Black Friday

by Tim LaHaye

  BLACK

  FRIDAY

  THE SOUL SURVIVOR SERIES:

  The Mind Siege Project

  All the Rave

  The Last Dance

  BLACK

  FRIDAY

  Tim LaHaye

  and Bob DeMoss

  Copyright © 2003 by Tim LaHaye and Bob DeMoss

  Published by W Publishing Group, a division of Thomas Nelson, Inc., P.O. Box 141000, Nashville, TN 37214, in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV). Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers. Scripture quotations noted NKJV are from The New King James Version, copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982, Thomas Nelson, Inc., Publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, organizations, or locales is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the authors or publisher.

  ISBN 0-8499-4322-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  03 04 05 06 07 PHX 7 6 5 4 3 2

  To Walt, Jane, Becky, Amy, and Ruth Turner

  For twenty great years of friendship

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Tuesday, 11:13 a.m.

  Chapter 2 Tuesday, 11:58 a.m.

  Chapter 3 Tuesday, 4:40 p.m.

  Chapter 4 Tuesday, 4:42 p.m.

  Chapter 5 Tuesday, 4:58 p.m.

  Chapter 6 Tuesday, 4:48 p.m.

  Chapter 7 Tuesday, 4:50 p.m.

  Chapter 8 Tuesday, 6:33 p.m.

  Chapter 9 Tuesday, 7:19 p.m.

  Chapter 10 Tuesday, 7:22 p.m.

  Chapter 11 Tuesday, 7:44 p.m.

  Chapter 12 Tuesday, 8:01 p.m.

  Chapter 13 Tuesday, 8:11 p.m.

  Chapter 14 Wednesday, 10:31 a.m.

  Chapter 15 Wednesday, 11:31 a.m.

  Chapter 16 Wednesday, 12:57 p.m.

  Chapter 17 Wednesday, 3:42 p.m.

  Chapter 18 Wednesday, 4:12 p.m.

  Chapter 19 Wednesday, 5:33 p.m.

  Chapter 20 Wednesday, 5:35 p.m.

  Chapter 21 Wednesday, 5:36 p.m.

  Chapter 22 Wednesday, 7:33 p.m.

  Chapter 23 Wednesday, 11:25 p.m.

  Chapter 24 Thursday, 8:57 a.m.

  Chapter 25 Thursday, 10:03 a.m.

  Chapter 26 Thursday, 10:13 a.m.

  Chapter 27 Thursday, 10:45 a.m.

  Chapter 28 Thursday, 12:15 p.m.

  Chapter 29 Thursday, 12:33 p.m.

  Chapter 30 Thursday, 5:30 p.m.

  Chapter 31 Friday, 2:07 p.m.

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  He snatched the handset with his left hand. His right forefinger, with the force of a woodpecker, drilled the keypad. He pressed the earpiece to the side of his head. Two hundred miles away, a phone in Maryland rang. The forefinger of his right hand thumped against the desktop with impatience as he waited.

  A second ring.

  His eyes burned a hole into the phone as if he could will the party on the other end to pick up.

  The third ring produced an answering machine.

  As he listened to the message, displeased by the failure to make direct contact, he blew a hard breath through clenched teeth. The tone sounded. He spoke two words.

  “Call me.”

  He tossed the handset into the cradle with a snap. He checked his gold Rolex and frowned. As far as he was concerned, midnight always seemed to arrive too quickly. He ran impatient fingers over his receding hairline and through his white hair. There was so much to do and so little time left to do it. With a push, he backed his leather chair away from the desk and then swiveled to face a row of crystal bottles arranged on the credenza behind him.

  As he reached for a glass with his right hand, he noticed the tremor was worse this evening. He stretched out both arms in front of him, keeping his palms down. He commanded his hands to be steady. A friend had suggested the maneuver as a way to maintain control. He thought the whole exercise was stupid but tried it anyway.

  It didn’t work.

  “Figures,” he said.

  His lip curled into a snarl.

  He stared at his shaking right hand, mad. Mad and afraid of the implication. The tremor had started as a mild twitch six months ago. Three months later, during surgery, his hand had slipped. He recovered quickly, although he couldn’t be sure whether or not he had overcompensated. He was fairly confident nobody had noticed.

  Not that it mattered. He was the boss.

  He reached once again for a tumbler and then greedily strangled the neck of a bottle of bourbon. He poured it straight up. With a jerk, he tossed the drink against the back of his throat and, just as quickly, poured a second glass. Although the office was quiet now, the voices echoing inside his head refused to be silenced. He closed his bloodshot eyes and leaned his head against the back of his generously padded chair.

  Just as his nerves began to settle, the phone rang.

  He placed the tumbler on the desk, eyes still closed, and reached for the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “You called,” the voice said. “What do you want from me?”

  “I thought you were a professional. I pay you enough, don’t I?”

  The caller from Maryland didn’t immediately respond. He cleared his throat. “A minor setback, that’s all. We’ll win on appeal.”

  “Just tell me this,” he said, his eyes now wide open. “How could you let this happen?”

  “It’s complicated—”

  “I pay you to keep . . . things . . . uncomplicated,” he said, leaning forward. He placed his arms on the desk.

  “Fine. I’ll take care of it,” the voice said. “Like I said, this is just a minor bump in the road. Nobody in Philly knows about this.”

  His forefinger resumed its rapid thump. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He picked up a pink piece of paper from the corner of the desk and studied the name of the person handwritten in the upper left corner. His eyes narrowed. “Does the name Jodi Adams mean anything to you?”

  The caller hesitated. “Can’t say I’ve heard of her. A lawyer?”

  “Worse. A reporter, of sorts.”

  “I see.”

  “Didn’t I tell you secrecy is everything?” With a f lick, the paper floated to the edge of his desk. “I want you to know I don’t like what I’m hearing. Make my problems go away—or we’re through working together. Have I been clear?”

  Before the caller could respond, he hung up.

  Chapter 1 Tuesday, 11:13 a.m.

  Stan’s missing?” Jodi Adams sat on her bedroom floor in running shorts, her legs crossed Indian-style. The phone was sandwiched between her left ear and shoulder. She picked through the ends of her hair as she listened to the news. She fought the urge to overreact. “Like, what do you mean—missing?”

  “It’s really weird,” Heather Barnes said. “All I know is his mom called me this morning freaking out all over the place. She wanted to know if I had heard from Stan. She said he hasn’t come home in days.” Heather paused. “Um, I called you earlier to see if maybe you’d heard from him, but your dad said you were out.”

  “Sorry. I was jogging.” Jodi folded her hands in her lap. “And no, co
me to think of it, I haven’t talked to Stan in a while. Guess I’ve been too busy at the newspaper. Did Stan’s mom say how long he’s been gone?”

  “She thinks maybe since Saturday.” Heather’s voice began to shake. “It’s so not like him, Jodi. You know that.”

  Jodi considered the options. It was the middle of July. Stan “da Man” Taylor, a classmate and star of the Fort Washington High School football team in Huntingdon Valley, Pennsylvania, didn’t have practice until next week. And, as far as Jodi knew, Stan still hadn’t pinned down a summer job—aside from cutting grass and odd projects for pocket change. Besides, neither option would explain his staying away from home for three or four days. Stan’s mom was a single mother and worked long hours, which probably explained how his absence went unnoticed.

  “Did they have an argument or something?” Jodi asked.

  “Actually, no. Things have been pretty cool around his house now that he’s been saved,” Heather said. “The only thing I can figure is he got a call from Faith Morton last Friday—”

  Jodi cut in. “How do you know that?”

  “I called Stan on Friday afternoon. I wanted to see if he wanted to go with me to Ocean City for the day on Saturday,” Heather said. “You know, get a jump-start on my tan. Maybe ride bikes up and down the boardwalk—stuff like that. That’s the last we talked.”

  “I noticed you didn’t invite me, Heather,” Jodi said, pretending to be hurt. “I love the Jersey shore. Besides, if there’s anybody who needs help with her tan, it’s me.”

  They laughed. “No argument there,” Heather said. “I just figured you’d have to work. Anyway, Stan turned me down.”

  “So, who’s Faith?”

  “Stan’s ex-girlfriend,” Heather said, her tone noticeably cooler. She cleared her throat. “One of the many girls he’s left in his wake.”

  Jodi detected a hint of something more than sarcasm. Bitterness, maybe? “Okay, time out for a sec,” Jodi said. “How are things between you two?”

  Heather hesitated.

  “That good, huh?” Jodi switched the phone to her other ear.

  “I don’t know, Jodi,” Heather said. “I guess things just got a little too confusing for me after the prom fiasco. I mean, I’d like to think we can work stuff out, but—” Her voice drifted off.

  Jodi figured her best friend must be more than heartbroken. She knew Heather really liked Stan’s wild and crazy side. He was a fun guy. Cute, too. Not to mention he was probably the most popular guy at school.

  For several months, Heather and Stan had been hanging out. They went to a rave party in downtown Philadelphia. A few weeks later, Stan made a last-minute invitation to Heather for the junior-senior prom, which turned into an almost deadly experience and led to Stan’s decision to become a Christian.

  Since then, Stan had tried to do the right thing as a new believer, at least that was Jodi’s observation. He had been reading his Bible and asking great questions. As far as she could tell, there hadn’t been any sign of a problem.

  “Anyway,” Heather said, interrupting Jodi’s thoughts, “Faith broke up with Stan right before spring break, you know, before the houseboat trip with Mrs. Meyer.”

  At the mention of Rosie Meyer, Jodi’s social studies teacher, a host of memories flooded her mind. The houseboat was one of those experiences in life she’d never forget. In her case, it bonded Jodi, Heather, Stan, and several other students together in a friendship that they probably would still share when their ten-year class reunion rolled around.

  “Oh, you’re right,” Jodi said. “Stan was a mess after Faith cut things off. So . . . she called Stan, what, like last Friday? And now he’s missing. You think there’s a connection?”

  “I guess. Yeah, maybe.”

  Jodi untied her sneakers. “Come on, Heather. It’s not like they eloped or something, right?”

  Heather remained quiet for a moment. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

  Jodi ran her fingers through her blonde hair. “Okay. So tell me, what exactly did Stan tell you last Friday?”

  “Um, he said Faith was, like, in big-time trouble—with her dad, or at least that’s the impression I got.” Heather paused. “Oh, and he said she was pretty messed up—and that it was all his fault. He sounded kinda depressed, you know?”

  “What was his fault?” “

  “He wouldn’t say exactly.”

  “Do you think maybe she had an accident or something?” Jodi said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. He didn’t want to talk about it. And, like, when I pushed him, he just said he wasn’t sure she’d make it.”

  Jodi pulled off her sneakers and kicked them under her bed. “Did you try calling Faith?”

  “That’s the weirdest part,” Heather said. “I tried right before I called you, but her phone has been disconnected.” Her voice dropped a notch. “I’m really worried.”

  Jodi stood up, stretched, and then said, “Listen, Heather, I’m sure Stan’s fine. He’s probably just confused right now. Maybe he went to his dad’s—”

  “No way. Stan hates him for running off with that bimbo.”

  “Right. Nix the dad option.” Jodi started to pace holding the phone base in one hand, the handset cradled against her ear. “Anyway, Stan’s a big boy. I wouldn’t worry too much about him,” Jodi said. She checked her watch. “Oh, yikes, I’ve got, like, fifteen minutes to jump in the shower and get to work.”

  “Hey, how’s that going?”

  “It’s been a breeze,” Jodi said, “considering they’ve given me a f luff piece to keep me busy when I’m not filing stuff. They say I’ll have more assignments after the boss shows up. I think he’s out of town schmoozing some heavy advertiser or something.”

  “Meet any hot guys yet?”

  “Remind me to smack you,” Jodi said with a laugh. “I didn’t go there to check out the male species. I’m a reporter.” She enunciated the words with an air of feigned superiority.

  “Yeah, and knowing you, you’ve already won a Pulitzer Prize.”

  “Hardly,” Jodi said. “I’m a glorified intern at the Montgomery Times . . . who’s going to be late.”

  She was about to say good-bye when Heather said, “Oh my gosh, Jodi. I completely forgot one more thing about Stan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He sent me this freaky e-mail,” Heather said. “Come to think of it, I got it last night—”

  “See, I knew he was all right, wherever he is,” Jodi said.

  “I’ve got to call his mom and let her know. Anyway, it was real short,” Heather said. “He goes, ‘Please pray for me. I just can’t get all the faces out of my head’—or something close to that.”

  Jodi’s forehead crumpled into a thick knot. She wondered if this was one of Stan’s elaborate pranks. First he disappeared for several days. Now this. Jodi knew from firsthand experience that Stan was good at pulling off some pretty embarrassing stunts. But she quickly dismissed the idea, especially since there was something going on with Faith.

  Heather cut in. “Do you think he’s, like, still feeling guilty over the death of his little brother a few years ago?”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s it,” Jodi said.

  “Why not?”

  “Call it a woman’s intuition,” Jodi said evenly. She caught a glimpse of the time on the clock radio as she spoke. “Listen, Heather, I’ve really gotta run. We’ll talk tonight. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  After she hung up, a new thought about Stan’s disappearance crossed Jodi’s mind, but she needed to make a few calls from work to be sure.

  Chapter 2 Tuesday, 11:58 a.m.

  Jodi blinked twice and then pounced on the brake pedal. Her tires screeched against the hot pavement. The car behind her swerved, offering both a blast of an angry horn and a hand gesture for emphasis. She felt her face f lush and managed an embarrassed smile in return.

  She didn’t blame the guy for being ticked off. She had been lost
in her thoughts about Stan’s situation and almost missed the turn into the driveway of the Montgomery Times.

  Jodi felt her pulse race to keep up with the sudden burst of adrenaline. The last thing she needed was another accident so soon after getting her Mazda 626 back from the repair shop a week ago. The little white car looked great considering what it had been through.

  She’d had a crash while outrunning a couple of angry Russian mobsters a month earlier. The gash had run the length of the passenger side of the car, and her windshield had crumbled into a million pieces. Jodi’s heart skipped a beat at the memory.

  She pulled into the tree-lined employee parking lot situated several steps from the entrance. The building was a one-story, nondescript stucco structure built forty years earlier. At least that’s the date she remembered seeing on the cornerstone. She turned off the engine and sat, hands gripping the steering wheel, long enough to control her breathing. She grabbed her purse, stepped out of the car, and then closed the door, still somewhat preoccupied by the near collision.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  Jodi spun around and faced a man who seemed to materialize almost out of thin air. Her heart jumped at the sight of the unexpected visitor. Now what? she thought. She eyed him with distrust, not that she had any reason to be distrustful—at least not yet. It was the suddenness of his appearance near her car door that sparked her defensive posture.

  She figured he was at least as old as her dad, maybe early sixties. His graying hair looked like a dirty mop. His beard, a scraggly bush of black and white hairs twisted together like a Brillo pad, was matted with saliva and food particles. His well-tanned face framed a set of eyes that seemed both intensely focused on her and distant at the same time.

  But it was the suit that seemed most out of place. It appeared to have been tailored to fit the man, not just something he picked off the rack at Goodwill. The wrinkled fabric and the patchwork of tears and stains made the garment look older than it probably was—at least that was her guess.

  She found her voice.