“Yes, ma’am,” Goose said politely, but he knew the woman must have been hallucinating. There could be no other explanation. Accepting that an angel had stood at his side meant accepting the supernatural. And that meant accepting that the Rapture had taken place, that everyone left on the planet was doomed to seven years of war and death, that a newly elected Romanian president named Nicolae Carpathia was the Antichrist even now rising to power to bury the world in deceit and treachery.
And that Goose would never see Chris again.
Goose couldn’t believe any of that. He wouldn’t allow himself to believe that.
Because if he believed it, it meant that his son was lost to him.
Hazel’s Café
Marbury, Alabama
Local Time 0915 Hours
Eating breakfast in Hazel’s Café was like stepping back in time.
Chaplain Delroy Harte got a definite feeling of déjà vu as he sat across the table from Deputy Walter Purcell in one of the back booths. The rustic decor, cobbled together from farming and ranching equipment; from NASCAR’s licensed hats, mugs, and posters; and from local high school sports equipment, looked exactly as it had when he’d eaten there with his father when Delroy had been first a boy and later a young man.
At a few minutes past nine in the morning, the café held mostly late starters and farmers and ranchers who’d already put in a half day’s work and wanted to take a break in each other’s company for an hour or two before getting back to the full day’s work waiting for them. The smell of fried sausage, ham, and beefsteak mixed with the scents of fresh-baked rolls, plain and sweet, eggs done a half-dozen different ways, and grilled onions.
But many of the people gathered here had come so they wouldn’t be alone. Their need for company resonated within these walls. Fear etched their faces and kept their conversations to a bare handful of words thrown among them as they watched the two televisions, one on each side of the café. Both sets were tuned to news stations.
Delroy’s heart went out to the frightened people, but he knew he had no words of comfort for them. He made himself look past them. They would be all right. Either they would help themselves or someone would help them. He had no business feeling like he could.
Not after the way he’d spent last night.
Delroy had arrived in the graveyard outside Marbury where his son was buried. Lance Corporal Terrence David Harte had died in action five years ago and had returned home to be buried here. After following Captain Mark Falkirk’s orders to leave USS Wasp, Delroy’s ship, and making the trek to speak to the Joint Chiefs in the Pentagon regarding his belief that God had raptured the world, the chaplain had requested leave to attend to personal business. With the confusion going on regarding military action and the need to defend the United States, Delroy’s request had received authorization.
In the cemetery last night, Delroy had started digging up his son’s casket, wanting to discover if Terrence’s body had been taken to heaven, if he had truly known God in his short life. Or if—like his father—he’d been left behind. Before he’d reached the casket, Delroy had realized that if he dug his son up and discovered the truth, his faith would be in jeopardy. If Terrence’s body was still in that hole in the ground, Delroy didn’t know if he would ever be able to believe again. And if Terrence’s body was gone, true faith would be impossible because Delroy would know that God existed.
And people were supposed to go to God in faith. That was one thing Delroy’s daddy, Josiah Harte, had taught him.
Overcome by doubt and fear and frustration, Delroy had turned from digging and been confronted by the demon he had first seen in Washington, D.C., days ago. They had fought, Delroy and the demon, and it had shown him the unforgettable image of Terrence—his body torn and broken by the conflict he’d died in—trying in vain to break out of the coffin.
When at last the demon had disappeared, Delroy had passed out, unable to leave the cemetery where his son and his daddy lay in their eternal slumber. Deputy Walter Purcell had found Delroy lying in the rain and mud. The big deputy had taken Delroy to the hospital in Marbury and little more than an hour ago got him released. Now he was taking Delroy to breakfast.
“Lotta memories in this place?” Walter stirred grape jelly into his scrambled eggs, then spooned the mixture onto a biscuit.
“Aye,” Delroy answered. They’d only gotten their food a few minutes ago. Getting out of the hospital had taken longer than expected. With a third of the patients and more than that from the staff disappearing, the hospital struggled to get everything done. Even with the disappearances, the hospital still needed to bill the insurance companies.
“You grew up here.” Walter blew on his coffee, then took a sip.
“Aye. That I did.” Delroy waited for the other shoe to drop. From his observation of Walter, he knew the man wasn’t one to beat around the bush for long.
The egg-and-jelly biscuit had disappeared, but Walter was just getting started. Like a craftsman, he cut his ham into sections. The metal knife and fork rasped with quick strokes. His plate was piled high with sausage gravy and biscuits, fried onions and hash browns, bacon, and pancakes.
“Are you going to drop the other shoe?” Delroy asked. “Or are you going to just let it hang there?”
Walter chewed his ham, swallowed, and washed it down with coffee. He eyed Delroy directly. “You been around Yankees maybe a little too long. Too direct. Maybe you’ve forgotten how to maintain a conversation before you get to the ugly parts of it. Around here, we
