Natszal: "Left" (4:2) LAHAYE & JENKINS
Posted on Saturday, March 13, 2010 by Michael James Stone
The Rapture Series
Why Do you Believe? What Do you Believe? How Do You Believe? Who Do You Believe?
“Reason to Believe
Natszal: "Left" (4:2)
“LEFT”
THE EARTH'S LAST DAYS
TIM LAHAYE & JERRY B. JENKINS
“Not anymore. They dedicated the noon newscast to her today. The whole family is gone.” Rayford exhaled loudly. “This is unbelievable. Have you lost people?” “Fraid so,” she said, her voice quavery. “About a dozen nieces and nephews.” “Wow.”
“You?” “I don't know yet. I'm just getting back from a flight, and I haven't been able to reach anybody.”
“Do you want me to wait for you?” “No. I have a car. If I need to go anywhere, I'll be all right.” “O'Hare's closed, you know,” she said. “Really? Since when?” “They just announced it on the radio. Runways are full of planes, terminals full of
people, roads full of cars.” “Tell me about it.” As the woman drove, sniffling, into Mount Prospect, Rayford felt fatigue he had
never endured before. Every few houses had driveways jammed with cars, people milling about. It appeared everyone everywhere had lost someone. He knew he would soon be counted among them.
“Can I offer you anything?” he asked the woman as she pulled into his driveway. She shook her head. “I'm just glad to have been able to help. You could pray for me, if you think of it. I don't know if I can endure this.”
“I'm not much for praying,” Rayford admitted. “You will be,” she said. “I never was before either, but am now.” “Then you can pray for me,” he said. “I will. Count on it.” Rayford stood in the driveway and waved to the woman till she was out of sight.
The yard and the walk were spotless as usual, and the huge home, his trophy house, was sepulchral. He unlocked the front door. From the newspaper on the stoop to the closed drapes in the picture window to the bitter smell of burned coffee when he opened the door, everything pointed to what he dreaded.
Irene was a fastidious housekeeper. Her morning routine included the coffeepot on a timer kicking on at, six, percolating her special blend of decaf with an egg. The radio was set to come on at 6:30, tuned to the local Christian station. The first thing Irene did when she came downstairs was open the drapes at the front and back of the house.
With a lump in his throat Rayford tossed the newspaper into the kitchen and took
his time hanging up his coat and sliding his bag into the closet. He remembered the package Irene had mailed him at O'Hare and put it in his wide uniform pocket. He would carry it with him as he searched for evidence that she had disappeared. If she was gone, he sure hoped she had been right. He wanted above all else for her to have seen her dream realized, for her to have been taken away by Jesus in the twinkling of an eye—a thrilling, painless journey to his side in heaven, as she always loved to say. She deserved that if anybody did.
And Raymie. Where would he be? With her? Of course. He went with her to
church, even when Rayford didn't go. He seemed to like it, to get into it. Rayford unplugged the coffeepot that had been turning itself off and then back on for seven hours and had ruined the brew. He dumped the mess and left the pot in the sink. He flicked off the radio, which was piping the Christian station's network news hookup into the air, droning on about the tragedy and mayhem that had resulted from the disappearances.
He looked about the living room, dining room, and kitchen, expecting to see nothing but the usual neatness of Irene's home. His eyes filling with tears, he opened the drapes as she would have. Was it possible she had gone somewhere? Visited someone? Left him a message? But if she had and he did find her, what would that say about her own faith? Would that prove this was not the Rapture she believed in? Or would it mean she was lost, just like he was? For her sake, if this was the Rapture, he hoped she was gone. But the ache and the emptiness were already overwhelming.
He switched on the answering machine and heard all the same messages he had heard when he had gotten through from O'Hare, plus the message he had left. His own voice sounded strange to him. He detected in it a fatalism, as if he knew he was not leaving a message for his wife and son, but only pretending to.
He dreaded going upstairs. He moseyed through the family room to the garage exit. If only one of the cars was missing. And one was! Maybe she had gone somewhere! But as soon as he thought of it, Rayford slumped onto the step just inside the garage. It was his own BMW that was gone. The one he had driven to O'Hare the day before. It would be waiting for him when the traffic cleared.
The other two cars were there, Irene's and the one Chloe used when she was home. And all those memories of Raymie were there, too. His four-wheeler, his snowmobile, his bike. Rayford hated himself for his broken promises to spend more time with Raymie. He'd have plenty of time to regret that.
Rayford stood and heard the rattle of the envelope in his pocket. It was time to go upstairs.
It was nearly Buck Williams's turn at the head of the line at the Pan-Con Club counter when he found the material he had been looking for on disk. At some point
during their several days of taping, Buck had raised the issue of every other country trying to curry favor with Dr. Rosenzweig and hoping to gain access to his formula for its own gain.
“This has been an interesting aspect,” Rosenzweig had allowed, his eyes twinkling. “I was most amused by a visit from the vice president of the United States himself. He wanted to honor me, to bring me to the president, to have a parade, to confer a degree, all that. He diplomatically said nothing about my owing him anything in return, but I would owe him everything, would I not? Much was said about what a friend of Israel the United States has been over the decades. And this has been true, no? How could I argue?
“But I pretended to see the awards and kindnesses as all for my own benefit, and I humbly turned them down. Because you see, young man, I am most humble, am I not?” The old man had laughed uproariously at himself and relayed several other stories of visiting dignitaries who worked at charming him.
“Was anyone sincere?” Buck had asked. “Did anyone impress you?” “Yes!” Rosenzweig had said without hesitation. “From the most perplexing and surprising corner of the world, Romania. I do not know if he was sent or came on his own, but I suspect the latter because I believe he is the lowest-ranking official I entertained following the award. That is one of the reasons I wanted to see him. He
asked for the audience himself. He did not go through typical political and protocol channels.” “And he was ... ?” “Nicolae Carpathia.” “Carpathia like the—?” “Yes, like the Carpathian Mountains. A melodic name, you must admit. I found him
most charming and humble. Not unlike myself!” Again he had laughed. “I've not heard of him.” “You will! You will.” Buck had tried to lead the old man. “Because he's …” “Impressive, that's all I can say.” “And he's some sort of a low-level diplomat at this point?” “He is a member of the lower house of Romanian government.” “In the senate?” “No, the senate is the upper house.” “Of course.” “Don't feel bad that you don't know, even though you are an international journalist.
This is something only Romanians and amateur political scientists like me know.
That is something I like to study.” “In your spare time.” “Precisely. But even I had not known of this man. I mean, I knew someone in the
House of Deputies—that's what they call the lower house in Romania—was a peacemaker and leading a movement toward disarmament. But I did not know his name. I believe his goal is global disarmament, which Israelis have come to distrust. But of course he must first bring about disarmament in his own country, which not even you will see in your lifetime. This man is about your age, by the way. Blonde and blue eyed, like the original Romanians, who came from Rome, before the Mongols affected their race.”
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