by Tim LaHaye
“How long will you be in New York?”
“If the people of Romania will permit me, I may be here an entire month. I hate to be away from my people, but they understand that I am concerned for the greater global good, and with technology as it is today and the wonderful people in positions of influence in Romania, I feel confident I can keep in contact and that my nation will not suffer for my brief absence.”
By the time of the evening network news, a new international star had been born. He even had a nickname: Saint Nick. More than sound bites had been taken from the floor of the U.N. and the press conference. Carpathia enjoyed several minutes on each telecast, rousing the U.N. audience with the recitation of countries, urgently calling for a recommitment to world peace.
He had carefully avoided specific talk of global disarmament. His was a message of love and peace and understanding and brotherhood, and to quit fighting seemed to go without saying. No doubt he would be back to hammer home that point, but in the meantime, Carpathia was on the charmed ride of his life.
Broadcast commentators urged that he be named an adjunct adviser to the U.N. secretary-general and that he visit each headquarters of the various U.N. agencies around the world. By late that evening, he was invited to make appearances at each of the international meetings coming up within the next few weeks.
He was seen in the company of Jonathan Stonagal, no surprise to Buck. And immediately following the press conference he was whisked away to other appointments. Dr. Rosenzweig found Buck. “I was able to get a commitment from him for late this evening,” the old man said. “He has several interviews, mostly with the television people, and then he will be live on ABC’s Nightline with Wallace Theodore. Following that, he will return to his hotel and will be happy to give you an uninterrupted half hour.”
Buck told Steve he wanted to hurry home to his apartment, get freshened up, get his messages, run to the office and educate himself as quickly as possible from the files, and be totally prepared for the interview. Steve agreed to accompany him.
“But I’m still paranoid,” Buck admitted. “If Stonagal is related in any way to Todd-Cothran, and we know he is, who knows what he thinks about what happened in London?”
“That’s a long shot,” Steve said. “Even if that dirt goes into the exchange and Scotland Yard, that doesn’t mean Stonagal would have any interest in it. I would think he’d want to stay as far from it as possible.”
“But, Steve, you have to agree it’s likely that Dirk Burton was murdered because he got too close to Todd-Cothran’s secret connections with Stonagal’s international group. If they wipe out people they see as their enemies—even friends of their enemies like Alan Tompkins and I were—where will they stop?”
“But you’re assuming Stonagal was aware of what happened in London. He’s bigger than that. Todd-Cothran or the guy at the Yard may have seen you as a threat, but Stonagal has probably never heard of you.”
“You don’t think he reads the Weekly?”
“Don’t be hurt. You’re like a gnat to him if he even knows your name.”
“You know what a swat with a magazine can do to a gnat, Steve?”
“There’s one big hole in your argument,” Steve said later as they entered Buck’s apartment. “If Stonagal is dangerous to you, what does that make Carpathia?”
“Like I said, Carpathia can be only a pawn.”
“Buck! You just heard him. Did I overrate him?”
“No.”
“Were you blown away?”
“Yes.”
“Does he look like anybody’s pawn?”
“No. So I can assume only that he knows nothing about this.”
“You’re pretty sure he met with Todd-Cothran and Stonagal in London before coming here?”
“That had to be business,” Buck said. “Planning for the trip and his involvement with international advisers.”
“You’re taking a big risk,” Steve said.
“I have no choice. Anyway, I’m willing. Until he proves otherwise, I’m going to trust Nicolae Carpathia.”
“Hmph,” Steve said.
“What?”
“It’s just that usually you work the other way around. You distrust someone until they prove otherwise.”
“Well, it’s a new world, Steve. Nothing’s the same as it was last week, is it?”
And Buck pushed the button on his answering machine while beginning to undress for his shower.
Rayford pulled into his driveway with a sack of groceries on the seat beside him. He had gotten a hold of Hattie Durham, who wanted to keep him on the phone talking until he begged off. She was delighted with the dinner invitation and said she could come three nights later, on Thursday.
Rayford guessed he was half an hour behind Chloe, and he was impressed that she had left the garage door open for him. When he found the door locked between the garage and the house, however, he was concerned. He knocked. No answer.
Rayford reopened the garage door to go around to the front, but just before shutting it on his way out, he stopped. Something was different in the garage. He flipped on the light to add to the single bulb of the door opener. All three cars were in their places, but—
Rayford walked around the Jeep at the end. Raymie’s stuff was missing! His bike. His four-wheeler. What was this?
Rayford jogged to the front door. The window of the storm door was broken and the door hung on one hinge. The main door had been kicked in. No small feat, as the door was huge and heavy with a dead bolt. The entire frame had been obliterated and lay in pieces on the floor of the entryway. Rayford rushed in, calling for Chloe.
He ran from room to room, praying nothing had happened to the only family member he had left. Everything of immediate material value seemed to be gone. Radios, televisions, DVD players, iPods, jewelry, video games, the silver, even the china. To his relief there was no sign of blood or struggle.
Rayford was on the phone to the police when his call waiting clicked. “I hate to put you on hold,” he said, “but that may be my daughter.”
It was. “Oh, Daddy!” she said, crying. “Are you all right? I came in through the garage and saw all that stuff missing. I thought maybe they’d come back, so I locked the door to the garage and was going to lock the front, but I saw the glass and wood and everything, so I ran out the back. I’m three doors down.”
“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.
