The Rapture Series
Why Do you Believe? What Do you Believe? How Do You Believe? Who Do You Believe?
“Reason to Believe
Natszal: "Left" (4:3)
“LEFT”
THE EARTH'S LAST DAYS
TIM LAHAYE & JERRY B. JENKINS
“What did you like so much about him?” “Let me count,” Rosenzweig had said. “He knew my language as well as his own. And he speaks fluent English. Several others also, they tell me. Well educated but
also widely self-taught. And I just like him as a person. Very bright. Very honest. Very open.” “What did he want from you?” “That was what I liked the best. Because I found him so open and honest, I asked
him outright that question. He insisted I call him Nicolae, and so I said, ‘Nicolae’ (this is after an hour of pleasantries), ‘what do you want from me?’ Do you know what he said, young man? He said, ‘Dr. Rosenzweig, I seek only your goodwill.’ What could I say? I said, ‘Nicolae, you have it.’ I am a bit of a pacifist myself, you know. Not unrealistically. I did not tell him this. I merely told him he had my goodwill. Which is something you also have.”
“I suspect that is not something you bestow easily.” “That is why I like you and why you have it. One day you must meet Carpathia. You would like-each other. His goals and dreams may never be realized even in his own country, but he is a man of high ideals. If he should emerge, you will hear of
him. And as you are emerging in your own orbit, he will likely hear of you, or from you, am I right?” “I hope you are.” Suddenly it was Buck's turn at the counter. He gathered up his extension cord and
thanked the young woman for bearing with him. “Sorry about that,” he, said, pausing briefly for forgiveness that was not forthcoming. “It's just that today, of all days, well, you understand.”
Apparently she did not understand. She'd had a rough day, too. She looked at him tolerantly and said, “What can I not do for you?”
“Oh, you mean because I did not do something you asked?” “No,” she said. “I'm saying that to everybody. It's my little joke because there's really nothing I can do for anybody. No flights are scheduled today. The airport is
going to close any minute. Who knows how long it will take to clear all the wreckage and get any kind of traffic moving again. I mean, I'll take your request and everything, but I can't get your luggage, book you a flight, get you a phone, book you a hotel room, anything we love to do for our members. You are a member, aren't you?”
“Am I a member!” “Gold or platinum?” “Lady, I'm, like, a kryptonite member.” He flashed his card, showing that he was among the top 3 percent of air travelers in
the world. If any flight had one seat in the cheapest section, it had to be given to
him and upgraded to first class at no charge. “Oh, my gosh,” she said, “tell me you're not the Cameron Williams from that magazine.”
“I am.” “Time? Honest?” “Don't blaspheme. I'm from the competition.” “Oh, I knew that. The reason I know is that I wanted to get into journalism. I
studied it in college. I just read about you, didn't I? Youngest award winner or most cover stories by someone under twelve?” “Funny.” “Or something.”
“I can't believe we're joking on a day like this,” he said. She suddenly clouded over. “I don't even want to think about it. So what could I do for you if I could do anything?”
“Here's the thing,” Buck said. “I have to get to New York. Now don't give me that look. I know it's the worst place to try to get to right now. But you know people. You know pilots who fly on the side, charter stuff. You know what airports they would fly out of. Let's say I had unlimited resources and could pay whatever I needed to. Who would you send me to?”
She stared at him. “I can't believe you asked me that.” “Why?” “Because I do know someone. He flies these little lets out of like Waukegan and
Palwaukee airports. He's expensive and he's the type who would charge double during a crisis, especially if he knew who you were and how desperate.” “There won't be any hiding that. Give me the info.”
Hearing it on the radio or seeing it on television was one thing. Encountering it for
yourself was something else again. Rayford Steele had no idea how it would feel to
find evidence that his own wife and son had vanished from the face of the earth. At the top of the stairs he paused by the family photos. Irene, always one for order, had hung them chronologically, beginning with his and her great grandparents. Old, cracked black and whites of stern-faced, rawboned men and women of the Midwest. Then came the faded color shots of their grandparents on their fiftieth wedding anniversaries. Then their parents, their siblings, and themselves. How long had it been since he had studied their wedding photo, her with her flip hairstyle and him with his hair over his ears and muttonchops?
And those family pictures with Chloe eight years old, holding the baby! How grateful he was that Chloe was still here and that somehow he would connect with her! But what did this all say about the two of them? They were lost. He didn't know what to hope and pray for. That Irene and Raymie were still here and that this was not what it appeared?
He could wait no longer. Raymie's door was open a crack. His alarm was beeping. Rayford turned it off. On the bed was a book Raymie had been reading. Rayford slowly pulled the blankets back to reveal Raymie's Bulls pajama top, his underpants, and his socks. He sat on the bed and wept nearly smiling at Irene's harping about Raymie's not wearing socks to bed.
He laid the clothes in a neat pile and noticed a picture of himself on the bed table. He stood smiling inside the terminal, his cap tucked under his arm, a 747 outside the window in the background. The picture was signed, “To Raymie with love, Dad.” Under that he had written, “Rayford Steele, Captain, Pan-Continental Airlines, O'Hare.” He shook his head. What kind of a dad autographs a picture for his own son?
Rayford's body felt like lead. It was all he could do to force himself to stand. And then he was dizzy, realizing he hadn't eaten in hours. He slowly made his way out of Raymie's room without looking back, and he shut the door.
At the end of the hall he paused before the French doors that led to the master suite. What a beautiful, frilly place Irene had made it, decorated with needlepoint and country knickknacks. Had he ever told her he appreciated it? Had he ever appreciated it?
There was no alarm to turn off here. The smell of coffee had always roused Irene. Another picture of the two of them, him looking confidently at the camera, her gazing at him. He did not deserve her. He deserved this, he knew, to be mocked by his own self-centeredness and to be stripped of the most important person in his life.
He approached the bed, knowing what he would find. The indented pillow, the wrinkled covers. He could smell her, though he knew the bed would be cold. He carefully peeled back the blankets and sheet to reveal her locket, which carried a picture of him. Her flannel nightgown, the one he always kidded her about and which she wore only when he was not home, evidenced her now departed form.
His throat tight, his eyes full, he noticed her wedding ring near the pillow, where she always supported her cheek with her hand. It was too much to bear, and he broke down. He gathered the ring into his palm and sat on the edge of the bed, his body racked with fatigue and grief. He put the ring in his jacket pocket and noticed the package she had mailed. Tearing it open, he found two of his favorite homemade cookies with hearts drawn on the top in chocolate.
What a sweet, sweet woman! he thought. I never deserved her, never loved her enough! He set the cookies on the bedside table, their essence filling the air. With wooden fingers he removed his clothes and let them fall to the floor. He climbed into the bed and lay facedown, gathering Irene's nightgown in his arms so he could smell her and imagine her close to him. And Rayford cried himself to sleep.
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