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OK. Thanks.
What're you gonna do? Call him or meet him?
Why do you need to know?
Oh, I ain't bein' nosy or nothin'. It's just that if you're leavin' here at
six, I gotta get payment in advance. You got the long-distance call and all.
And I don't get up till seven.
I'll tell you what, uh, what was your name?
Mack.
I'll tell you what, Mack. I left you my charge card number, so you know I'm
not going to sneak out on you. But in the morning I'm going to leave a
traveler's check in the room for you, covering the price of the room and a lot
more than enough for the phone call. You get my meaning?
A tip?
Yes, sir.
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That would be nice.
What I need for you to do for me is slip a bandage under my door.
I got one. You need it right now? You all right?
I'm fine. Not now. When you turn in. Nice and quiet like. And turn off my
phone, OK, just in case? If I have to get up that early, I've got to do some
serious sleeping right now. Can you handle that for me, Mack?
I sure can. I'll turn it off right now. You want a wakeup call?
No, thanks, Buck said, and he smiled when he realized the phone was dead in
his hand. Mack was as good as his word. If he found that bandage in the
morning, he would leave Mack a good tip. Buck forced himself to get up and
shut off the TV set and the light. He was the type who could look at his watch
before retiring and wake up precisely when he told himself to. It was nearly
midnight. He would be up at five-
thirty.
By the time he hit the mattress, he was out. When he awoke five and a half
hours later, he had not moved a muscle.
Rayford felt as if he were sleepwalking as he padded through the kitchen to
head upstairs. He couldn't believe how tired he still was after his long nap
and his fitful dozing on the couch. The newspaper was still rolled up and
rubber banded on a chair where he had tossed it. If he had any trouble
sleeping upstairs, maybe he would glance at the paper. It should be
interesting to read the meaningless news of a world that didn't realize it was
going to suffer the worst trauma in its history just after the paper had been
set in type.
Rayford punched the redial button on the phone and walked slowly toward the
stairs, only half listening. What was that? The dial tone had been
interrupted, and the phone in Chloe's dorm room was ringing. He hurried to the
phone as a girl answered.
Chloe?
No. Mr. Steele?
Yes!
This is Amy. Chloe's trying to find a way back there. She'll try to call you
along the way, sometime tomorrow. If she can't get through, she'll call you
when she gets there or she'll get a cab home.
She's on her way?
Yeah. She didn't want to wait. She tried calling and calling, but
Yeah, I know. Thanks, Amy. Are you all right?
Scared to death, like everybody else.
I can imagine. Did you lose anyone?
No, and I feel kinda guilty about that. Seems like everyone I know lost
somebody.
I mean I lost a few friends, but nobody close, no family.
Rayford didn't know whether to express congratulations or remorse. If this was
what he now believed it had been, this poor child hardly knew anyone who'd
been taken to heaven.
Well, he said, I'm glad you're all right.
How about you? she said. Chloe's mom and brother?
I'm afraid they're gone, Amy.
Oh, no!
But I would appreciate your letting me tell Chloe, just in case she reaches
you before she reaches me.
Oh, don't worry. I don't think I could tell her even if you wanted me to.
Rayford lay in bed several minutes, then idly thumbed through the first
section of the paper. Hmm. A surprise move in Romania.
Democratic elections became passé when, with the seeming unanimous consensus
of the people and both the upper and lower houses of government, a popular
young businessman/politician assumed the role of president of the country.
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Nicolae
Carpathia, a 33-year-old born in Cluj, had in recent months taken the nation
by storm with his popular, persuasive speaking, charming the populace, friend
and foe alike. Reforms he proposed for the country saw him swept to prominence
and power.
Rayford glanced at the photo of the young Carpathia, a strikingly handsome
blonde who looked not unlike a young Robert Redford. Wonder if he would've
wanted the job had he known what was about to happen? Rayford thought.
Whatever he has to offer won't amount to a hill of beans now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
KEN Ritz roared up to the Midpoint precisely at six, rolled down his window,
and said, You Williams?
I'm your man, Buck said. He climbed into the late model four-wheel drive
with his one bag. Fingering his freshly bandaged head, Buck smiled at the
thought of
Mack enjoying his extra twenty bucks.
Ritz was tall and lean with a weathered face and a shock of salt-and-pepper
hair.
Let's get down to business, he said. It's 740 miles from O'Hare to JFK and
746
from Milwaukee to JFK. I'm gonna get you as close to JFK as I can, and we're
about equidistant between O'Hare and Milwaukee, so let's call it 743 air
miles. Multiply that by two bucks, you're talkin' fourteen hundred and
eighty-six. Round it off to fifteen hundred for the taxi service, and we got
us a deal.
Deal, Buck said, pulling out his checks and starting to sign. Pretty
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