"Tim LaHaye & Jerry Jenkins - Left Behind Series 7 - The Indwelling" - читать интересную книгу автора (LaHaye Tim)

from where he could see Chaim's wheelchair crumpled on the ground, backstage
center. The heavy batteries had broken open and lay twenty feet from the chair,
which had one wheel bent almost in half, seat pad missing, and a footrest broken
off. Was Buck about to find another friend dead? He loped to the mangled chair and
searched the area, including under the platform. Besides splinters from what he was
sure had been the lectern, he found nothing.
How could Chaim have survived this? Many of the world rulers had scrambled off
the back of the stage, certainly having to turn and hang from the edge first to avoid
serious injury. Even then, many would have had to have suffered sprained or broken
ankles. But an elderly stroke victim riding in a metal chair twelve feet to concrete?
Buck feared Chaim could not have survived. But who would have carried him off?
A chopper landed on the other side of the platform, and medical personnel rushed
the stage. The security detail fanned out and began descending the stairs to clear the
area.
Four emergency medical technicians crowded around Carpathia and Fortunate while
others attended the trampled and the crushed, including the woman beneath the
speaker box. Jacov was lifted into a body bag. Buck nearly wept at having to leave
his brother that way, yet he knew Jacov was in heaven. He ran to catch up with the
crowd now spilling into the streets.
Buck knew Jacov was dead. From the wound at the back of Carpathia's head, he
assumed Nicolae was dead or soon would be. And he had to assume Chaim was
dead too.
Buck longed for the end of all this and the glorious appearing of Christ. But that
was still another three and a half years off.
Rayford felt a fool, running with the crowd, the hem of his robe in his hands to keep
from tripping. He had dropped the Saber and its box and wanted to use his arms for
more speed. But he had to run like a woman in a long skirt. Adrenaline carried him,
because he felt fast as ever, regardless. Rayford really wanted to shed the robe and
turban, but the last thing he needed just then was to look like a Westerner.
Had he murdered Carpathia? He had tried to, intended to, but couldn't pull the
trigger. Then, when he was bumped and the gun went off, he couldn't imagine he'd
been lucky enough to find his target. Could the bullet have ricocheted off the lectern
and into Carpathia? Could it also have passed through him and taken out the
backdrop? It didn't seem possible.
If ho had killed the potentate, there was certainly no satisfaction in it, no relief or
sense of accomplishment.
As he hurried along, the screams and moans of Carpathia's faithful all around him,
Rayford felt he was running from a prison of his own making.
He was sucking wind by the time the crowd thinned and began to disperse, and
when he stopped to bend at the waist, hands on his hips, to catch his breath, a
couple hurrying past said, “Isn't it awful? They think he's dead!”
“It's awful,” Rayford gasped, not looking at them.
Assuming TV cameras had caught everything, especially him with the gun raised, it
wouldn't be long before he would be sought. As soon as he was away from the busy
streets, he shed the garb and stuffed it in a trash barrel. He found his car, eager to
get to Tel Aviv and out of Israel before it became impossible.
Mac stood near the back of the throng, far enough from the gun that the report didn't
reach his ears until after the massive crowd began to move. While others near him
shrieked and gasped and pleaded to know what was going on, he kept his eyes on
the stage, relief washing over him.