Left Behind Read online

  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 we 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. Blond and blue-eyed, like the original Romanians, who came from Rome, before the Mongols affected their race.”

  “What did you like so much about him?”

  “Let me count,” Rosenzweig had said. “He knew my language as well as his own. And he speaks fluent English. Several others also, they tell me. Well educated but also widely self-taught. And I just like him as a person. Very bright. Very honest. Very open.”

  “What did he want from you?”

  “That was what I liked the best. Because I found him so open and honest, I asked him outright that question. He insisted I call him Nicolae, and so I said, ‘Nicolae’ (this is after an hour of pleasantries), ‘what do you want from me?’ Do you know what he said, young man? He said, ‘Dr. Rosenzweig, I seek only your goodwill.’ What could I say? I said, ‘Nicolae, you have it.’ I am a bit of a pacifist myself, you know. Not unrealistically. I did not tell him this. I merely told him he had my goodwill. Which is something you also have.”

  “I suspect that is not something you bestow easily.”

  “That is why I like you and why you have it. One day you must meet Carpathia. You would like each other. His goals and dreams may never be realized even in his own country, but he is a man of high ideals. If he should emerge, you will hear of him. And as you are emerging in your own orbit, he will likely hear of you, or from you, am I right?”

  “I hope you are.”

  Suddenly it was Buck’s turn at the counter. He gathered up his extension cord and thanked the young woman for bearing with him. “Sorry about that,” he said, pausing briefly for forgiveness that was not forthcoming. “It’s just that today, of all days, well, you understand.”

  Apparently she did not understand. She’d had a rough day, too. She looked at him tolerantly and said, “What can I not do for you?”

  “Oh, you mean because I did not do something you asked?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m saying that to everybody. It’s my little joke because there’s really nothing I can do for anybody. No flights are scheduled today. The airport is going to close any minute. Who knows how long it will take to clear all the wreckage and get any kind of traffic moving again? I mean, I’ll take your request and everything, but I can’t get your luggage, book you a flight, get you a phone, book you a hotel room, anything we love to do for our members. You are a member, aren’t you?”

  “Am I a member!”

  “Gold or platinum?”

  “Lady, I’m, like, a kryptonite member.”

  He flashed his card, showing that he was among the top 3 percent of air travelers in the world. If any flight had one seat in the cheapest section, it had to be given to him and upgraded to first class at no charge.

  “Oh, my gosh,” she said, “tell me you’re not the Cameron Williams from that magazine.”

  “I am.”

  “Time? Honest?”

  “Don’t blaspheme. I’m from the competition.”

  “Oh, I knew that. The reason I know is that I wanted to get into journalism. I studied it in college. I just read about you, didn’t I? Youngest award winner or most cover stories by someone under twelve?”

  “Funny.”

  “Or something.”

  “I can’t believe we’re joking on a day like this,” he said.

  She suddenly clouded over. “I don’t even want to think about it. So what could I do for you if I could do anything?”

  “Here’s the thing,” Buck said. “I have to get to New York. Now don’t give me that look. I know it’s the worst place to try to get to right now. But you know people. You know pilots who fly on the side, charter stuff. You know what airports they would fly out of. Let’s say I had unlimited resources and could pay whatever I needed to. Who would you send me to?”

  She stared at him. “I can’t believe you asked me that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I do know someone. He flies these little jets out of like Waukegan and Palwaukee airports. He’s expensive and he’s the type who would charge double during a crisis, especially if he knew who you were and how desperate.”

  “There won’t be any hiding that. Give me the info.”

  Hearing it on the radio or seeing it on television was one thing. Encountering it for yourself was something else again. Rayford Steele had no idea how it would feel to find evidence that his own wife and son had vanished from the face of the earth.

  At the top of the stairs he paused by the family photos. Irene, always one for order, had hung them chronologically, beginning with his and her great grandparents. Old, cracked black and whites of stern-face
d, rawboned men and women of the Midwest. Then came the faded color shots of their grandparents on their fiftieth wedding anniversaries. Then their parents, their siblings, and themselves. How long had it been since he had studied their wedding photos, Irene with her ancient hairstyle and his so-called fashions from decades past?

  And those family pictures with Chloe eight years old, holding the baby! How grateful he was that Chloe was still here and that somehow he would connect with her! But what did this all say about the two of them? They were lost. He didn’t know what to hope and pray for. That Irene and Raymie were still here and that this was not what it appeared?

  He could wait no longer. Raymie’s door was open a crack. His alarm was beeping. Rayford turned it off. On the bed was a book Raymie had been reading. Rayford slowly pulled the blankets back to reveal Raymie’s Bulls pajama top, his underpants, and his socks. He sat on the bed and wept, nearly smiling at Irene’s harping about Raymie’s not wearing socks to bed.

  He laid the clothes in a neat pile and noticed a picture of himself on the bed table. He stood smiling inside the terminal, his cap tucked under his arm, a 747 outside the window in the background. The picture was signed, “To Raymie with love, Dad.” Under that he had written, “Rayford Steele, Captain, Pan-Continental Airlines, O’Hare.” He shook his head. What kind of a dad autographs a picture for his own son?

  Rayford’s body felt like lead. It was all he could do to force himself to stand. And then he was dizzy, realizing he hadn’t eaten in hours. He slowly made his way out of Raymie’s room without looking back, and he shut the door.

  At the end of the hall he paused before the French doors that led to the master suite. What a beautiful, frilly place Irene had made it, decorated with needlepoint and country knickknacks. Had he ever told her he appreciated it? Had he ever appreciated it?

  There was no alarm to turn off here. The smell of coffee had always roused Irene. Another picture of the two of them, him looking confidently at the camera, her gazing at him. He did not deserve her. He deserved this, he knew, to be mocked by his own self-centeredness and to be stripped of the most important person in his life.

  He approached the bed, knowing what he would find. The indented pillow, the wrinkled covers. He could smell her, though he knew the bed would be cold. He carefully peeled back the blankets and sheet to reveal her locket, which carried a picture of him. Her flannel nightgown, the one he always kidded her about and which she wore only when he was not home, evidenced her now departed form.

  His throat tight, his eyes full, he noticed her wedding ring near the pillow, where she always supported her cheek with her hand. It was too much to bear, and he broke down. He gathered the ring into his palm and sat on the edge of the bed, his body racked with fatigue and grief. He put the ring in his jacket pocket and noticed the package she had mailed. Tearing it open, he found two of his favorite homemade cookies with hearts drawn on the top in chocolate.

  What a sweet, sweet woman! he thought. I never deserved her, never loved her enough! He set the cookies on the bedside table, their essence filling the air. With wooden fingers he removed his clothes and let them fall to the floor. He climbed into the bed and lay facedown, gathering Irene’s nightgown in his arms so he could smell her and imagine her close to him.

  And Rayford cried himself to sleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  Buck Williams ducked into a stall in the Pan-Con Club men’s room to double-check his inventory. Tucked in a special pouch inside his jeans, he carried thousands of dollars’ worth of traveler’s checks, redeemable in dollars, Euros, or yen. His one leather bag contained two changes of clothes, his laptop, cell phone, digital recorder, accessories, toiletries, and some serious, insulated winter gear.

  He had packed for a ten-day trip to Britain when he left New York three days before the apocalyptic disappearances. His practice overseas was to do his own laundry in the sink and let it dry a whole day while wearing one outfit and having one more in reserve. That way he was never burdened with lots of luggage.

  Buck had gone out of his way to stop in Chicago first to mend fences with the Global Weekly’s bureau chief there, a fiftyish black woman named Lucinda Washington. He had gotten crossways with her—what else was new?—when he scooped her staff on, of all things, a sports story that was right under their noses. An aging Bears legend had finally found enough partners to help him buy a professional football team, and Buck had somehow sniffed it out, tracked him down, gotten the story, and run with it.

  “I admire you, Cameron,” Lucinda Washington had said, characteristically refusing to use his nickname. “I always have, as irritating as you can be. But the very least you should have done was let me know.”

  “And let you assign somebody who should have been on top of this anyway?”

  “Sports isn’t even your gig, Cameron. After doing the Newsmaker of the Year and covering the defeat of Russia by Israel, or I should say by God himself, how can you even get interested in penny-ante stuff like this? You Ivy League types aren’t supposed to like anything but lacrosse and rugby, are you?”

  “This was bigger than a sports story, Lucy, and—”

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry, Lucinda. And wasn’t that just a bit of stereotyping? Lacrosse and rugby?”

  They had shared a laugh.

  “I’m not even saying you should have told me you were in town,” she had said. “All I’m saying is, at least let me know before the piece runs in the Weekly. My people and I were embarrassed enough to get beat like that, especially by the legendary Cameron Williams, but for it to be a, well—”

  “That’s why you squealed on me?”

  Lucinda had laughed again. “That’s why I told Plank it would take a face-to-face to get you back in my good graces.”

  “And what made you think I’d care about that?”

  “Because you love me,” she had said. “You can’t help yourself.” Buck had smiled. “But, Cameron, if I catch you in my town again, on my beat without my knowledge, I’m gonna whip your tail.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, Lucinda. Let me give you a lead I don’t have time to follow up on. I happen to know the NFL franchise purchase is not going to go through after all. The money was shaky and the league’s gonna reject the offer. Your local legend is going to be embarrassed.”

  Lucinda had begun scribbling furiously. “You’re not serious,” she had said, reaching for her phone.

  “No, I’m not, but it was sure fun to see you swing into action.”

  “You creep,” she had said. “Anybody else I’d be throwing out of here on his can.”

  “But you love me. You can’t help yourself.”

  “That wasn’t even Christian,” she had said.

  “Don’t start with that again.”

  “Come on, Cameron. You know you got your mind right when you saw what God did for Israel.”

  “Granted, but don’t start calling me a Christian. Deist is as much as I’ll cop to.”

  “Stay in town long enough to come to my church, and God’ll getcha.”

  “He’s already got me, Lucinda. But Jesus is another thing. The Israelis hate Jesus, but look what God did for them.”

  “The Lord works in—”

  “Mysterious ways, yeah, I know. Anyway, I’m going to London Monday. Working on a hot tip from a friend there.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “Not on your life. We don’t know each other that well yet.”

  She had laughed, and they had parted with a friendly embrace. That had been three days ago.

  Buck had boarded the ill-fated flight to London prepared for anything. He was following a tip from a former Princeton classmate, a Welshman who had been working in the London financial district since graduate school. Dirk Burton had been a reliable source in the past, tipping off Buck about secret high-level meetings among international financiers. For years Buck had been slightly amused at Dirk’s tendency to buy into conspiracy theories. “Let me get this straight,” Bu
ck had asked him once, “you think these guys are the real world leaders, right?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Cam,” Dirk had said. “All I know is, they’re big, they’re private, and after they meet, major things happen.”

  “So you think they get world leaders elected, handpick dictators, that kind of a thing?”

  “I don’t belong to the conspiracy book club, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then where do you get this stuff, Dirk? Come on, you’re a relatively sophisticated guy. Power brokers behind the scenes? Movers and shakers who control the money?”

  “All I know is, the London exchange, the Tokyo exchange, the New York exchange—we all basically drift until these guys meet. Then things happen.”

  “You mean like when the New York Stock Exchange has a blip because of some presidential decision or some vote of Congress, it’s really because of your secret group?”

  “No, but that’s a perfect example. If there’s a blip in your market because of your president’s health, imagine what it does to world markets when the real money people get together.”

  “But how does the market know they’re meeting? I thought you were the only one who knew.”

  “Cam, be serious. OK, not a lot of people agree with me, but then I don’t say this to just anyone. One of our muckety-mucks is part of this group. When they have a meeting, no, nothing happens right away. But a few days later, a week, changes occur.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re going to call me crazy, but a friend of mine is related to a girl who works for the secretary of our guy in this group, and—”

  “Whoa! Hold it! What’s the trail here?”

  “OK, maybe the connection is a little remote, but you know the old guy’s secretary is not going to say anything. Anyway, the scuttlebutt is that this guy is real hot on getting the whole world onto one currency. You know half our time is spent on exchange rates and all that. Takes computers forever to constantly readjust every day, based on the whims of the markets.”