by Tim LaHaye
He sensed not. Something about this demanded attention. He wanted to believe something that tied everything together and made it make sense. But Buck also wanted to believe in Nicolae Carpathia. Maybe Buck was going through a scary time where he was vulnerable to impressive people. That wasn’t like him, but then, who was himself these days? Who could be expected to be himself during times like these?
Buck didn’t want to rationalize this away, to talk himself out of it. He wanted to ask Rayford Steele about his own sister-in-law and niece and nephew. But that would be personal, that would not relate to the story he was working on. This had not begun as a personal quest, a search for truth. This was merely a fact-finding mission, an element in a bigger story.
In no way did Buck even begin to think he was going to pick a favorite theory and espouse it as Global Weekly’s position. He was supposed to round up all the theories, from the plausible to the bizarre. Readers would add their own in the Letters column, or they would make a decision based on the credibility of the sources. This airline pilot, unless Buck made him look like a lunatic, would come off profound and convincing.
For the first time in his memory Buck Williams was speechless.
Rayford was certain he was not getting through. He only hoped this writer was astute enough to understand, to quote him correctly, and to represent his views in such a way that readers might look into Christianity. It was clear that Williams wasn’t buying it personally. If Rayford had to guess, he’d say Williams was trying to hide a smirk—or else he was so amused, or amazed, that he couldn’t frame a response.
Rayford had to remind himself that his purpose was to get through to Chloe first and then maybe to influence the reading public, if the thing found its way into print. If Cameron Williams thought Rayford was totally out to lunch, he might just leave him out, along with all his cockamamie views.
Buck did not trust himself to respond with coherence. He still had chills, yet he felt sticky with sweat. What was happening to him? He managed a whisper. “I want to thank you for your time, and for dinner,” he said. “I will get back to you before using any of your quotes.” That was nonsense, of course. He had said it only to give himself a reason to reconnect with the pilot. He might have a lot of personal questions about this, but he never allowed people he interviewed to see their quotes in advance. He trusted his recorder and his memory, and he had never been accused of misquoting.
Buck looked back up at the captain and saw a strange look cross his face. He looked—what? Disappointed? Yes, then resigned.
Suddenly Buck remembered who he was dealing with. This was an intelligent, educated man. Surely he knew that reporters never checked back with their sources. He probably thought he was getting a journalistic brush-off.
A rookie mistake, Buck, he reprimanded himself. You just underestimated your own source.
Buck was putting his equipment away when he noticed Chloe was crying, tears streaming down her face. What was it with these women? Hattie Durham had been weeping when she and the captain had finished talking that afternoon. Now Chloe.
Buck could identify, at least with Chloe. If she was crying because she had been moved by her father’s sincerity and earnestness, it was no surprise. Buck had a lump in his throat, and for the first time since he had lain facedown in fear in Israel during the Russian attack, he wished he had a private place to cry.
“Could I ask you one more thing, off the record?” he said. “May I ask what you and Hattie were talking about this afternoon in the club?”
“Buck!” Hattie scolded. “That’s none of your—”
“If you don’t want to say, I’ll understand,” Buck said. “I was just curious.”
“Well, much of it was personal,” the captain said.
“Fair enough.”
“But, Hattie, I don’t see any harm in telling him that the rest of it was what we just went over. Do you?”
She shrugged.
“Still off the record, Hattie,” Buck said, “do you mind if I ask your reaction to all this?”
“Why off the record?” Hattie snapped. “The opinions of a pilot are important but the opinions of a flight attendant aren’t?”
“I’ll put you on the machine if you want,” he said. “I didn’t know you wanted to be on the record.”
“I don’t,” she said. “I just wanted to be asked. It’s too late now.”
“And you don’t care to say what you think—”
“No, I’ll tell you. I think Rayford is sincere and thoughtful. Whether he’s right, I have no idea. That’s all beyond me and very foreign. But I am convinced he believes it. Whether he should or not, with his background and all that, I don’t know. Maybe he’s susceptible to it because of losing his family.”
Buck nodded, realizing he was closer to buying Rayford’s theory than Hattie was. He glanced at Chloe, hoping she had composed herself and that he could draw her out. She still had a tissue pressed under her eyes.
“Please don’t ask me right now,” she said.
Rayford was not surprised at Hattie’s response, but he was profoundly disappointed with Chloe’s. He was convinced she didn’t want to embarrass him by saying how off the wall he sounded. He should have been grateful, he guessed. At least she was still sensitive to his feelings. Maybe he should have been more sensitive to hers, but he had decided he couldn’t let those gentilities remain priorities anymore. He was going to contend for the faith with her until she made a decision. For tonight, however, it was clear she had heard enough. He wouldn’t be pushing her anymore. He only hoped he could sleep despite his remorse over her condition. He loved her so much.
“Mr. Williams,” he said, standing and thrusting out his hand, “it’s been a pleasure. The pastor I told you about in Illinois really has a handle on this stuff and knows much more than I do about the Antichrist and all. It might be worth a call if you want to know any more. Bruce Barnes, New Hope Village Church, Mount Prospect.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Buck said.
Rayford was convinced Williams was merely being polite.
Talking to this Barnes was a great idea, Buck thought. Maybe he’d find the time the next day in Chicago. That way he could pursue this for himself and not confuse the professional angle with his own interest.
The foursome moseyed to the lobby. “I’m going to say my good-nights,” Hattie said. “I’ve got the earlier flight tomorrow.” She thanked Rayford for dinner, whispered something to Chloe—which seemed to get no response—and thanked Buck for his hospitality that morning. “I may just call Mr. Carpathia one of these days,” she said. Buck resisted the urge to tell her what he knew about Carpathia’s immediate future. He doubted the man would have time for her.
Chloe looked as if she wanted to follow Hattie to the elevators and yet wanted to say something to Buck as well. He was shocked when she said, “Give us a minute, will you, Daddy? I’ll be right up.”
Buck found himself flattered that Chloe had hung back to say good-bye personally, but she was still emotional. Her voice was quavery as she formally told him what a good time she had had that day. He tried to prolong the conversation.
“Your dad is a pretty impressive guy,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “Especially lately.”
“I can see why you might agree with him on a lot of that stuff.”
“You can?”
“Sure! I have a lot of thinking to do myself. You give him a hard time about it though, huh?”
“I used to. Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“You can see how much it means to him.”
Buck nodded. She seemed on the edge emotionally again. He reached to take her hand. “It’s been wonderful spending time with you,” he said.
She chuckled, as if embarrassed about what she was thinking.
“What?” he pressed.
“Oh, nothing. It’s silly.”
“C’mon, what? We’ve both been silly today.”
“Wel
l, I feel stupid,” she said. “I just met you and I’m really gonna miss you. If you get through Chicago, you have to call.”
“It’s a promise,” Buck said. “I can’t say when, but let’s just say sooner than you think.”
CHAPTER 22
Buck did not sleep well. Partly he was excited about his morning surprise. He could only hope Chloe would be happy about it. The larger part of his mind reeled with wonder. If this was true, all that Rayford Steele had postulated—and Buck knew instinctively that if any of it was true, all of it was true—why had it taken Buck a lifetime to come to it? Could he have been searching for this all the time, hardly knowing he was looking?
Yet even Captain Steele—an organized, analytical airline pilot—had missed it, and Steele claimed to have had a proponent, a devotee, almost a fanatic living under his own roof. Buck was so restless he had to leave his bed and pace. Strangely, somehow, he was not upset, not miserable. He was simply overwhelmed. None of this would have made a bit of sense to him just days before, and now, for the first time since Israel, he was unable to separate himself from his story.
The Holy Land attack had been a watershed event in his life. He had stared his own mortality in the face and had to acknowledge that something otherworldly—yes, supernatural, something directly from God Almighty—had been thrust upon those dusty hills in the form of a fire in the sky. And he had known beyond a doubt for the first time in his life that unexplainable things out there could not be dissected and evaluated scientifically from a detached Ivy League perspective.
Buck had always prided himself on standing apart from the pack, for including the human, the everyday, the everyman element in his stories when others resisted such vulnerability. This skill allowed readers to identify with him, to taste and feel and smell those things most important to them. But he had still been able, even after his closest brush with death, to let the reader live it without revealing Buck’s own deep angst about the very existence of God. Now, that separation seemed impossible. How could he cover this most important story of his life, one that had already probed closest to his soul, without subconsciously revealing his private turmoil?
He was, he knew by the wee hours, leaning over the line. He wasn’t ready to pray yet, to try to talk to a God he had ignored for so long. He hadn’t even prayed when he became convinced of God’s existence that night in Israel. What had been the matter with him? Everyone in the world, at least those intellectually honest with themselves, had to admit there was a God after that night. Amazing coincidences had occurred before, but that had defied all logic.
To win against the mighty Russians was an upset, of course. But Israel’s history was replete with such legends. Yet to not defend yourself and suffer no casualties? That was beyond all comprehension—apart from the direct intervention of God.
Why, Buck wondered, hadn’t that made more of an impact on his own introspective inventory? In the lonely darkness he came to the painful realization that he had long ago compartmentalized this most basic of human needs and had rendered it a nonissue. What did it say about him, what despicable kind of a subhuman creature had he become, that even the stark evidence of the Israel miracle—for it could be called nothing less—had not thawed his spirit’s receptiveness to God?
Not that many months later came the great disappearance of millions around the world. Dozens had vanished from the plane in which he was a passenger. What more did he need? It already seemed as if he were living in a science fiction thriller. Without question he had lived through the most cataclysmic event in history. Buck realized he’d not had a second to think in the last two weeks. Had it not been for the personal tragedies he had witnessed, he might have been more private in his approach to what appeared to be a universe out of control.
He wanted to meet this Bruce Barnes, not even pretending to be interviewing him for an article. Buck was on a personal quest now, looking to satisfy deep needs. For so many years he had rejected the idea of a personal God or that he had need of God—if there was one. The idea would take some getting used to. Captain Steele had talked about everyone being a sinner. Buck was not unrealistic about that. He knew his life would never stand up to the standards of a Sunday school teacher. But he had always hoped that if he faced God someday, his good would outweigh his bad and that relatively speaking, he was as good or better than the next guy. That would have to do.
Now, if Rayford Steele and all his Bible verses could be believed, it didn’t make any difference how good Buck was or where he stood in relation to anybody else. One archaic phrase had struck him and rolled around in his head. There is none righteous, no, not one. Well, he had never considered himself righteous. Could he go to the next level and admit his need for God, for forgiveness, for Christ?
Was it possible? Could he be on the cusp of becoming a born-again Christian? He had been almost relieved when Rayford Steele had used that term. Buck had read and even written about “those kinds” of people, but even at his level of worldly wisdom he had never quite understood the phrase. He had always considered the “born-again” label akin to “ultraright-winger” or “fundamentalist.” Now, if he chose to take a step he had never dreamed of taking, if he could not somehow talk himself out of this truth he could no longer intellectually ignore, he would also take upon himself a task: educating the world on what that confusing little term really meant.
Buck finally dozed on the couch in his living room, despite a lamp shining close to his face. He slept soundly for a couple of hours but awoke in time to get to the airport. The prospect of surprising Chloe and traveling with her gave him a rush that helped overcome his fatigue. But even more exciting was the possibility that another answer man awaited him in Chicago, a man he trusted simply on the recommendation of a pilot who had seemed to speak the truth with authority. It would be fun someday to tell Rayford Steele how much that otherwise innocuous interview had meant to him. But Buck assumed Steele had already figured that out. That was probably why Steele had seemed so passionate.
If this signaled the soon beginning of the tribulation period predicted in the Bible, and Rayford had no doubt that it did, he wondered if there would be any joy in it. Bruce didn’t seem to think there would be, aside from the few converts they might be privileged to win. So far Rayford felt he was a failure. While he was certain God had given him the words and the courage to say them, he felt he had done something wrong in communicating to Hattie. Maybe she was right. Maybe he had been self-serving. It had to appear to her that he was merely getting out from under his own load of guilt. But he knew better. Before God he believed his motives pure. Yet clearly he had not persuaded Hattie of more than that he was sincere and that he believed. What good was that? If he believed and she didn’t, she had to assume he believed something bogus, or she would have to admit she was ignoring the truth. What he had told her carried no other option.
And his performance during the interview with Cameron Williams! At the time, Rayford had felt good about it, articulate, calm, rational. He knew he was discussing revolutionary, jarring stuff, but he felt God had enabled him to be lucid. Yet if he couldn’t get any more reaction out of the reporter than polite deference, what kind of a witness could he be? From the depths of his soul Rayford wanted to be more productive. He believed he had wasted his life before this, and he had only a short period to make up for lost time. He was eternally grateful for his own salvation, but now he wanted to share it, to bring more people to Christ. The magazine interview had been an incredible opportunity, but in his gut he felt it had not come off well. Was it even worth the effort to pray for another chance? Rayford believed he had seen the last of Cameron Williams. He wouldn’t be calling Bruce Barnes, and Rayford’s quotes would never see the pages of Global Weekly.
As Rayford shaved and showered and dressed, he heard Chloe packing. She had obviously been embarrassed by him last night, probably even apologized to Mr. Williams for her father’s absurd ramblings. At least she had tapped on his door and said good night wh
en she came in. That was something, wasn’t it?
Every time Rayford thought of Chloe, he felt a tightness in his chest, a great emptiness and grief. He could live with his other failures if he must, but his knees nearly buckled as he prayed silently for Chloe. I cannot lose her, he thought, and he believed he would trade his own salvation for hers if that was what it took.
With that commitment, he sensed God speaking to him, impressing upon him that that was precisely the burden required for winning people, for leading them to Christ. That was the attitude of Jesus himself, being willing to take on himself the punishment of men and women so they could live.
Rayford was emboldened anew as he prayed for Chloe, still fighting the nagging fear of failure. “God, I need encouragement,” he breathed. “I need to know I haven’t turned her off forever.” She had said good night, but he had also heard her crying in bed.
He emerged in uniform and smiled at her as she stood by the door, dressed casually for travel. “Ready, sweetie?” he said tentatively.
She nodded and seemed to work up a smile, then embraced him tight and long, pressing her cheek against his chest. Thank you, he prayed silently, wondering if he should say anything. Was this the time? Dare he press now?
Again he felt deeply impressed of God, as if the Lord were speaking directly to his spirit, Patience. Let her be. Let her be. Keeping silent seemed as hard as anything he had ever done. Chloe said nothing either. They grabbed a light breakfast and headed to JFK.
Chloe was the first passenger on the plane. “I’ll try to get back and see you,” Rayford told her before heading to the cockpit.
“Don’t worry if you can’t,” she said. “I’ll understand.”
Buck waited until everyone else had boarded. As he approached his seat next to Chloe, her body was turned toward the window, arms crossed, chin in her hand. Whether she even had her eyes open, Buck couldn’t tell. He assumed she would turn to glance as he sat next to her, and he couldn’t suppress a smile, anticipating her reaction and only slightly worried that she would be less positive than he hoped.
