by Tim LaHaye
Floyd was quiet. The morphine must have done its work. Buck slowed as he drew within a mile of the safe house. He peered in the rearview mirror. He had not been followed. His phone startled him. “Buck here,” he said.
“You were going to keep me posted,” Chloe said.
“Almost home. A few minutes.”
“Is Floyd with you?”
“Yeah, but he’s not well.”
“Hattie and I changed his bed and freshened the room.”
“Good. I’m going to need help with him.”
“Is he all right, Buck? Are you?”
“I’ll see you soon, hon.”
“Buck! Is everything all right?”
“Please, Chloe. I’ll see you in a minute.”
“All right,” she said, sounding displeased.
He clicked the phone shut and dropped it in his pocket. He glanced at Leah. “Is he going to last the night?”
“I’m sorry, Buck. He’s gone.”
Buck slammed on the brake and they lurched forward as the Rover slid in the dirt. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
Buck turned in his seat. Leah had covered Floyd’s face again, but the sudden stop had pressed his body against the back of the front seat.
“Do you know who this man is?” Buck said, his own desperate voice scaring him.
“I know he was a good doctor and courageous.”
“He risked his life to tell me where the GC took Chloe. Came there himself to help her escape. Stayed up for days with Hattie. Saved her life. The miscarriage. Delivered our son. Was never too big to pitch in with the hard work.”
“I’m so sorry, Buck.”
Buck pulled the sheet from Floyd’s face. In the darkness he could barely make it out. He turned on the inside light and recoiled at the death mask. Floyd’s teeth were bared, his eyes open, still filled with blood around the pupils. “Oh, Doc!” he said.
Leah turned in her seat and rummaged in her bag for latex gloves. She carefully closed Floyd’s eyes and mouth, massaging his cheeks until he looked more asleep than dead. “Help me with that shoulder,” she said. Buck took one side and Leah the other, and they tugged at the body until Floyd looked more naturally reposed. Buck drove slowly, avoiding ruts and bumps.
When he pulled up to the safe house, the curtain parted and he saw Chloe peer out. She was nursing Kenny. He drove around the side but stopped short of the backyard. “Give me a minute,” he said. “You don’t mind staying here with him—”
“Go,” Leah said.
Chloe held open the back door with one hand, Kenny now over her other shoulder. “Who’s with you?” she said. “I didn’t see Floyd.”
Buck was spent. He leaned forward to peck Chloe on the cheek, then did the same to Kenny, just as the baby burped. “Can you put him down?” he said.
“Buck—”
“Please,” he said. “I need to talk to everybody.”
The others were already waiting in the kitchen. Chloe went to put the baby down and quickly returned. Rayford sat at the table, and it was clear from his clothes he had spent hours working in the basement. Hattie sat on the table. Tsion, with a sad, knowing look, leaned against the refrigerator.
Buck found it hard to speak, and Chloe came to him, wrapping an arm around his waist. “We have another martyr,” he said, and told the story, including that Leah was waiting in the car with Floyd’s body.
Tsion hung his head. “God bless him,” he said, his voice thick.
Hattie looked stricken. “He caught that from me? He died because of me?”
Chloe wrapped Buck in her arms and wept with him. “Are any of us susceptible?”
Buck shook his head. “We would have had symptoms by now. Floyd had symptoms but didn’t tell us.”
Buck stole a glance at Rayford. They would all look to him. Tsion would pray, but Rayford would walk them through the decision on Leah, the burial, everything. Yet Rayford had not moved. He sat without expression, forearms on the table. When Rayford’s eyes met his, Buck sensed he was demanding to know what was expected.
Where was Rayford the Leader, their take-charge guy?
“We, ah, shouldn’t leave Leah out there long,” Buck said. “And we’re going to have to do something with the body.”
Rayford still stared at Buck, who could not hold his gaze. Had Buck done something wrong? Had he any choice other than to race off with Floyd to the hospital, then bring him back, Leah in tow?
“Daddy?” Chloe said softly.
“What?” Rayford said flatly, turning his eyes on her.
“I just . . . I’m . . . we’re wondering—”
“What?” he said. “What! You’re wondering what we’re supposed to do now?” He stood, his chair sliding against the wall and rattling onto its side. “Well, so am I!” Buck had never before heard him raise his voice. “So am I!” Rayford railed. “How much can we take? How much are we supposed to take?”
Rayford picked up his chair and slammed it upright so hard that it bounced. He kicked it against the wall again and it flew back toward the table, chasing Hattie into Tsion’s arms.
“Rayford,” Tsion said quietly.
The chair would not have hit Hattie. It hit the edge of the table and spun, coming to rest next to Rayford. He yanked it to where he could sit again and slammed both fists on the table.
Tsion released Hattie, who was shaking. “I think we should—,” he began, but Rayford cut him off.
“Forgive me,” he said, clearly still fuming and seemingly unable to look anyone in the eye. “Get Leah in here and then let’s get the body buried. Tsion, would you say a few—”
“Of course. I suggest we make Leah comfortable, then have the burial, then spend more time with her.”
Rayford nodded. “Forgive me,” he said again.
Buck backed the Rover into the yard, then brought Leah in and introduced her to everyone. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “I didn’t know Dr. Charles well, but—”
“We were about to pray,” Tsion said. “Then we would like to get to know you.”
“Certainly.”
When Tsion knelt on the hard floor, the others followed, except Hattie, who remained standing. “God, our Father,” Tsion began, his voice weak and quavery. “We confess we are beyond our strength to keep coming to you at terrible times like this, when we have lost one of our family. We do not want to accept it. We do not know how much more we can bear. All we can do is trust in your promise that we shall one day see our dear brother again in the land where sorrow shall be turned to singing, and where there shall be no more tears.”
When the prayer was over, Buck moved toward the cellar stairs.
“Where are you going?” Rayford said.
“To get shovels.”
“Just bring one.”
“It’s a big job, Ray. Many hands—”
“Just bring one, Buck. Now, Ms. Rose, I want to be clear on this. Floyd died from the poison Carpathia used to try to kill Hattie, is that right?”
“That’s my understanding.”
“Straight answer, ma’am.”
“Sir, I know only what Dr. Charles told me. I have no personal knowledge of how Hattie was poisoned, but it seems clear that Floyd was contaminated by her, yes.”
“So Nicolae Carpathia is responsible for this death.”
Buck was impressed that Leah did not appear obligated to reply.
“This was murder, people,” Rayford added. “Pure and simple.”
“Rayford,” Tsion said, “Carpathia likely has never heard of Doc Charles, and so, technically, while it is safe to say he tried to have Miss Durham killed—”
“I’m not talking court-of-law guilty,” Rayford said, his face flushed. “I’m saying the poison Carpathia intended to kill someone killed Doc.”
Tsion shrugged resignedly.
“Now, Buck,” Rayford said, “where’s my shovel?”
“Please let me help,” Buck said.
Rayford stood
and straightened. “Save me from saying one more thing I’ll regret tomorrow, would you, Buck? This is something I want to do myself. Something I need to do, all right?”
“But it should actually be deeper than six feet, so close to the house and—” Buck held up both hands in surrender to Rayford’s out-of-patience look. He found the biggest shovel in the cellar.
While Rayford toiled in the backyard, Leah talked about the most sanitary way to prepare the body. Unable to find lime with which to line the grave, she concocted a substitute made from kitchen products. “And,” she told Buck, “we should wrap the body in a plastic tarp.” She distributed gloves for those who would touch the body and prescribed a solution for disinfecting the Rover and the gurney.
Buck was amazed at what Rayford accomplished, considering he had worked all day in the shelter. He dug a hole seven feet long, three feet wide, and more than eight feet deep. He needed help to be hoisted out, covered with mud. The three men lowered Floyd’s tarpaulin-shrouded body into the hole, and Rayford allowed the others to help fill it back in.
The group, save the sleeping baby, stood around the grave in the low light emitted from the house. Chloe, Hattie, and Leah were bundled against the cool night air. The men, sweaty from the shovel work, soon shivered.
Buck never ceased to be amazed at Tsion’s eloquence. “Blessed in the sight of the Lord is the death of a saint,” he said. “Floyd Charles was our brother, a beloved, earnest member of our family. Anyone who would like to say a word about him, please do so now, and I will pray.”
“I knew him to be a gifted physician and a brave believer,” Leah said.
Buck said, “Every time I think of him I’ll think of our baby and of Chloe’s health.”
“Me too,” Chloe said. “So many memories in such a short time.”
Hattie stood shaking, and Buck noticed Rayford looking at her, as if expecting her to say something. She glanced at him and then away, then shook her head.
“Nothing,” Rayford said. “You have nothing to say about the man who saved your life.”
“Rayford,” Tsion said.
“Of course I do!” Hattie said, her voice pinched. “I can’t believe he died because of me! I don’t know what to say! I hope he’s gone to his reward.”
“Let me tell you something else,” Rayford said, his anger evidently unabated. “Floyd loved you, Hattie. You treated him like dirt, but he loved you.”
“I know,” she said, a whine in her voice. “I know you all love me in your own w—”
“I’m telling you he loved you. Loved you. Cared deeply for you, wanted to tell you.”
“You mean—? You couldn’t know that.”
“He told me! I think he’d want you to know.”
“Rayford,” Tsion said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “anything else you would like to say about Floyd?”
“This is a death that must be avenged. Like Ken’s and Amanda’s and Bruce’s.”
“Vengeance is the Lord’s,” Tsion said.
“If only he would include me in that,” Rayford said.
Tsion looked hard at him. “Be careful about wishing for things you do not really want,” he said. “Let me close in prayer.” But Buck could not hear him. Rayford had begun to weep. His breath came in great heaves and he covered his mouth with his hand. Soon he could not contain the sobs, and he fell to his knees and wailed in the night. Chloe rushed to him and held him.
“It’s all right, Daddy,” she said as she helped him up and walked him into the house. “It’s all right.”
Rayford pulled away from her and rushed up the stairs. Buck took Chloe in his arms, and the mud that had transferred to her from her father also smeared his clothes.
Rayford was thankful for the well and the generator-run water heater as he stood under the steaming shower in the safe house. His muscles were finally untying. What a day! The inexplicable anger that had sent him marching into the morning air had been building for months. Working in the cellar had not dented it, especially when he found himself alone all day. The awful news about Floyd had finally made him erupt in a way he hadn’t since a loud fight with Irene fifteen years before. And that had been the result of too much alcohol.
While he felt bad about mistreating the others, something about this anger seemed righteous. Was it possible God had planted in his heart this intolerance for injustice for the sole purpose of preparing him to assassinate Carpathia? Or was he deluding himself? Rayford didn’t want to think he was losing his mind. No one would understand a man like him trying to rationalize murder, even the murder of the Antichrist.
Rayford turned the dial to as hot as he could bear it and hung his head beneath the spray. His prayers had become entreaties that God allow him to do the unthinkable. How much was a man supposed to endure? The loss of his wife and son were his fault. He could have gone to heaven with them, had he been a man of faith and not pride. But losing Bruce, then Amanda, then Ken, now Doc—ah, why should he be surprised? It was a numbers game now. Did he expect to be among the last standing at the Glorious Appearing? He certainly wouldn’t be if he took a shot at Nicolae Carpathia. But he probably wouldn’t survive either way. Might as well go out with guns blazing.
Rayford stepped out of the shower and looked at himself in the steamed-up mirror, a towel draped over his shoulders. As the vapor dissipated and his face became clearer, he hardly recognized himself. Even a year ago he had felt all right, and Amanda seemed impressed with his mature look. Now mature would be a compliment. He looked and felt older than his years. Everyone did now, of course, but Rayford believed he had aged more quickly than most.
His face was lean and lined, his eyes baggy, his mouth turned down. He had never been much for ascribing depression to every blue period or downtime, but now he had to wonder. Was he depressed? Clinically depressed? That was the kind of thing he might have discussed with Floyd. And with the thought of his name came that stab in the gut. People around him were dying, and there would be no end to it until Jesus returned. That would be wonderful, but could he last? If he responded like this to someone he had known as briefly as Floyd, what would happen when, if, if . . . he didn’t want to think about it. Chloe? The baby? Buck? Tsion?
This woman from the hospital, Leah, would she be worth talking to? Trying out a few ideas on a professional, a virtual stranger, seemed easier than raising the same things with anyone else in the house. In a peculiar way, Hattie knew him as well as the others. But she was still an outsider, even more than the newcomer was. He could never reveal his deepest thoughts to her.
Of course, he wouldn’t say anything about his Carpathia plot to Leah Rose either. But he might get some insight into his own mind. Maybe she had dealt with depressed people, or knew doctors who had.
Rayford realized as he dried his hair that he recognized neither the man in the mirror nor the man inside anymore. The schemes playing at the edges of his mind were so far afield from the Rayford Steele he thought he was that he could only imagine what Chloe would say. And she knew only the half of it.
His new abruptness was hardly hidden from the rest of the Trib Force. They had all forgiven each other countless times for pettiness. All except Tsion, of course. It seemed he never offended, never had to be forgiven. Some people had the ability to live with grace despite untenable conditions. Tsion was one.
But Rayford had stepped beyond selfish behavior in an enclosed environment. He had threatened the status quo, the way of life—difficult as it was. And he was supposed to be the leader. He knew he was in charge only in the manner of the manager of a baseball team. Tsion was the Babe Ruth, the one who won ball games. But still Rayford had a vital role, a position of authority, a spiritual responsibility of headship as an elder would in a church.
Was he still worthy? Part of him was sure he was not. On the other hand, if he wasn’t going bats and if he really had been chosen of God to have a part in a centuries-old assassination plot, he was someone special after all.
Rayford pu
lled on a huge robe and stepped out of the bathroom. So I’m either anointed or a megalomaniac. Great. Who’s going to let me know? The old Rayford Steele fought to jar himself to his senses, while the rage-filled, righteously indignant, grieving, depressed, frustrated, caged member of the Tribulation Force continued to entertain thoughts of grandeur. Or at least revenge. I’m a sick man, he told himself. And he heard voices downstairs. Praying.
Mac McCullum moved steadily along on his daily jog as the sun rose orange over the radiant city of New Babylon. He couldn’t get over the beauty and what a privilege it might have been to be there under other circumstances. State-of-the-art, first-class, top-drawer, all the clichés came to life when someone considered this gleaming new megalopolis.
But with his secret conversion, Mac had become a mole, subversive, part of the rebellion. A lifetime of military training, self-discipline, chain of command, all-for-one-and-one-for-all thinking was now conflicted. Having reached the pinnacle as a career big-plane pilot, he now used every trick and wile he had ever learned to serve the cause of God.
Whatever satisfaction came with that was akin to the satisfaction he got that he could still clip off six brisk miles a day at his age. To some that was impressive. To him it was a necessity. He was fighting time, gravity, and a malady of physical attacks that came with mere longevity. That’s just how he felt in his job. He should feel fulfilled, but the enemy was his employer. And as a valued, crucial plant for the other side, he should exult in the fact that he knew without doubt he was on the right side—the winning side.
But fear precluded any joy. The second he began to enjoy his role, he was vulnerable. Living on the edge, knowing that the one slip that gave him away would be his last, took all the fun out of the job. A measure of satisfaction came with the knowledge that he was good at what he did, both overtly and surreptitiously. But to wonder constantly when the other shoe would drop, when you would be found out—that was no way to live.
As the sun cleared the horizon and Mac felt the sweat on his weathered head and face, he knew that his exposure would likely be accomplished long before he was aware of it. That was the curse of it. Not only did he not know when or if he would be found out, but there was also one thing he was sure of: he would be the last to know. How long would Carpathia, Fortunato, any of them, let him twist in the wind, still trying to ply his trade when they already knew the truth? Would they let him hang himself, implicate the comrades he loved and served, allow him to make a mess of the precarious safety he tried to protect?
