The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (15 page)

“Marianne?”

“My sister. But that’s not the half of it. As if he needs to drive the point home, he called my captain on his speakerphone. He said to him, ‘Sullivan, if one of your men was to come to my office and harass me about anything, what should I do?’ And Sullivan, one of my idols, sounded like a little baby. He said, ‘Mr. Todd-Cothran, sir, you do whatever you need to do.’ And Todd-Cothran said, ‘What if I was to kill him where he sits?’ And Sullivan said, ‘Sir, I’m sure it would be justifiable homicide.’ Now get this. Todd-Cothran said, right over the phone to Scotland Yard, where you know they record every incoming call, and Todd-Cothran knows it just as well, ‘What if his name happened to be Alan Tompkins?’ Just like that, plain as day. And Sullivan said, ‘I’d come over there and dispose of the body myself.’ Well, I got the picture.”

“So you have no one to turn to.”

“Nobody I can think of.”

“And I’m supposed to just turn tail and run.”

Alan nodded. “I have to report back to Todd-Cothran that I’ve delivered the message. He’ll expect you on the next plane out.”

“And if I’m not?”

“No guarantees, but I wouldn’t push it.”

Buck shoved the plates aside and pushed his chair back. “Alan, you don’t know me well, but you have to know I’m not the type of guy who takes this stuff sitting down.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. I’m not either, but where do I turn? What do I do? You’d think someone somewhere can be trusted, but what can anyone do? If this proves Dirk was right, that he got too close to some clandestine thing Todd-Cothran was into, where does it end? Does it include your man Stonagal? And how about the others on the international team of financiers they meet with? Have you considered that they may own everybody? I grew up reading the stories about your Chicago mobsters who had paid off cops and judges and even politicians. No one could touch them.”

Buck nodded. “No one could touch them except the ones who couldn’t be bought.”

“The Untouchables?”

“Those were my heroes,” Buck said.

“Mine too,” Alan said. “That’s why I’m an investigator. But if the Yard is dirty, who do I turn to?”

Buck rested his chin in his hand. “Do you think you’re being watched? Followed?”

“I’ve been looking for that. So far, no.”

“Nobody knows where we are now?”

“I tried to keep an eye out for a tail. In my professional opinion, we’re here unnoticed. What are you going to do, Cameron?”

“There’s precious little I can do here, apparently. Maybe I’ll head back right away under a different name and make it look, to whoever cares, like I’m being obstinate and staying here.”

“What’s the use?”

“I may be scared, Alan, but I will look for my angle. And somehow I will find the person with the clout to help. I don’t know your country well enough to know whom to trust. Of course I trust you, but you’ve been incapacitated.”

“Am I weak, Cameron? Do you see that I have a choice?”

Buck shook his head. “I feel for you,” he said. “I can’t say what I’d do in your place.”

The barmaid was making some sort of an announcement, asking people a question at every other table or so. As she neared them, Buck and Alan fell silent to hear. “Anyone drivin’ a light green sedan? Fella says the inside light is on.”

“That’s mine,” Alan said. “I don’t remember even having the inside light on.”

“Me either,” Buck said, “but it was light out when we got here. Maybe we didn’t notice.”

“I’ll get it. Probably won’t hurt anything, but that old beater’s battery can’t take much.”

“Careful,” Buck said. “Be sure no one was tampering with it.”

“Unlikely. We’re right in front, remember.”

Buck leaned out of his chair and followed Alan with his eyes as the investigator strolled out. Sure enough, the car’s inside light could be seen from inside the pub. Alan went around to the driver’s side and reached in to turn the light off. When he came back he said, “Gettin’ daft in my old age. Next I’ll be leavin’ the headlights on.”

Buck was sad, thinking of his friend’s predicament. What a spot, working at something you’d wanted all your life to do and knowing that your superiors were beholden to what amounted to an international thug. “I’m going to call the airport and see if I can get a flight tonight.”

“Nothin’s going your way this time of the evening,” Alan said.

“I’ll take something to Frankfurt and head back from there in the morning. I don’t think I should test my luck here.”

“There’s a phone up by the door. I’ll pay the girl.”

“I insist,” Buck said, sliding a fifty-Euro bill across the table.

Buck was on the phone to Heathrow while Alan counted the change from the barmaid. Buck got a seat on a flight to Frankfurt forty-five minutes later that would allow him to catch a Sunday morning flight to JFK.

“Oh, Kennedy’s open, is it?” he said.

“Just an hour ago,” the woman said. “Limited flights, but your Pan-Continental out of Germany goes there in the morning. How many passengers?”

“One.”

“Name?”

Buck peeked in his wallet to remind himself of the name on his phony British passport. “Pardon?” he said, stalling, as Alan approached.

“Name, sir.”

“Oh, sorry. Oreskovich. George Oreskovich.”

Alan mouthed that he would be in the car. Buck nodded.

“All right, sir,” the woman said. “You’re all set with a flight to Frankfurt this evening, continuing to JFK in New York tomorrow. Can I do anything else for you?”

“No, thank you.”

As Buck hung up, the door of the pub was blown into the room and a blinding flash and deafening crash sent patrons screaming to the floor. As people crept to the door to see what had happened, Buck stared in horror at the frame and melted tires of what had been Alan’s Scotland Yard–issue sedan. Windows had been blown out all up and down the street and a siren was already sounding. A leg and part of a torso lay on the sidewalk—the remains of Alan Tompkins.

As the patrons surged out to get a look at the burning wreckage, Buck elbowed his way through them, pulling his real passport and identification from his wallet. In the confusion he flipped the documents near what was left of the car and hoped they wouldn’t get burned beyond readability. Whoever wanted him dead could assume him dead. Then he slipped through the crowd into the now-empty pub and sprinted to the back. But there was no back door, only a window. He raised it and crawled through, finding himself in a two-foot alleyway between buildings. Scraping his clothes on both sides as he hurried to a side street, he ran two blocks and hailed a cab. “The Tavistock,” he said.

A few minutes later, when the cabbie was within three blocks of his hotel, Buck saw squad cars in front of the place and blocking traffic. “Just run me out to Heathrow, please,” he said. He realized he had left his laptop among his things, but he had no choice. He had transferred the best stuff electronically already, but who knew who would have access to his material now?

“You don’t need anything at the hotel then?” the cabbie said.

“No. I was just going to see someone.”

“Very good, sir.”

More authorities seemed to be combing Heathrow. “You wouldn’t know where a fellow could get a hat like yours, would you?” Buck asked the cabbie as he paid.

“This old thing? I might be persuaded to part with it. I’ve got more than one other just like it. A souvenir, eh?”

“Will this do?” Buck said, pressing a large bill into his hand.

“It’ll more than do, sir, and thank you kindly.” The driver removed his official London cabbie pin and handed over the cap.

Buck pressed the too-large fisherman’s style hat down over his ears and hurried into the terminal. He paid cash for his tickets in the name of George Oreskovich, a naturalized Englishman from Poland on his way to a holiday in the States, via Frankfurt. He was in the air before the authorities knew he was gone.

Rayford was glad he could take Chloe out for a drive Saturday after having been cooped up with their grief. He was glad she had agreed to accompany him to the church.

Chloe had been sleepy and quiet all day. She had mentioned the idea of dropping out of the university for a semester and taking some Internet classes. Rayford liked it. He was thinking of her. Then he realized she was thinking of him, and he was touched.

As they chatted on the short drive, he reminded her that after their day trip to Atlanta Monday they would have to drive home separately from O’Hare so he could get his car back. She smiled at him. “I think I can handle that, now that I’m twenty.”

“I do treat you like a little girl sometimes, don’t I?” he said.

“Not too much anymore,” she said. “You can make up for it, though.”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“You don’t either,” she said. “Guess.”

“You’re going to say I can make up for treating you like a little girl by letting you have your own mind today, by not trying to talk you into anything.”

“That goes without saying, I hope. But you’re wrong, smart guy. I was going to say you could convince me you see me as a responsible adult by letting me drive
your
car back from the airport Monday.”

“That’s easy,” Rayford said, suddenly switching to a babyish voice. “Would that make you feel like a big girl? OK, Daddy will do that.”

She punched him and smiled, then quickly sobered. “It’s amazing what amuses me these days,” she said. “Good grief, I feel like an awful person.”

Rayford let that comment hang in the air as he turned the corner and the tasteful little church came into view. “Don’t make too much of what I just said,” Chloe said. “I don’t have to come in, do I?”

“No, but I’d appreciate it.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head, but when he parked and got out, she followed.

Bruce Barnes was short and slightly pudgy, with curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He dressed casually but with class, and Rayford guessed him to be in his early thirties. He emerged from the sanctuary with a small vacuum in his hands. “Sorry,” he said. “You must be the Steeles. I’m kind of the whole staff around here now, except for Loretta.”

“Hello,” an older woman said from behind Rayford and Chloe. She stood in the doorway of the church offices sunken-eyed and disheveled, as if she’d come through a war. After pleasantries she retreated to a desk in the outer office.

“She’s putting together a little program for tomorrow,” Barnes said. “Tough thing is, we have no idea how many to expect. Will you be here?”

“Not sure yet,” Rayford said. “I probably will be.”

They both looked at Chloe. She smiled politely. “I probably won’t be,” she said.

“Well, I’ve got the DVD for you,” Barnes said. “But I’d like to ask for a few more minutes of your time.”

“I’ve got time,” Rayford said.

“I’m with him,” Chloe said resignedly.

Barnes led them to the senior pastor’s office. “I don’t sit at his desk or use his library,” the younger man said, “but I do work in here at his conference table. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me or to the church, and I certainly don’t want to be presumptuous. I can’t imagine God would call me to take over this work, but if he does, I want to be ready.”

“And how will he call you?” Chloe said, a smile playing at her mouth. “By phone?”

Barnes didn’t respond in kind. “To tell you the truth, it wouldn’t surprise me. I don’t know about you, but he got my attention last week. A phone call from heaven would have been less traumatic.”

Chloe raised her eyebrows, apparently in surrender to his point.

“Folks, Loretta there looks like I feel. We’re shell-shocked and we’re devastated, because we know exactly what happened.”

“Or you think you do,” Chloe said. Rayford tried to catch her eye to encourage her to back off, but she seemed unwilling to look at him. “There’s every kind of theory you want on every TV show in the country.”

“I know that,” Barnes said.

“And each is self-serving,” she added. “The tabloids say it was space invaders, which would prove the stupid stories they’ve been running for years. The government says it’s some sort of enemy, so we can spend more on high-tech defense. You’re going to say it was God so you can start rebuilding your church.”

Bruce Barnes sat back and looked at Chloe, then at her father. “I’m going to ask you something,” he said, turning to her again. “Could you let me tell you my story briefly, without interrupting or saying anything, unless there’s something you don’t understand?”

Chloe stared at him without responding.

“I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t want you to be either. I asked for a few moments of your time. If I still have it, I want to try to make use of it. Then I’ll leave you alone. You can do anything you want with what I tell you. Tell me I’m crazy, tell me I’m self-serving. Leave and never come back. That’s up to you. But can I have the floor for a few minutes?”

Rayford thought Barnes was brilliant. He had put Chloe in her place, leaving her no smart remark. She merely waved a hand of permission, for which Barnes thanked her, and he began.

“May I call you by your first names?”

Rayford nodded. Chloe didn’t respond.

“Ray, is it? And Chloe? I sit here before you a broken man. And Loretta? If anyone has a right to feel as bad as I do, it’s Loretta. She’s the only person in her whole clan who is still here. She had six living brothers and sisters, I don’t know how many aunts and uncles and cousins and nieces and nephews. They had a wedding here last year and she must have had a hundred relatives alone. They’re all gone, every one of them.”

“That’s awful,” Chloe said. “We lost my mom and my little brother, you know. Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“It’s all right,” Barnes said. “My situation is almost as bad as Loretta’s, only on a smaller scale. Of course it’s not small for me. Let me tell you my story.” As soon as he began with seemingly innocuous details, his voice grew thick and quiet. “I was in bed with my wife. She was sleeping. I was reading. Our children had been down for a couple of hours. They were five, three, and one. The oldest was a girl, the other two boys. That was normal for us—me reading while my wife slept. She worked so hard with the kids and a part-time job that she was always knocked out by nine or so.

“I was reading a sports magazine, trying to turn the pages quietly, and every once in a while she would sigh. Once she even asked how much longer I would be. I knew I should go in the other room or just turn the light off and try to sleep myself. But I told her, ‘Not long,’ hoping she’d fall asleep and I could just read the whole magazine. I can usually tell by her breathing if she’s sleeping soundly enough that my light doesn’t bother her. And after a while I heard that deep breathing.

“I was glad. My plan was to read till midnight. I was propped up on an elbow with my back to her, using a pillow to shield the light a little. I don’t know how much longer I had been reading when I felt the bed move and sensed she had gotten up. I assumed she was going to the bathroom and only hoped she didn’t wake up to the point where she’d bug me about still having the light on when she got back. She’s a tiny little thing, and it didn’t hit me that I didn’t hear her walk to the bathroom. But, like I say, I was engrossed in my reading.

“After a few more minutes I called out, ‘Hon, you OK?’ And I didn’t hear anything. I began wondering, was it just my imagination that she had gotten up? I reached behind me and she was not there, so I called out again. I thought maybe she was checking on the kids, but usually she’s such a sound sleeper that unless she’s heard one of them she doesn’t do that.

“Well, probably another minute or two went by before I turned over and noticed that she was not only gone, but that it also appeared she had pulled the sheet and covers back up toward her pillow. Now you can imagine what I thought. I thought she was so frustrated at me for still reading that she had given up waiting for me to turn off the light and decided to go sleep on the couch. I’m a fairly decent husband, so I went out to apologize and bring her back to bed.

“You know what happened. She wasn’t out on the couch. She wasn’t in the bathroom. I poked my head into each of the kids’ rooms and whispered for her, thinking maybe she was rocking one of them or sitting in there. Nothing. The lights were off all over the house, except for my bedside. I didn’t want to wake the kids by yelling for her, so I just turned on the hall light and checked their rooms again.

“I’m ashamed to say I still didn’t have a clue until I noticed my oldest two kids weren’t in their beds. My first thought was that they had gone into the baby’s room, like they do sometimes, to sleep on the floor. Then I thought my wife had taken one or both of them to the kitchen for something. Frankly I was just a little perturbed that I didn’t know what was going on in the middle of the night.

“When the baby was not in his crib, I turned the light on, stuck my head out the door and called down the hall for my wife. No answer. Then I noticed the baby’s footie pajamas in the crib, and I knew. I just knew. It hit me all of a sudden. I ran from room to room, pulling back the covers and finding the kids’ pajamas. I didn’t want to, but I tore the cover back from my wife’s side of the bed and there was her nightgown, her rings, and even her hair clips on the pillow.”

Rayford was fighting the tears, remembering his own similar experience. Barnes took a deep breath and exhaled, wiping his eyes. “Well, I started phoning around,” he said. “I started with the pastor, but of course I got his voice mail. A couple of other places I got voice mail, too, so I grabbed the church directory and started looking up older folks, the people I thought might not have voice mail. I let their phones ring off the hook. Nobody answered.

“Of course I knew it was unlikely I’d find anybody. For some reason I ran out and jumped in my car and raced over here to the church. There was Loretta, sitting in her car in her robe, hair up in curlers, crying her eyes out. We came into the foyer and sat by the potted plants, crying and holding each other, knowing exactly what had happened. Within about half an hour, a few others showed up. We basically commiserated and wondered aloud what we were supposed to do next. Then somebody remembered Pastor’s Rapture DVD.”

“His what?” Chloe asked.

“Our senior pastor loved to preach about the coming of Christ to rapture his church, to take believers, dead and alive, to heaven before a period of tribulation on the earth. He was particularly inspired once a couple of years ago.”

Rayford turned to Chloe. “You remember your mother talking about that. She was so enthusiastic about it.”

“Oh yeah, I do.”

“Well,” Barnes said, “the pastor used that sermon and had himself recorded in this office speaking directly to people who were left behind. He put it in the church library with instructions to get it out and play it if most everyone seemed to have disappeared. We all watched it a couple of times the other night. A few people wanted to argue with God, trying to tell us that they really had been believers and should have been taken with the others, but we all knew the truth. We had been phony. There wasn’t a one of us who didn’t know what it meant to be a true Christian. We knew we weren’t and that we had been left behind.”

Rayford had trouble speaking, but he had to ask. “Mr. Barnes, you were on the staff here.”

“Right.”

“How did you miss it?”

“I’m going to tell you, Ray, because I no longer have anything to hide. I’m ashamed of myself, and if I never really had the desire or the motivation to tell others about Christ before, I sure have it now. I just feel awful that it took the most cataclysmic event in history to reach me. I was raised in the church. My parents and brothers and sisters were all Christians.

“I loved church. It was my life, my culture. I thought I believed everything there was to believe in the Bible. The Bible says that if you believe in Christ you have eternal life, so I assumed I was covered.

“I especially liked the parts about God being forgiving. I was a sinner, and I never changed. I just kept getting forgiveness because I thought God was bound to do that. He had to. Verses that said if we confessed our sins he was faithful and just to forgive us and to cleanse us. I knew other verses said you had to believe
and
receive, to trust and to abide, but to me that was sort of theological mumbo jumbo. I wanted the bottom line, the easiest route, the simplest path. I knew other verses said that we are not to continue in sin just because God shows grace.

“I thought I had a great life. I even went to Bible college. In church and at school, I said the right things and prayed in public and even encouraged people in their Christian lives. But I was still a sinner. I even said that. I told people I wasn’t perfect; I was forgiven.”

“My wife said that,” Rayford said.

“The difference is,” Bruce said, “she was sincere. I lied. I told my wife that we tithed to the church, you know, that we gave ten percent of our income. I hardly ever gave any, except when the plate was passed I might drop in a few bills to make it look good. Every week I would confess that to God, promising to do better next time.

“I encouraged people to share their faith, to tell other people how to become Christians. But on my own I never did that. My job was to visit people in their homes and nursing homes and hospitals every day. I was good at it. I encouraged them, smiled at them, talked with them, prayed with them, even read Scripture to them. But I never did that on my own, privately.

“I was lazy. I cut corners. When people thought I was out calling, I might be at a movie in another town. I was also lustful. I read things I shouldn’t have read, looked at magazines that fed my lusts.”

Rayford winced. That hit too close to home.

“I had a real racket going,” Barnes was saying, “and I bought into it. Down deep, way down deep, I knew better. I knew it was too good to be true. I knew that true Christians were known by what their lives produced and that I was producing nothing. But I comforted myself that there were worse people around who called themselves Christians.