK. We still don’t know about my sister-in-law and the kids.”

“Oh. How old are the kids?”

“Can’t remember. Both under ten, but I don’t know exactly.”

“Oh.” Hattie sounded sad, guarded.

“Why?” Buck asked.

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that—”

“What?”

“You can’t go by what I say.”

“Tell me, Miss Durham.”

“Well, you remember what I told you on the plane. And on the news it looks like all children are gone, even unborn ones.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not saying that means your brother’s children are—”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I brought that up.”

“No, it’s OK. This is too strange, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I just got off the phone with the captain who piloted the flight you were on. He lost his wife and son, but his daughter is OK. She’s in California, too.”

“How old is she?”

“About twenty, I guess. She’s at Stanford.”

“Oh.”

“Mr. Williams, what did you call yourself?”

“Buck. It’s a nickname.”

“Well, Buck, I know better than to say what I said about your niece and nephew. I hope there are exceptions and that yours are OK.” She began to cry.

“Miss Durham, it’s OK. You have to admit, no one is thinking straight right now.”

“You can call me Hattie.”

That struck him as humorous under the circumstances. She had been apologizing for being inappropriate, yet she didn’t want to be too formal. If he was Buck, she was Hattie.

“I suppose I shouldn’t tie up this line,” he said. “I just wanted to get the news to you. I thought maybe by now you already knew.”

“No, and thanks again. Would you mind calling me again sometime, if you think of it? You seem like a nice person, and I appreciate what you did for me. It would be nice to hear from you again. This is kind of a scary, lonely time.”

He couldn’t argue with that understatement. Funny, her request had sounded like anything but a come-on. She seemed wholly sincere, and he was sure she was. A nice, scared, lonely woman whose world had been skewed, just like his and everyone’s he knew.

When Buck got off the phone, he saw the young woman at the counter flagging him down. “Listen,” she whispered, “they don’t want me making an announcement that would start a stampede, but we just heard something interesting. The livery companies have gotten together and moved their communications center out to a median strip near the Mannheim Road interchange.”

“Where’s that?”

“Just outside the airport. There’s no traffic coming into the terminals anyway. Total gridlock. But if you can walk as far as that interchange, supposedly you’ll find all those guys with walkie-talkies trying to get limos in and out from there.”

“I can imagine the prices.”

“No, you probably can’t.”

“I can imagine the wait.”

“Like standing in line for a rental car in Orlando,” she said.

Buck had never done that, but he could imagine that, too. And she was right. After he had hiked, with a crowd, to the Mannheim interchange, he found a mob surrounding the dispatchers. Intermittent announcements got everyone’s attention.

“We’re filling every car. A hundred bucks a head to any suburb. Cash only. Nothing’s going to Chicago.”

“No cards?” someone shouted.

“I’ll say it again,” the dispatcher said. “Cash only. If you know you’ve got cash or a checkbook at home, you can plead with the driver to trust you till you get there.” He called out a listing of which companies were heading which directions. Passengers ran to fill the cars as they lined up on the shoulder of the expressway.

Buck handed a hundred-dollar traveler’s check to the dispatcher for the northern suburbs. An hour and a half later, he joined several others in a limo. After checking his cell phone again to no avail, he offered the driver fifty dollars to use his phone. “No guarantees,” the driver said. “Sometimes I get through, sometimes I don’t.”

Buck checked the phone log in his laptop for Lucinda Washington’s home number and dialed. A teenage boy answered, “Washingtons.”

“Cameron Williams of
Global Weekly
calling for Lucinda.”

“My mom’s not here,” the young man said.

“Is she still at the office? I need a recommendation where to stay near Waukegan.”

“She’s nowhere,” the boy said. “I’m the only one left. Mama, Daddy, everybody else is gone. Disappeared.”

“Are you sure?”

“Their clothes are here, right where they were sitting. My daddy’s contact lenses are still on top of his bathrobe.”

“Oh, man! I’m sorry, son.”

“That’s all right. I know where they are, and I can’t even say I’m surprised.”

“You know where they are?”

“If you know my mama, you know where she is, too. She’s in heaven.”

“Yeah, well, are you all right? Is there someone to look after you?”

“My uncle’s here. And a guy from our church. Probably the only one who’s still around.”

“You’re all right then?”

“I’m all right.”

Cameron folded the phone and handed it back to the driver. “Any idea where I should stay if I’m trying to fly out of Waukegan in the morning?”

“The chain hotels are probably full, but there’s a couple of fleabags on Washington you might sneak into. You’d be close enough to the airport. You’d be my last drop-off.”

“Fair enough. They got phones in those dives?”

“More likely a phone and a TV than running water.”

It had been ages since Rayford Steele had been drunk. Irene had never been much of a drinker, and she had become a teetotaler during the last few years. She insisted he hide any hard stuff if he had to have it in the house at all. She didn’t want Raymie even knowing his daddy still drank.

“That’s dishonest,” Rayford had countered.

“It’s prudent,” she said. “He doesn’t know everything, and he doesn’t have to know everything.”

“How does that jibe with your insistence that we be totally truthful?”

“Telling the whole truth doesn’t always mean telling everything you know. You tell your crew you’re taking a bathroom break, but you don’t go into detail about what you’re doing in there, do you?”

“Irene!”

“I’m just saying you don’t have to make it obvious to your preteen son that you drink hard liquor.”

He had found her point hard to argue, and he had kept his bourbon stashed high and out of sight. If ever there was a moment that called for a stiff drink, this was it. He reached behind the empty cake cover in the highest cabinet over the sink and pulled down a half-finished fifth of whiskey. His inclination, knowing no one he cared about would ever see, was to tip it straight up and guzzle. But even at a time like this there were conventions and manners. Guzzling booze from the bottle was simply not his style.

Rayford poured three inches into a wide crystal glass and threw it back like a veteran. That was about as out of character as he could find comfortable. The stuff hit the back of his throat and burned all the way down, giving him a chill that made him shudder and groan.
What an idiot!
he thought.
And on an empty stomach, too.

He was already getting a buzz when he replaced the bottle, then thought better of it. He slipped it into the garbage under the sink. Would this be a nice memorial to Irene, giving up even the occasional hard drink? There would be no benefit to Raymie now, but he didn’t feel right about drinking alone anyway. Did he have the capacity to become a closet drunk?
Who doesn’t?
he wondered. Regardless, he wasn’t going to cash in his maturity because of what had happened.

Rayford’s sleep had been deep but not long enough. He had few immediate chores. First he had to connect with Chloe. Second he had to find out what Pan-Con wanted from him in the next week. Even normal regulations wouldn’t have grounded him after an overly long flight and a diverted landing. But who knew what was going on now?

How many pilots had they lost? When would runways be cleared? Flights scheduled? If he knew anything about the airlines, it would all be about dollars. As soon as they could get those machines airborne, they could start being profitable again. Well, Pan-Con had been good to him. He would hang in there and do his part. But what was he supposed to do about this grief, this despair, this empty ache?

Finally he understood the bereaved who complained when their loved one was too mangled to see or whose body had been destroyed. They often complained that there was no sense of closure and that the grieving process was more difficult because they had a hard time imagining their loved one actually dead.

That had always seemed strange to him. Who would want to see a wife or child stretched out and made up for a funeral? Wouldn’t you want to remember them alive and happy as they were? But he knew better now. He had no doubt that his wife and son were gone as surely as if they had died, as his own parents had years before. Irene and Ray would not be coming back, and he didn’t know if he would ever see them again, because he didn’t know if there were second chances on this heaven thing.

He longed to be able to see their bodies, at least—in bed, in a casket, anywhere. He would have given anything for one last glimpse. It wouldn’t have made them any less dead to him, but maybe he wouldn’t feel so abandoned, so empty.

Rayford knew there would not likely be phone connections between Illinois and California for hours, maybe days. Yet he had to try. He dialed Stanford, the main administration number, and didn’t even get a busy signal or a recorded message. He dialed Chloe’s room. Still nothing. Every half hour or so he hit the redial button. He refused to hope she would answer; if she did, it would be a wonderful surprise.

Rayford found himself ravenous and knew he’d better get something in his stomach before the few ounces of booze did a number on him. He mounted the stairs again, stopping in Raymie’s room to pick up the little pile of clothes by which he would remember the boy. He put them in a cardboard gift box he found in Irene’s closet, then placed her nightgown, locket, and ring in another.

He took the boxes downstairs, along with the two cookies she had mailed him. The rest of that batch of cookies had to be around somewhere. He found them in a Tupperware bowl in the cupboard. He was grateful that their smell and taste would remind him of her until they were gone.

Rayford added a couple to the two he had brought down, put them on a paper plate, and poured himself a glass of milk. He sat at the kitchen table next to the phone but couldn’t force himself to eat. He felt paralyzed. To busy himself, he erased the calls on the answering machine and added a new outgoing message. He said, “This is Rayford Steele. If you must, please leave a very brief message. I am trying to leave this line open for my daughter. Chloe, if it’s you, I’m either sleeping or close by, so give me a chance to pick up. If we don’t connect for some reason, do whatever you have to, to get home. Any airline can charge it to me. I love you.”

And with that he slowly ate his cookies, the smell and taste bringing images to him of Irene in the kitchen, and the milk making him long for his boy. This was going to be hard, so hard.

He was exhausted, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to go upstairs again. He knew he would have to force himself to sleep in his own bedroom that night. For now he would stretch out on the couch in the living room and hope Chloe would get through. He idly pushed the redial button again, and this time he got the quick busy signal that told him something was happening. At the very least, lines were being worked on. That was progress. He knew she was thinking of him while he was thinking of her. But she had no idea what might have happened to her mother or her brother. Would he have to tell her by phone? He feared he would. She would surely ask.

He lumbered to the couch and lay down, a sob in his throat but no more tears to accompany it. If only Chloe would somehow get his message and get started home, he could at least tell her face-to-face.

Rayford lay there grieving, knowing the television would be full of scenes he didn’t want to see, dedicated around the clock to the tragedy and mayhem all over the world. And then it hit him. He sat up, staring out the window in the darkness. He owed it to Chloe not to fail her. He loved her and she was all he had left. He had to find out how they had missed everything Irene had been trying to tell them, why it had been so hard to accept and believe. Above all, he had to study, to learn, to be prepared for whatever happened next.

If the disappearances were of God, if they had been his doing, was this the end of it? The Christians, the real believers, get taken away, and the rest are left to grieve and mourn and realize their error? Maybe so. Maybe that was the price.
But then what happens when
we
die?
he thought.
If heaven is real, if the Rapture was a fact, what does that say about hell and judgment? Is that our fate? We go through this hell of regret and remorse, and then we literally go to hell, too?

Irene had always talked of a loving God, but even God’s love and mercy had to have limits. Had everyone who denied the truth pushed God to his limit? Was there no more mercy, no second chance? Maybe there wasn’t, and if that was so, that was so.

But if there were options, if there was still a way to find the truth and believe or accept or whatever it was Irene said one was supposed to do, Rayford was going to find it. Would it mean admitting that he didn’t know everything? That he had relied on himself and that now he felt stupid and weak and worthless? He could admit that. After a lifetime of achieving, of excelling, of being better than most and the best in most circles, he had been as humbled as was possible in one stroke.

There was so much he didn’t know, so much he didn’t understand. But if the answers were still there, he would find them. He didn’t know whom to ask or where to start, but this was something he and Chloe could do together. They’d always gotten along all right. She’d gone through the typical teenage independence, but she had never done anything stupid or irreparable as far as he knew. In fact, they had probably been too close; she was too much like him.

It wasn’t simply Raymie’s age and innocence that had allowed his mother’s influence to affect him so. It was his spirit. He didn’t have the killer instinct, the “me first” attitude Rayford thought he would need to succeed in the real world. He wasn’t effeminate, but Rayford had worried that he might be a mama’s boy—too compassionate, too sensitive, too caring. He was always looking out for someone else when Rayford thought he should be looking out for number one.

How grateful he was now that Raymie took after his mother more than he took after his father. And how he wished there had been some of that in Chloe. She was competitive, a driver, someone who had to be convinced and persuaded. She could be kind and generous when it suited her purpose, but she was like her dad. She took care of herself.

Good job, big shot,
Rayford told himself.
The girl you were so proud of because she was so much like you is in your same predicament.

That, he decided, would have to change. As soon as they reconnected, that
would
change. They would be on a mission, a quest for truth. If he was already too late, he would have to accept and deal with that. He’d always been one who went for a goal and accepted the consequences. Only these consequences were eternal. He hoped against all hope that there was another chance at truth and knowledge out there somewhere. The only problem was that the ones who knew were gone.

The Midpoint Motel on Washington Street, a few miles from the tiny Waukegan Airport, was tacky enough that there wasn’t a waiting list. Buck Williams was pleasantly surprised they had not even raised their rates for the crisis. When he saw the room, he knew why, and he wondered what two places in the world this dive was midpoint
between.
Whatever they were, either had to be better. There was a phone, however, and a shower, a bed, and a TV. Run-down as it was, it would suffice. First Buck called his voice mail in New York. Nothing from this Ritz character or anything else new, so he listened to his saved message from Dirk Burton, which reminded him why he had felt it so important to get to London. Buck tapped it into his laptop as he listened:

My sources say your man has met with each of his key people and this same European in different locations. He introduced him to people in China, the Vatican, Israel, France, Germany, here, and the States. Something is cooking, and I don’t even want to suggest what it is other than in person. Visit me as soon as you can. In case that’s not possible, let me just encourage this: Watch the news for the installation of a new leader in Europe. If you say, as I did, that no elections are scheduled and no changes of power are imminent, you’ll get my drift. Come soon, friend.

Buck called Ken Ritz’s machine to tell him where he was. Then he tried calling west once again and finally got through. Buck was surprised at what a relief it was to hear his father’s voice, though he sounded tired, discouraged, and not a little panicky.

“Everybody OK out there, Dad?”

“Well, not everybody. Jeff was here with me, but he’s taken the four-wheel drive to see if he can get to the accident site where Sharon was last seen.”

“Accident?”

“She was pickin’ up the kids at a retreat or something, something to do with her church. She doesn’t go with us anymore, you know. Story is, she never got there. Car flipped over. No trace of her, ’cept her clothes, and you know what that means.”

“She’s gone?”

“Looks that way. Jeff can’t accept it. He’s takin’ it hard. Wants to see for himself. Trouble is, the kids are gone, too, all of ’em. All their friends, everybody at that retreat thing in the mountains. State police found all the kids’ clothes, about a hundred sets of them, and some kind of a late-night snack burning on the stove.”

“Whew, boy! Tell Jeff I’m thinking of him. If he wants to talk, I’m here.”