by Tim LaHaye
Buck smiled. That would have scared him off if he hadn’t known better. He moved down the steps and took a left. Four more steps down was a huge steel door. The sign at the landing of the stairs was duplicated on the door. Bruce had shown him, the day of the weddings, how to open that seemingly locked door.
Buck gripped the knob and turned it first right and then left. He pushed the handle in about a quarter of an inch, then back out half an inch. It seemed to free itself, but still it didn’t turn right or left. He pushed in as he turned it slightly right and then left, following a secret pattern devised by Bruce. The door swung open, and Buck faced what appeared to be a man-sized circuit-breaker box. Not even a church the size of New Hope would carry that many circuit breakers, Buck knew. And as real as all those switches were, they led to no circuits. The chassis of that box was merely another door. It opened easily and led to the hidden shelter. Bruce had done an amazing amount of work since Buck had seen it just a few months before.
Buck wondered when Bruce had had the time to get in there after hours and do all that work. No one else knew about it, not even Loretta, so it was a good thing Bruce was handy. It was vented, air-conditioned, well-lit, paneled, ceilinged, floored, and contained all the necessities. Bruce had sectioned the twenty-four-by-twenty-four-foot area into three rooms. There was a full bath and shower, a bedroom with four double bunk beds, and a larger room with a kitchenette on one end and a combination living room/study on the other. Buck was struck by the lack of claustrophobia, but he knew that with more than two people in there—and being aware of how far underground you were—it could soon become close.
Bruce had spared no expense. Everything was new. There was a freezer, a refrigerator, a microwave, a range and oven, and it seemed every spare inch possible had been converted into storage space. Now, Buck wondered, what did Bruce do about connections?
Buck crawled along the carpet and looked behind a sleeper sofa. There was a bank of wireless routers that had to lead somewhere. He traced the wiring up the wall and tried to spot where it would come out in the hallway. He turned off the lights, closed the circuit-breaker door, closed the metal door, jogged up the steps, and slid the brick door shut. In a dark corner of the hallway he shined the flashlight and saw the section of conduit that led from the floor up through the ceiling. He moved back into the fellowship hall and looked out the window. From the lights in the parking lot, he could make out that the conduit went outside at the ceiling level and snaked its way up toward the steeple.
Bruce had told Buck that the reconditioned steeple had been the one vestige of the old church, the original building that had been torn down thirty years before. In the old days it actually had bells that beckoned people to church. The bells were still there, but the ropes that had once extended through a trapdoor to a spot where one of the ushers could ring them from the foyer had been cut. The steeple was now just decorative. Or was it?
Buck lugged a stepladder from a utility room up into the foyer and pushed open the trapdoor. He hoisted himself above the ceiling and found a wrought-iron ladder that led into the belfry. He climbed up near the old bells, which were covered with cobwebs and dust and soot. When he reached the section open to the air, his last step made his hair brush a web, and he felt a spider skitter through his hair. He nearly lost his balance swatting it away and trying to hang on to the flashlight and to the ladder. It was just yesterday that he had been chased across the desert, rammed, shot at, and virtually chased through flames to his freedom. He snorted. He would almost rather go through all that again than have a spider run through his hair.
Buck peeked down from the opening and looked for the conduit. It ran all the way up to the tapered part of the steeple. He reached the top of the ladder and stepped out through the opening. He was around the side of the steeple not illuminated from the ground. The old wood didn’t feel solid. His sore foot began to twitch. Wouldn’t this be great? he thought. Slip off the steeple of your own church and kill yourself in the middle of the night.
Carefully surveying the area to be sure no cars were around, Buck briefly shined the flashlight at the top of where the conduit ran up the steeple. There was what appeared to be a miniature satellite dish, about two-and-a-half inches in diameter. Buck couldn’t read the tiny sticker applied to the front of it, so he stood on tiptoe and peeled it off. He stuck it in his pocket and waited until he was safely back inside the steeple, down the ladder, and through the trapdoor to the stepladder before pulling it out. It read “Donny Moore Technologies: Your Computer Doctor.”
Buck put the stepladder away and began shutting off the lights. He grabbed a concordance off the shelf in Bruce’s office and looked up the word housetop. Bruce’s installing that crazy mini-satellite dish made him think of a verse he once heard or read about shouting the good news from the housetop. Matthew 10:27-28 said, “Whatever I tell you in the dark, speak in the light; and what you hear in the ear, preach on the housetops. And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. But rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.”
Wasn’t it just like Bruce to take the Bible literally? Buck headed back to Loretta’s house, where he would read Bruce’s material until about six. Then he wanted to sleep until noon and be up when Amanda brought Rayford home from Mitchell Field in Milwaukee.
Would he ever cease to be amazed? As he drove the few blocks, he was struck by the difference between the two vehicles he had driven within the last twenty-four hours. This, a six-figure Range Rover with everything but a kitchen sink, and that probably still-smoldering bus he had “bought” from a man who might soon be a martyr.
More amazing, however, was that Bruce had planned so well and prepared so much before his departure. With a little technology, the Tribulation Force and its newest member, Tsion Ben-Judah, would soon be proclaiming the gospel from a hidden location and sending it via satellite and the Internet to just about anybody in the world who wanted to hear it, and to many who didn’t.
It was two-thirty in the morning, Chicago time, when Buck returned from the church and sat before Bruce’s papers on the dining room table at Loretta’s home. They read like a novel. He drank in Bruce’s Bible studies and commentary, finding his sermon notes for that very Sunday. Buck couldn’t speak publicly in that church. He was vulnerable and exposed enough already, but he could sure help Rayford put together some remarks.
Despite his years of flying, Rayford had never found a cure for jet lag, especially going east to west. His body told him it was the middle of the evening, and after a day of flying, he was ready for bed. But as the DC-10 taxied toward the gate in Milwaukee, it was noon Central Standard Time. Across the aisle from him, the beautiful and stylish Hattie Durham slept. Her long blonde hair was in a bun, and she had made a mess of her mascara trying to wipe away her tears.
She had wept off and on almost the entire flight. Through two meals, a movie, and a snack, she had unburdened herself to Rayford. She did not want to stay with Nicolae Carpathia. She had lost her love for the man. She didn’t understand him. While she wasn’t ready to say he was the Antichrist, she certainly was not as impressed with him behind closed doors as most of his public was with him.
Rayford had carefully avoided declaring his starkest beliefs about Carpathia. Clearly Rayford was no fan and hardly loyal, but he didn’t consider it the better part of wisdom to state categorically that he agreed with most Christian believers that Carpathia fit the bill of the Antichrist. Of course, Rayford had no doubt about it. But he had seen broken romances heal before, and the last thing he wanted was to give Hattie ammunition that could be used against him with Carpathia. Soon enough it wouldn’t matter who might bad-mouth him to Nicolae. They would be mortal enemies anyway.
Most troubling to Rayford was Hattie’s turmoil over her pregnancy. He wished she would refer to what she was carrying as a child. But it was a pregnancy to her, an unwanted pregnancy. It may not have been at the beginning, but now, given her state of mind, she di
d not want to give birth to Nicolae Carpathia’s child. She didn’t refer to it as a child or even a baby.
Rayford had the difficult task of trying to plead his case without being too obvious. He had asked her, “Hattie, what do you think your options are?”
“I know there are only three, Rayford. Every woman has to consider these three options when she’s pregnant.”
Not every woman, Rayford thought.
Hattie had continued: “I can carry it to term and keep it, which I don’t want to do. I can put it up for adoption, but I’m not sure I want to endure the entire pregnancy and birth process. And, of course, I can terminate the pregnancy.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“What do you mean ‘what does that mean?’” Hattie had said. “Terminate the pregnancy means terminate the pregnancy.”
“You mean have an abortion?”
Hattie had stared at him like he was an imbecile. “Yes! What did you think I meant?”
“Well, it just seems you’re using language that makes it sound like the easiest option.”
“It is the easiest option, Rayford. Think about it. Obviously, the worst scenario would be to let a pregnancy run its entire course, go through all that discomfort, then go through the pain of labor. And then what if I got all those maternal instincts everybody talks about? Besides nine months of living in the pits, I’d go through all that stuff delivering somebody else’s child. Then I’d have to give it up, which would just make everything worse.”
“You just called it a child there,” Rayford had said.
“Hmm?”
“You had been referring to this as your pregnancy. But once you deliver it, then it’s a child?”
“Well, it will be someone’s child. I hope not mine.”
Rayford had let the matter drop while a meal was served. He had prayed silently that he would be able to communicate to her some truth. Subtlety was not his forte. She was not a dumb woman. Maybe the best tack was to be direct.
Later in the flight, Hattie herself had brought up the issue again. “Why do you want to make me feel guilty for considering an abortion?”
“Hattie,” he had said, “I can’t make you feel guilty. You have to make your own decisions. What I think about it means very little, doesn’t it?”
“Well, I care what you think. I respect you as someone who’s been around. I hope you don’t think that I think abortion is an easy decision, even though it’s the best and simplest solution.”
“Best and simplest for whom?”
“For me, I know. Sometimes you have to look out for yourself. When I left my job and ran off to New York to be with Nicolae, I thought I was finally doing something for Hattie. Now I don’t like what I did for Hattie, so I need to do something else for Hattie. Understand?”
Rayford had nodded. He understood all too well. He had to remind himself that she was not a believer. She would not be thinking about the good of anyone but herself. Why should she? “Hattie, just humor me for a moment and assume that that pregnancy, that ‘it’ you’re carrying, is already a child. It’s your child. Perhaps you don’t like its father. Perhaps you’d hate to see what kind of a person its father might produce. But that baby is your blood relative too. You already have maternal feelings, or you wouldn’t be in such turmoil about this. My question is, who’s looking out for that child’s best interest? Let’s say a wrong has been done. Let’s say it was immoral for you to live with Nicolae Carpathia outside of marriage. Let’s say this pregnancy, this child, was produced from an immoral union. Let’s go farther. Let’s say that those people are right who consider Nicolae Carpathia the Antichrist. I’ll even buy the argument that perhaps you regret the idea of having a child at all and would not be the best mother for it. I don’t think you can shirk responsibility for it the way a rape or incest victim might be justified in doing.
“But even in those cases, the solution isn’t to kill the innocent party, is it? Something is wrong, really wrong, and so people defend their right to choose. What they choose, of course, is not just the end of a pregnancy, not just an abortion, it’s the death of a person. But which person? One of the people who made a mistake? One of the people who committed a rape or incest? Or one of the people who got pregnant out of wedlock? No, the solution is always to kill the most innocent party of all.”
Rayford had gone too far, and he had known it. He had glanced up at Hattie holding her hands over her ears, tears streaming down her face. He had touched her arm, and she had wrenched away. He had leaned further and grabbed her elbow. “Hattie, please don’t pull away from me. Please don’t think I said any of that to hurt you personally. Just chalk it up to somebody standing up for the rights of someone who can’t defend him- or herself. If you won’t stand up for your own child, somebody has to.”
With that, she had wrenched fully away from him and had buried her face in her hands and wept. Rayford had been angry with himself. Why couldn’t he learn? How could he sit there spouting all that? He believed it, and he was convinced it was God’s view. It made sense to him. But he also knew she could reject it out of hand simply because he was a man. How could he understand? No one was suggesting what he could or could not do with his own body. He had wanted to tell her he understood that, but again, what if that unborn child was a female? Who was standing up for the rights of that woman’s body?
Hattie had not spoken to him for hours. He knew he deserved that. But, he wondered, how much time is there to be diplomatic? He had no idea what her plans were. He could only plead with her when he had the chance. “Hattie,” he had said. She hadn’t looked at him. “Hattie, please let me just express one more thing to you.”
She had turned slightly, not looking fully at him, but he had the impression she would at least listen.
“I want you to forgive me for anything I said that hurt you personally or insulted you. I hope you know me well enough by now to know that I would not do that intentionally. More important, I want you to know that I am one of a few friends you have in the Chicago area who loves you and wants only the best for you. I wish you’d think about stopping in and seeing us in Mt. Prospect on your way back. Even if I’m not there, even if I have to go on back to New Babylon before you, stop in and see Chloe and Buck. Talk to Amanda. Would you do that?”
Now she had looked at him. She had pressed her lips together and shook her head apologetically. “Probably not. I appreciate your sentiments, and I accept your apology. But no, probably not.”
And that’s the way it had been left. Rayford was angry with himself. His motives were pure, and he believed his logic was right. But maybe he had counted too much on his own personality and style and not enough on God himself to work in Hattie’s heart. All he could do now was pray for her.
When the plane finally stopped at the gate, Rayford helped Hattie pull her bag from the overhead rack. She thanked him. He didn’t trust himself to say anything more. He had apologized enough. Hattie wiped her face one more time and said, “Rayford, I know you mean well. But you drive me nuts sometimes. I should be glad nothing ever really developed between us.”
“Thanks a lot,” Rayford said, feigning insult.
“I’m serious,” she said. “You know what I mean. We’re just too far apart in age or something, I guess.”
“I guess,” Rayford said. So, that was how she summarized it. Fine. That wasn’t the issue at all, of course. He may not have handled it the best way, but he knew trying to fix it now would accomplish nothing.
As they emerged from the gateway, he saw Amanda’s welcome smile. He rushed to her, and she held him tight. She kissed him passionately but pulled away quickly. “I didn’t mean to ignore you, Hattie, but frankly I was more eager to see Rayford.”
“I understand,” Hattie said flatly, shaking hands and looking away.
“Can we drop you somewhere?” Amanda said.
Hattie chuckled. “Well, my bags are checked through to Denver. Can you drop me there?”
“Oh,
I knew that!” Amanda said. “Can we walk you to your gate?”
“No, I’ll be fine. I know this airport. I’ve got a little layover here, and I’m just gonna try to relax.”
Rayford and Amanda said their good-byes to Hattie, and she was cordial enough, but as they walked away, she caught Rayford’s eye. She pursed her lips and shook her head. He felt miserable.
Rayford and Amanda walked hand-in-hand, then arm-in-arm, then arms around each other’s waist, all the way to the escalators that led down to baggage claim. Amanda hesitated and pulled Rayford back from the moving stairway. Something on a TV monitor had caught her eye. “Ray,” she said, “come look at this.”
They stood watching as a CNN/GNN report summarized the extent of the damage from the war around the world. Already, Carpathia was putting his spin on it. The announcer said, “World health care experts predict the death toll will rise to more than 20 percent internationally. Global Community Potentate Nicolae Carpathia has announced formation of an international health care organization that will take precedence over all local and regional efforts. He and his ten global ambassadors released a statement from their private, high-level meetings in New Babylon outlining a proposal for strict measures regulating the health and welfare of the entire global community. We have a reaction now from renowned cardiovascular surgeon Samuel Kline of Norway.”
Rayford whispered, “This guy is in Carpathia’s back pocket. I’ve seen him around. He says whatever Saint Nick wants him to say.”
