The Rapture: Evil Advances / Before They Were Left Behind Page 6

  On the way home, Raymie wanted to talk. And that was something Rayford had hoped to avoid. The boy was nothing if not direct.

  “Dad,” he said, “do you believe in Jesus?”

  “Well, yeah, sure. I mean, I guess so.”

  “You either do or you don’t. You know you have to believe in Jesus to go to heaven.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course. Doesn’t everybody know that? Mom said you grew up going to church and that you used to go all the time with her.”

  “I know. Yeah, I did. But there are lots of people who go to church who don’t agree that you have to believe in Jesus to go to heaven.”

  “But they’re wrong, aren’t they? I mean, Jesus is the one who said it. He said that nobody can come to God but through Him.”

  “Now, Raymie, I’m glad you’re going to church, and I’m sure it’s going to be good for you in the end. But you know the last thing I want is for something that’s meant for your good to wind up making you intolerant. You know what that means?”

  “Tell me.”

  “As you get older you’ll realize that there are a lot of well-meaning people who think they have God all figured out and really believe that their way is the only way to God. Frankly, that doesn’t make sense to me. I think there are a lot of different paths to God, and one is just as good as another. I don’t think God would punish somebody who never heard of Jesus and was doing the best he could in the religion of his choice. Or no religion. As long as he’s trying to be a good person.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow what?”

  “You sound just like the people Pastor Billings talks about. People who think they have it all figured out, but they don’t really believe in Jesus.”

  “I told you. I believe in Jesus.”

  “But you don’t believe what He said.”

  “Now, Raymie, Jesus was alive two thousand years ago, so it’s hard to know what He really said. He was a wonderful man, a religious man, a good teacher. The fact that He’s still famous and still remembered means He must have been on the ball.”

  Raymie laughed. “On the ball! I’ve never heard anybody say that about Jesus before. You want to know what I believe?”

  “I think I know, but sure, let’s hear it.”

  “I think Jesus was either crazy or a liar or telling the truth.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t have to be that cut-and-dried, Son.”

  “Sure it does. Paster Billings has talked about this. You said Jesus was a great teacher, but He said He was the Son of God and the only way to His Father. If that’s not true, He was either lying or thought He was something He wasn’t, right?”

  Rayford pretended to be more interested in the traffic. “Well, like I say, Raymie, we can’t be totally sure He was quoted exactly, can we?”

  “If we can’t,” Raymie said, “how do we know what to believe?”

  “That’s my point, Son. Don’t be so quick to assume that everything you read and hear, even in church, is the whole truth.”

  “So you don’t believe Jesus is coming back either, right?”

  “Coming back?”

  “Mom was going to talk to you about what Pastor Billings has been preaching about. Jesus coming back.”

  So that’s what she was trying to get to. “Uh, no, we haven’t gotten a chance to discuss that yet. I’ve been real busy.”

  “Tell me about it. We were supposed to do this weeks ago.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. Now that we’ve got this stuff, we can get out together more.”

  “Now that we’ve got this stuff? How does that give you more time?”

  “Hey, are you hungry?”

  “Soon. Right now I’m just kinda worried about you.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me. I said I was sorry, and I promise to carve out the time for us. Okay?”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about. Okay, it is a little, because sometimes it seems like you just promise me to keep me from bugging you, but then it never happens, and—”

  “Never happens!? What are we doing right now?”

  “I know. But what I’m worried about is that when Jesus does come back, you won’t be ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To go to heaven with Him. You should really come to church Sunday. Pastor Billings is finishing his series on this, and it’s really great. Even I can understand it.”

  Good for you. “So Jesus comes back and everybody goes to heaven with Him?”

  “Not everybody, Dad. That’s just it. You have to believe in Him.”

  “I do. I’ll be okay.”

  “You don’t really.”

  “Okay, can we just disagree about this and still love each other, Raymie? I don’t want to spoil our time together with arguing.”

  “I do love you, Dad. That’s why I’m worried.”

  “Well, don’t worry about me. If good people are floating up to Jesus someday, I’ll be right with you.”

  “But it isn’t good people who go. It’s forgiven people.”

  He sounds just like his mother! “All right, end of discussion, okay? As you get older you’ll realize there are all kinds of ways to look at this stuff, and each person is free to come to whatever conclusions he wants.”

  Raymie fell silent, and while Rayford hoped he hadn’t hurt the boy’s feelings, he was relieved to take a break from all the religious mumbo jumbo.

  At home Raymie helped get the vehicles off the trailer, but as Rayford finished putting them up in the garage, he overheard the boy talking with Irene, who had asked how things went.

  “Dad’s going to hell,” Raymie said. “He doesn’t think he is. He thinks he isn’t. But he doesn’t believe in Jesus. Not really.”

  “He’s at the top of my prayer list,” Irene said. “Yours too?”

  “’Course.”

  EIGHT

  THOUGH LEON FORTUNATO was licking his wounds over having to prove himself to his boss anew daily, he couldn’t deny that Carpathia treated him well in many respects, not the least of which was the exquisite apartment he enjoyed. Nicolae had given him his choice between lavish quarters within Carpathia’s own estate or the entire top floor of a palatial apartment building in downtown Bucharest. Leon had chosen the latter.

  He lounged next to a dancing fire and before the TV, watching today’s staged presidential event that depicted the gregarious Gheorghe Vasile being serenaded and waved at with flowers by schoolchildren in yet another parade in his honor. That made it all the more surreal when Leon’s cell phone chirped and the president himself was on the other end.

  Leon had to admit it was disconcerting that the angrier Vasile grew, the more calmly and directly he spoke. “I am not a happy man, Mr. Fortunato. You must understand that, despite your efforts and the wishes of Nicolae Carpathia, I remain president of this republic and have access to more power than you can imagine.”

  If he only knew the power to which Carpathia and I have access! “And you are threatening me why?” Leon said.

  “Because someone came nosing around my grandchildren, and I will not have that.”

  “Nosing around?”

  “Do not play ignorant with me, sir. You predicted the same if I did not comply with your boss’s ridiculous deadline.”

  “Which fast approaches.”

  “And if I tell you what you can do with your implications and threats?”

  “I believe you know the answer to that, Gheorghe. You may find in office your number-two man—perhaps whom you prefer over Dr. Carpathia—but you will be vilified and ruined in the process. Your scandalous dealings will be made known all over the world. Whatever legacy you think you have nurtured will be seen for the sham that it is, much like the fiction I am watching on TV even as we speak. And for the record, I know nothing of any ‘nosing around’ your grandchildren, as you put it.”

  “Is that so?”

  “What reason would I have for lying about that? If it was true, it seems I would be eag
er to take credit for it, would I not?”

  “You’re telling me you know nothing about someone contacting my grandchildren’s driver and bodyguard and offering him four thousand U.S. dollars for information regarding their itinerary?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. The equivalent of fifty thousand of our old lei.”

  Four thousand U.S. dollars? Is Vasile testing me, or did Stefan try to pull something after all? Maybe Teodor pocketed half of it and gave the other half to his superior to prove his innocence?

  “I repeat, Mr. President: I know absolutely nothing of that. But let me tell you this: If I do not have your decision—the only one we will accept—by midnight tonight, I merely inform my superior and a series of events is set in motion that will make you wish you had committed suicide.”

  And as Gheorghe Vasile sputtered and protested and tried to bluster, Leon slapped his cell phone shut, reopened it, and dialed.

  “Matei?” he said. “A job for you.” He gave the man descriptions and addresses for Stefan Marin’s mother and girlfriend. “The old woman must disappear, never to be seen again. And the young woman must be incapacitated to the point that Stefan has to take care of her for several months.”

  “Got it.”

  “And one more thing: if you do not hear from me by midnight, here is the location of a structure that must be torched, the livestock not allowed to escape, and security immobilized. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  During a tense meal, with Rayford clearly trying to keep the subject off what Raymie and Irene wanted to talk about, Irene urged her son to accede to his dad’s wishes and spend even more time with him watching sports on TV.

  “But no more church talk tonight,” Rayford said. “Fair enough?”

  “Rayford!” Irene said.

  “Well, I got both barrels today, and I don’t think it’s right that you’re filling his head with all this at his age.”

  “Okay! All right! Stop. Raymie, let me talk with your father about this. You stick to talking sports for a while.”

  Raymie shrugged, and Irene glared at Rayford until he looked away.

  Once Rayford and Raymie were camped out in front of the television, Irene suddenly felt alone. And lonely. She missed her daughter. They had not spoken much since Chloe went off to Stanford. Irene was determined not to let the barrier between them rise any higher. She called Chloe’s room and reached her roommate, who told her that Chloe was at debate club but that she would give her the message.

  “Thanks, Amy,” Irene said. “And tell her it’s nothing urgent. I just miss her and love her and want to hear her voice.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet!”

  “Well, we’ll see how sweet Chloe thinks it is if she calls me back.”

  “If she doesn’t,” Amy said, laughing, “I’ll mimic her voice and call you myself.”

  Matei Prodan was Fortunato’s most trusted operative. He was expensive, but he was ideal. Quiet. Ruthless. Above all, thorough. Somehow he never left evidence, and when he took a job, it was soon done and forgotten.

  Matei and a younger associate—Lazar—took care of Stefan’s mother first. As Lazar mounted the steps to her one-room apartment, Matei phoned her from his cell phone in the car. “Mrs. Marin?”

  “Yes, who is it?”

  “I’m calling from Fundeni Hospital, where your son has been admitted. Your son is Stefan Marin, correct?”

  “Stefan? Yes! What has happened?”

  “An accident, ma’am. I am sorry to tell you that you must come immediately.”

  “He is dying? I have no way to get there!”

  “We have sent an attendant to drive you. Can you be ready momentarily?”

  “Of course!”

  “He should be nearly at your door.”

  “But I’m undressed for the evening after a day at work! I’ll need to change!”

  “Do it quickly,” Matei said. “And you will need nothing more than identification.”

  Moments later Lazar opened the back door of Matei’s car for the bent woman, and she entered, weeping. “I am so grateful for your kindness,” she said. “What can you tell me? Will he live?”

  “Would you like to speak with him?” Matei said, handing her his phone. “It is ringing.”

  “Stefan! What happened? I am on my way! Hold on for my sake. . . . What? But I was told . . . these gentlemen are bringing me to the hospital! . . . What? Help me, Stefan! They told me—”

  The woman thrashed about, trying to open the back door, but it had been locked from the driver’s door. She pulled herself forward. “What is this? What are you doing? My son says he is fine!”

  Matei nodded to Lazar, who turned and said softly, “Perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity.”

  From the phone came shouts of warning from Stefan, and with that Lazar drove an elbow so savagely into the face of the woman that Matei heard bones shatter as she flopped onto the seat and then onto the floor. The shouting continued from the phone until Lazar fished it from the floor and slapped it shut.

  Matei followed the Danube out of the city and pulled off to a secluded grove. “Is she still alive?”

  Lazar nodded, and Matei motioned with his head toward the back while reaching into the glove box to trip the trunk latch. The young man got out and returned with two forty-pound blocks of concrete with handles made of bent rebar.

  Stefan’s mother breathed laboriously through blood-caked nostrils as Lazar moved to the other side of the car and forced her feet through the openings in the ersatz handles. When Matei helped heft her from the car, he wondered if she weighed much more than the concrete.

  The men carried her to a steep embankment and rolled her over the side, waiting a few seconds for the splash. By the time her body deteriorated and freed itself from the boots of death, there would be too little of her left for anyone to recognize. And who knew where she might wash up onto the bank of the rapid river?

  Matei and Lazar cleaned themselves off and reentered the car. Matei pulled a small slip of paper from his pocket and held it up to the dim dash light. “Our next stop.”

  “You tell me where my mother is and you tell me right now,” Stefan shouted, gushing profanities.

  Fortunato lowered the volume on his TV and pulled the hem of his robe over his bare feet. “Your mother?” he said, pressing the phone tight against his ear.

  “Don’t do this!” Stefan said. “Where is she?”

  “Hmm,” Leon said. “If I knew something like that, I wonder how much I should charge for such information.”

  “I’ll give you the four thousand with interest!” Stefan said.

  “So it was you and not Teodor who worked the con. Maybe I should hire a responsible young man like him to replace you.”

  “Mr. Fortunato, please! Come after me; just don’t let anyone do anything to my mother.”

  “Well, that’s fair,” Leon said. “Tell you what—next time you see her, tell her that I promised to look after her from now on. You’re going to be busy.”

  “Busy? I’m going to be busy? What am I going to be doing? I’ll do anything to get square with you again.”

  “Oh, I know you will, Stefan. And in the meantime, it would help my business if you warned people against trying to pull anything on me.”

  “I promise, sir! I promise! Now, please! Don’t let anything happen to my mother!”

  “I’m sorry, Stefan. We’ll have to continue this another time. I have to take this call.”

  “Wait! No!”

  Leon disconnected from Stefan and answered Matei.

  “You’ve already heard from Stefan? You’re not worried he will tip off the girl?”

  “Trust me,” Leon said. “He’s thinking of nothing and no one but his sainted mother right now.”

  “He can think all he wants about her,” Matei said. “It’s done.”

  “As planned?”

  “No hitches, no evidence, no witnesses.”

&n
bsp; NINE

  RAYMIE’S BEDTIME arrived by halftime of the ball game, and Rayford knew it would soon be time to face the music. On the way up to Raymie’s room, Rayford said, “Hey, I forgot. I brought you something.”

  “Something else?” Raymie said.

  “Yeah, come on.”

  The boy followed him to the garage, where Rayford pulled from the backseat of his BMW a padded envelope with a framed picture of himself in uniform in the terminal, his cap under his arm, a 747 showing outside the window. Rayford had signed it, “To Raymie with love, Dad.” Under that he had written, “Rayford Steele, Captain, Pan-Continental Airlines, O’Hare.”

  “Cool!” Raymie said. “I’ll put it in my room.”

  But on their way back inside, Raymie said, “Hey, Dad, look. Flat tire on the four-wheeler already.”

  Rayford swore, then apologized.

  “Dad, can I ask you something?”

  Uh-oh.

  “Will you come to church with us this Sunday?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Why not?”

  “I said maybe.”

  “That’s what you said last week.”

  “Well, this Sunday I’m going to have to fix this tire.”

  “C’mon, Dad!”

  “Do you want me to fix this four-wheeler for you or not? I don’t have all the time in the world.”

  “Next Sunday then?”

  Rayford sighed. “For sure.”

  As they mounted the steps toward Raymie’s room, Irene called out from the kitchen, “His Bulls pajamas are laid out. Don’t let him wear his socks to bed.”

  A few minutes later Rayford was back in the living room, and he could tell Irene was on her way. He instinctively picked up a newspaper as a diversion.

  “You mind if I turn the sound off until the third quarter?” she said. “Or do you want to see last week’s highlights?”

  “It’s all right,” he said, the newspaper in his lap.

  “Rayford,” she said, “I don’t want to fight, but please don’t undermine what has become so important to Raymie.”