The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (14 page)

“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.

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?”

“His name is Burton. Dirk Burton. He works at the exchange.”

“Let me do some checking and call you back.”

A few minutes later, Buck’s phone rang.

“Yes, Tompkins from the Yard. I wonder if you would be so kind as to come in and see me.”

Early on Saturday morning in Mount Prospect, Illinois, Rayford Steele phoned the New Hope Village Church again. This time a man answered the phone. Rayford introduced himself as the husband of a former parishioner. “I know you, sir,” the man said. “We’ve met. I’m Bruce Barnes, the visitation pastor.”

“Oh, yes, hi.”

“By former parishioner, I assume you’re telling me that Irene is no longer with us?”

“That’s right, and our son.”

“Ray Jr., wasn’t it?”

“Right.”

“You also had an older daughter, did you not, a nonattender?”

“Chloe.”

“And she—?”

“Is here with me. I was wondering what you all make of this—how many people have disappeared, are you still meeting, that kind of thing. I know you have a service on Sundays and that you’re offering this DVD.”

“Well, you know just about everything then, Mr. Steele. Nearly every member and regular attender of this church is gone. I am the only person on the staff who remains. I have asked a few women to help out in the office. I have no idea how many will show up Sunday, but it would be a privilege to see you again.”

“I’m very interested in that DVD.”

“I’d be happy to give you one in advance. It’s what I will be discussing Sunday morning.”

“I don’t know how to ask this, Mr. Barnes.”

“Bruce.”

“Bruce. You’ll be teaching or preaching or what?”

“Discussing. I will be playing the DVD for any who have not heard it, and then we will discuss it.”

“But you . . . I mean, how do you account for the fact that you are still here?”

“Mr. Steele, there is only one explanation for that, and I would prefer to discuss it with you in person. If I know when you might come by for the DVD, I’ll be sure to be here.”

Rayford told him he and perhaps Chloe would come by that afternoon.

Alan Tompkins waited just inside the vestibule at Scotland Yard. When Buck arrived, Alan formally shook his hand and led him to a rundown compact, which he drove quickly to a dark pub a few miles away. “Let’s not talk till we get there,” Alan said, continually checking his mirrors. “I need to concentrate.” Buck had never seen his friend so agitated and, yes, scared.

The pair took pints of dark ale to a booth in a secluded corner, but Alan never touched his. Buck, who hadn’t eaten since the flight, switched his empty mug for Alan’s full one and downed it, too. When the waitress came for the mugs, Buck ordered a sandwich. Alan declined, and Buck, knowing his limit, ordered a soda.

“I know this will be like pouring petrol on a flame,” Alan began, “but I need to tell you this is a nasty business and that you want to stay as far away from it as you can.”

“Darn right you’re fanning my flame,” Buck said. “What’s going on?”

“Well, they say it’s suicide, but—”

“But you and I both know that’s nonsense. What’s the evidence? Have you been to the scene?”

“I have. Shot through the temple, gun in his hand. No note.”

“Anything missing?”

“Didn’t appear to be, but, Cameron, you know what this is about.”

“I don’t!”

“Come, come, man. Dirk was a conspiracy theorist, always sniffing around Todd-Cothran’s involvement with international money men, his role in the three-currency conference, even his association with your Stonagal chap.”

“Alan, there are books about this stuff. People make a hobby of ascribing all manner of evil to the Tri-Lateral Commission, the Illuminati, even the Freemasons, for goodness sake. Dirk thought Todd-Cothran and Stonagal were part of something he called the Council of Ten or the Council of Wise Men. So what? It’s harmless.”

“But when you have an employee, admittedly several levels removed from the head of the exchange, trying to connect his boss to conspiracy theories, he has a problem.”

Buck sighed. “So he gets called on the carpet, maybe he gets fired. But tell me how he gets dead or pushed to suicide.”

“I’m going to tell you something, Cameron,” Alan said. “I know he was murdered.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure he was, too, because I think I’d have had a clue if he was suicidal.”

“They’re trying to pin it on his remorse over losing people in the great disappearance, but it won’t wash. He didn’t lose anybody close as far as I know.”

“But you
know
he was murdered? Pretty strong words for an investigator.”

“I know because I knew him, not because I’m an investigator.”

“That won’t hold up,” Buck said. “I can also say I knew him and that he couldn’t have committed suicide, but I’m prejudiced.”

“Cameron, this is so simple it would be a cliché if Dirk wasn’t our friend. What did we always kid him about?”

“Lots of things. Why?”

“We kidded him about being such a klutz.”

“Yeah. So?”

“If he was with us right now, where would he be sitting?”

It suddenly dawned on Buck what Alan was driving at. “He would be sitting to one of our lefts, and he was such a klutz because he was left-handed.”

“He was shot through the right temple and the so-called suicide weapon was found in his right hand.”

“So what did your bosses say when you told them he was left-handed and that this had to be murder?”

“You’re the first person I’ve told.”

“Alan! What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I love my family. My parents are still living and I have an older brother and sister. I have a former wife I’m still fond of. I wouldn’t mind snuffing her myself, but I certainly wouldn’t want anyone else harming her.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of whoever was behind Dirk’s murder, of course.”

“But you’d have all of Scotland Yard behind you, man! You call yourself a law-enforcement officer and you’re going to let this slide?”

“Yes, and that’s just what you’re going to do!”

“I am not. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

“Do something about this and you won’t be alive at all.”

Buck waved the barmaid over and asked for chips. She brought him a heaping, greasy mass. It was just what he wanted. The ale had worked on him and the sandwich had not been enough to counteract it. He felt light-headed, and he was afraid he might not be hungry again for a long time.

“I’m listening,” he whispered. “What are you trying to tell me? Who’s gotten to you?”

“If you believe me, you won’t like it.”

“I have no reason not to believe you and I already don’t like it. Now spill.”

“Dirk’s death was ruled a suicide and that was that. Scene cleared, body cremated. I asked about an autopsy and was laughed off. My superior officer, Captain Sullivan, asked what I thought an autopsy would show. I told him abrasions, scrapes, signs of a struggle. He asked if I thought it made sense that a bloke would wrestle with himself before shooting himself. I kept the personal knowledge to myself.”

“Why?”

“I smelled something.”

“What if I put a story in an international magazine that pointed out the discrepancies? Something would have to happen.”

“I have been told to tell you to go home and forget you ever heard about this suicide.”

Buck squinted in disbelief. “Nobody knew I was coming.”

“I think that’s true, but somebody assumed you might show up. I wasn’t surprised you came.”

“Why should you be? My friend is dead, ostensibly by his own hand. I wasn’t going to ignore that.”

“You’re going to ignore it now.”

“You think I’m going to turn coward just because you did?”

“Cameron, you know me better than that.”

“I wonder if I know you at all! I thought we were kindred spirits. We were justice freaks, Alan. Seekers of truth. I’m a journalist; you’re an investigator. We’re skeptics. What is this running from the truth, especially when it concerns our friend?”

“Did you hear me? I said I was told to call you off, if and when you showed up.”

“Then why did you let me come to the Yard?”

“I’d have been in trouble if I had tipped you off.”

“With whom?”

“I thought you’d never ask. I was visited by what you in America call a goon.”

“A heavy?”

“Precisely.”

“He threatened you?”

“He did. He said if I didn’t want what had happened to my friend to happen to me or to my family, I would do as he said. I was afraid he was the same guy who had murdered Dirk.”

“And he probably was. So, why didn’t you report the threat?”

“I was going to. I started by trying to handle it myself. I told him he didn’t have to worry about me. The next day I went to the exchange and asked for a meeting with Mr. Todd-Cothran.”

“The big man himself?”

“In the flesh. I don’t have an appointment, of course, but I insist it’s Scotland Yard business, and he allows me in. His very office is intimidating. All mahogany and dark green draperies. Well, I get right down to business. I tell him, ‘Sir, I believe you’ve had an employee murdered.’ And just as calm as you like, he says, ‘Tell you what, governor’—which is a term cockneys use on each other, not something people of his station usually call people of mine. Anyway, he says, ‘Tell you what, governor, the next time somebody visits your flat at ten o’clock at night, as a certain gentleman did last night, greet him for me, won’t you?’”

“What did you say?”

“What could I say? I was stunned to silence! I just looked at him and nodded. ‘And let me tell you something else,’ he says. ‘Tell your friend Williams to keep out of this.’ I say, ‘Williams?’ like I don’t know who he’s talking about. He ignores that because, of course, he knows better.”

“Somebody listened to Dirk’s voice mail.”

“No question. And he says, ‘If he needs convincing, just tell him I’m as partial as he is to Dad and Jeff.’ That your brother?”

Buck nodded. “So you caved?”

“What was I supposed to do? I tried playing Mr. Brave Boy. I said, ‘I could be wired. I could be recording this conversation.’ Cool as can be, he said, ‘Metal detector would have picked it up.’ ‘I’ve got a good memory. I’ll expose you,’ I told him. He said, ‘At your own risk, governor. Who’s going to believe you over me? Marianne wouldn’t even believe you—of course, she might not be healthy enough to understand.’”