Left Behind

by Tim LaHaye

“They’re not coming back, hon,” he said. “I’ll come get you.”

  “Mr. Anderson said he would walk me home.”

  A few minutes later Chloe sat rocking on the couch, her arms folded across her stomach. She told the police officer what she had told her father; then he took Rayford’s statement. “You folks don’t use your burglar alarm?”

  Rayford shook his head. “That’s my fault. We used it for years when we didn’t need it, and I got tired of being awakened in the middle of the night with the false alarms and the . . . the, uh—”

  “Calls from us, I know,” the cop said. “That’s what everybody says. But this time it would have been worth it, huh?”

  “Hindsight and all that,” Rayford said. “Never really thought we needed the security in this neighborhood.”

  “This kind of crime is up two hundred percent here in the last week alone,” the officer said. “The bad guys know we don’t have the time or manpower to do a blessed thing about it.”

  “Well, will you put my daughter’s mind at ease and tell her they aren’t interested in hurting us and that they won’t be back?”

  “That’s right, miss,” he said. “Your dad should get this door boarded up till it can be fixed, and I would arm that security system. But I wouldn’t expect a repeat visit, at least not by the same bunch. We talked to the people across the street. They saw some kind of a carpet-service minivan here for about half an hour this afternoon. They went in the front, came through, opened the garage door, backed into the empty space in there, and carted your stuff off almost under your noses.”

  “Nobody saw them break in the front?”

  “Your neighbors don’t have a clear view of your entrance. Nobody really does. Slick job.”

  “I’m just glad Chloe didn’t walk in on them,” Rayford said.

  The cop nodded on his way out. “You can be grateful for that. I imagine your insurance will take care of a lot of this. I don’t expect to be recovering any of it. We haven’t had any luck with the other cases.”

  Rayford embraced Chloe, who was still shaking. “Can you do me a favor, Dad?” she said.

  “Anything.”

  “I want another copy of that DVD, the one from the pastor.”

  “I’ll call Bruce, and we’ll pick one up tonight.”

  Suddenly Chloe laughed.

  “Now this is funny?” Rayford said.

  “I just had a thought,” she said, smiling through her tears. “What if the burglars watch that DVD?”

  CHAPTER 15

  One of the first messages on Buck’s voice mail was from the flight attendant he had met the week before. “Mr. Williams, this is Hattie Durham,” she said. “I’m in New York on another flight and thought I’d call to say hi and thanks again for helping me make contact with my family. I’ll wait a second and keep jabbering here, in case you’re screening your calls. It would be fun to get together for a drink or something, but don’t feel obligated. Well, maybe another time.”

  “So who’s that?” Steve called out as Buck hesitated near the bathroom door, waiting to hear all the messages before getting into the shower.

  “Just a girl,” he said.

  “Nice?”

  “Better than nice. Gorgeous.”

  “Better call her back.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Several other messages were unimportant. Then came two that had been left that very afternoon. The first was from Captain Howard Sullivan of Scotland Yard. “Ah yes, Mr. Williams. I hesitate to leave this message on your machine, but I would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience. As you know, two gentlemen with whom you were associated have met with untimely demises here in London. I would like to ask you a few questions. You may be hearing from other agencies, as you were seen with one of the victims just before his unfortunate end. Please call me.” And he left the number.

  The next message had come less than half an hour later and was from Georges Lafitte, an operative with Interpol, the international police organization headquartered in Lyons, France. “Mr. Williams,” he said in a thick French accent, “as soon as you get this message, I would like you to call me from the nearest police station. They will know how to contact us directly, and they will have a printout of information on why we need to speak with you. For your own sake, I would urge you not to delay.”

  Buck leaned out to stare at Steve, who looked as puzzled as Buck was. “What are you now?” Steve asked. “A suspect?”

  “I’d better not be. After what I heard from Alan about Sullivan and how he’s in Todd-Cothran’s pocket, there’s no way I’m going to London and voluntarily put myself in their custody. These messages aren’t binding, are they? I don’t have to act on them just because I heard them, do I?”

  Steve shrugged. “Nobody but me knows you heard them. Anyway, international agencies have no jurisdiction here.”

  “You think I might be extradited?”

  “If they try to link you with either of those deaths.”

  Chloe didn’t want to stay home alone that evening. She rode with her father to the church where Bruce Barnes met them and gave them another DVD. He shook his head when he heard about the break-in. “It’s becoming epidemic,” he said. “It’s as if the inner city has moved to the suburbs. We’re no safer here anymore.”

  It was all Rayford could do to keep from telling Bruce that replacing the stolen DVD was Chloe’s idea. He wanted to tell Bruce to keep praying, that she must still be thinking about things. Maybe the invasion of the house had made her feel vulnerable. Maybe she was getting the point that the world was much more dangerous now, that there were no guarantees, that her own time could be short. But Rayford also knew he could offend her, insult her, push her away if he used this situation to sic Bruce on her. She had enough information; he just had to let God work on her. Still, he was encouraged and wanted to let Bruce know what was going on. He supposed he would have to wait for a more opportune time.

  While they were out, Rayford bought items that needed to be replaced right away, including a TV. He arranged to have the front door fixed and got the insurance paperwork started. Most important, he armed the security system. Still, he knew, neither he nor Chloe would sleep soundly that night.

  They came home to a phone call from Hattie Durham. Rayford thought she sounded lonely. She didn’t seem to have a real reason to call. She simply told him she was grateful for the dinner invitation and was looking forward to it. He told her what had happened at their home, and she sounded genuinely troubled.

  “Things are getting so strange,” she said. “You know I have a sister who works in a pregnancy clinic.”

  “Uh-huh,” Rayford said. “You’ve mentioned it.”

  “They do family planning and counseling and referrals for terminating pregnancies.”

  “Right.”

  “And they’re set up to do abortions right there.”

  Hattie seemed to be waiting for some signal of affirmation or acknowledgment that he was listening. Rayford grew impatient and remained silent.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I won’t keep you. But my sister told me they have zero business.”

  “Well, that would make sense, given the disappearances of unborn babies.”

  “My sister didn’t sound too happy about that.”

  “Hattie, I imagine everyone’s horrified by that. Parents are grieving all over the world.”

  “But the women my sister and her people were counseling wanted abortions.”

  Rayford groped for a pertinent response. “Yes, so maybe those women are grateful they didn’t have to go through the abortion itself.”

  “Maybe, but my sister and her bosses and the rest of the staff are out of work now until people start getting pregnant again.”

  “I get it. It’s a money thing.”

  “They have to work. They have expenses and families.”

  “And aside from abortion counseling and abortions, they have nothing to do?”

  “Nothing. Isn
’t that awful? I mean, whatever happened put my sister and a lot of people like her out of business, and nobody really knows yet whether anyone will be able to get pregnant again.”

  Rayford had to admit he had never found Hattie guilty of brilliance, but now he wished he could look into her eyes. “Hattie, um, I don’t know how to ask this. But are you saying your sister is hoping women can get pregnant again so they’ll need abortions and she can keep working?”

  “Well, sure. What is she going to do otherwise? Counseling jobs in other fields are pretty hard to come by, you know.”

  He nodded, feeling stupid, knowing she couldn’t see him. What kind of lunacy was this? He shouldn’t waste his energy arguing with someone who clearly didn’t have a clue, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “I guess I always thought clinics like the one where your sister works considered these unwanted pregnancies a nuisance. Shouldn’t they be glad if such problems disappear, and even happier—except for the small complication that the human race will eventually cease to exist—if pregnancies never happen again?”

  The irony was lost on her. “But, Rayford, that’s her job. That’s what the center is all about. It’s sort of like owning a gas station and nobody needing gas or oil or tires anymore.”

  “Supply and demand.”

  “Exactly! See? They need unwanted pregnancies because that’s their business.”

  “Sort of like doctors wanting people to be sick or injured so they have something to do?”

  “Now you’ve got it, Rayford.”

  After Buck had shaved and showered, Steve told him, “I was paged a minute ago. New York City detectives are looking for you at the office. Unfortunately, someone told them you would be at the Plaza with Carpathia later.”

  “Brilliant!”

  “I know. Maybe you ought to just face this.”

  “Not yet, Steve. Let me get the Carpathia interview and get that piece started. Then I can extricate myself from this mess.”

  “You’re hoping Carpathia can help.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What if you can’t get to him before somebody gets to you?”

  “I’ve got to. I’ve still got my Oreskovich press credentials and identification. If the cops are waiting for me at the Plaza, maybe they won’t recognize me at first.”

  “C’mon, Buck. You think they aren’t on to your phony ID by now, after you slipped out of Europe with it? Let me switch with you. If they think I’m you trying to pass yourself off as Oreskovich, that may buy you enough time to get in to see Carpathia.”

  Buck shrugged. “Worth a try,” he said. “I don’t want to stay here, but I want to see Carpathia on Nightline.”

  “Want to come to my place?”

  “They’ll probably look for me there before long.”

  “Let me call Marge. She and her husband don’t live far away.”

  “Don’t use my phone.”

  Steve grimaced. “You act like you’re in a spy movie.” Steve used his own cell phone. Marge insisted they come over right away. She said her husband liked to watch his M*A*S*H rerun at that time of night but that she could talk him into taping it tonight.

  Buck and Steve saw two unmarked squad cars pull up in front of Buck’s apartment building as they climbed into a cab. “It is like a spy movie,” Buck said.

  Marge’s husband was none too pleased to be displaced from his favorite spot and his favorite show, but even he was intrigued when Nightline began. Carpathia was either a natural or well-coached. He looked directly into the camera whenever possible and appeared to be speaking to individual viewers.

  “Your speech at the United Nations,” Wallace Theodore began, “which was sandwiched between two press conferences today, seems to have electrified New York, and because so much of it has been aired on both early evening and late night local newscasts, you’ve become a popular man in this country seemingly all at once.”

  Carpathia smiled. “Like anyone from Europe, particularly Eastern Europe, I am amazed at your technology. I—”

  “But isn’t it true, sir, that your roots are actually in Western Europe? Though you were born in Romania, are you not by heritage actually Italian?”

  “That is true, as it is true of many native Romanians. Thus the name of our country. But as I was saying about your technology. It is amazing, but I confess I did not come to your country to become or to be made into a celebrity. I have a goal, a mission, a message, and it has nothing to do with my popularity or my personal—”

  “But is it not true that you just came from a photo session with People magazine?”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “And is it not also true that they have already named you their newest Sexiest Man Alive?”

  “I do not know what that means, really. I submitted to an interview that was mostly about my childhood and my business and political career, and I was under the impression that they do this sexy-man coverage in January each year, so it is too early for next year and too close to this year’s.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure, Mr. Carpathia, that you were as thrilled as we were over the young singing star who was so named two months ago, but—”

  “I regret to say I was not aware of the young man before I saw his photograph on the cover of the magazine.”

  “But, sir, are you saying you are not aware that People magazine is breaking tradition by, in effect, unseating their current sexiest man and installing you in his place with next week’s issue?”

  “I believe they tried to tell me that, but I do not understand. The young man did some damage to a hotel or some such thing, and so—”

  “And so you were a convenient replacement for him.”

  “I know nothing about that, and to be perfectly honest, I might not have submitted to the interview under those circumstances. I do not consider myself sexy. I am on a crusade to see the peoples of the world come together. I do not seek a position of power or authority. I simply ask to be heard. I hope my message comes through in the article in the magazine as well.”

  “You already have a position of both power and authority, Mr. Carpathia.”

  “Well, our little country asked me to serve, and I was willing.”

  “How do you respond to those who say you skirted protocol and that your elevation to the presidency in Romania was partially effected by strong-arm tactics?”

  “I would say that that is the perfect way to attack a pacifist, one who is committed to disarmament not only in Romania and the rest of Europe but also globally.”

  “So you deny having a business rival murdered seven years ago and using intimidation and powerful friends in America to usurp the president’s authority in Romania?”

  “The so-called murdered rival was one of my dearest friends, and I mourn him bitterly to this day. The few American friends I have may be influential here, but they could not have any bearing on Romanian politics. You must know that our former president asked me to replace him for personal reasons.”

  “But that completely ignores your constitution’s procedure for succession to power.”

  “This was voted upon by the people and by the government and ratified with a huge majority.”

  “After the fact.”

  “In a way, yes. But in another way, had they not ratified it, both popularly and within the houses of government, I would have been the briefest reigning president in our nation’s history.”

  Marge’s husband growled, “This Roman kid is light on his feet.”

  “Romanian,” Marge corrected.

  “I heard him say he’s a full-blood Eye-talian,” her husband said. Marge winked at Steve and Buck.

  Buck was amazed at Carpathia’s thought processes and command of language. Theodore asked him, “Why the United Nations? Some would say you would have more impact and get more mileage out of an appearance before our Senate and House of Representatives.”

  “I would not even dream of such a privilege,” Carpathia said. “But, you see, I was not looki
ng for mileage. The U.N. was envisioned originally as a peacekeeping effort. It must return to that role.”

  “You hinted today, and I hear it in your voice even now, that you have a specific plan for the U.N. that would make it better and which would be of some help during this unusually horrific season in history.”

  “I do. I did not feel it was my place to suggest such changes when I was a guest; however, I have no hesitation in this context. I am a proponent of disarmament. That is no secret. While I am impressed with the wide-ranging capabilities, plans, and programs of the United Nations, I do believe, with a few minor adjustments and the cooperation of its members, it can be all it was meant to be. We can truly become a global community.”

  “Can you briefly outline that in a few seconds?”

  Carpathia’s laugh appeared deep and genuine. “That is always dangerous,” he said, “but I will try. As you know, the Security Council of the United Nations has five permanent members: the United States, the Russian Federation, Britain, France, and China. There are also ten temporary members, two each from five different regions of the world, which serve for two-year terms.

  “I respect the proprietary nature of the original five. I propose choosing another five, just one each from the five different regions of the world. Drop the temporary members. Then you would have ten permanent members of the Security Council, but the rest of my plan is revolutionary. Currently the five permanent members have veto power. Votes on procedure require a nine-vote majority; votes on substance require a majority, including all five permanent members. I propose a tougher system. I propose unanimity.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Select carefully the representative ten permanent members. They must get input and support from all the countries in their respective regions.”

  “It sounds like a nightmare.”

  “But it would work, and here is why. A nightmare is what happened to us last week. The time is right for the peoples of the world to rise up and insist that their governments disarm and destroy all but ten percent of their weapons. That ten percent would be, in effect, donated to the United Nations so it could return to its rightful place as a global peacekeeping body, with the authority and the power and the equipment to do the job.”