The Vanishings by Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins Page A

the block, and tothe edge of Raymie’s property. People were outside their homes, talking with neighbors. Many were crying. They watched as he approached the front porch of the Steele home. He didn’t want to appear to be up to anything, so he just sat on the front step as if waiting for his friend, until people seemed to forget about him.
    Ryan was going to ring the bell when he realized the drapes were open, the door was unlocked, and it stood open about an inch. There was no car in the driveway, but someone must have been home. He slipped inside to the bitter smell of burnt coffee. He tiptoed into the kitchen and saw the coffeepot in the sink, still hot.
    Ryan knew someone was home, but who? He opened the door that led to the garage. Only Mr. Steele’s BMW was missing. Mrs. Steele’s car was there, and so was the one Raymie’s sister drove when she was home. Raymie’s four-wheeler was there, of course, and his snowmobile and his bike. So who was here and who wasn’t? He checked the hall closet where Raymie’s father’s trench coat, flight bag, and cap were stored. Captain Steele was supposed to have been on some long trip to England or somewhere.
    Ryan tiptoed upstairs to the bedrooms, past a bunch of family photos on the walls.Raymie’s door was shut. Ryan knocked lightly. No answer. He pushed the door open. Raymie’s nightclothes were in a neat pile on the bed, and Ryan looked enviously at the picture on the bedside table of Mr. Steele in uniform near his plane.
    As Ryan left Raymie’s room, he held his breath. He heard something coming from the master bedroom suite. What was it? Someone was home!
    From the hall, Ryan could see all the way into the suite. There, lying face down on the bed, his uniform in a pile on the floor beside him, was Raymie’s dad. He appeared to be sleeping, except that his shoulders heaved as if he were crying. Ryan didn’t dare disturb him. He slipped back down the hall, down the stairs, and headed for home.
    Ryan had a sinking feeling as he entered his quiet house. He turned on the TV and saw lists of people who had been on board the flights that crashed on their way to O’Hare. “We repeat,” the announcer said, “it has never been our policy to release names of missing or presumed-dead passengers before next of kin can be notified. However, with such massive tragedies and the impossibility of local law enforcement agencies being able to keep up with the grisly business of informing families, we have been asked to makethese names public as tastefully as possible. Remember, if someone you know appears on these lists, it means only that they held reservations on these flights and that their whereabouts are currently unknown.”
    Ryan covered his eyes and peeked through his fingers as the names slowly scrolled by. He recognized one as the father of a friend of his. Another one or two looked familiar, and all he could do was wonder how many friends had lost family members. Then he saw his dad’s name, and he burst into tears.
    He turned off the TV and shook his head. It couldn’t be. He tried to make himself believe that his dad had somehow survived and would be calling him. But that wasn’t going to happen, and he knew it. It would be just he and his mom now. Did she know already? There was no message light blinking on the answering machine. Maybe she wanted to tell him in person. Maybe she didn’t even know yet!
    He dialed her cell phone for what seemed the hundredth time. It rang and rang, and finally someone answered. It was a gruff male voice. “Hello! Who’s this?”
    “This is Ryan Daley, and I thought I was dialing my mother’s cell phone.”
    “Uh, you are, son, if your mother’s full name is, ah, Marjorie Louise Daley.”
    “Yes!”
    “Where are you?”
    “Who is this?”
    “I’m sorry, son. This is Sergeant Flanigan, Des Plaines police.”
    “What happened? Is my mom all right?”
    “I’m afraid she’s not, Ryan. There was a gas-main leak we didn’t