"Tim LaHaye & Jerry Jenkins - Left Behind Series 1 - Left Behind" - читать интересную книгу автора (LaHaye Tim)

home at that hour? He couldn't imagine what, and he doubted it.
A woman of about forty stopped for Rayford on Algonquin Road. When he thanked
her and told her where he lived, she said she knew the area. “A friend of mine lives
there. Well, lived there. Li Ng, the Asian girl on Channel 7 news?”
“I know her and her husband,” Rayford said. “They still live on our street.”
“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