Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

Sydney laughed. “Who told you that?”

“A close friend. Was she having fun at my expense?”

Sydney looked at him a moment before answering. This was the first personal comment she’d heard Hunz Vonner make. Until now it was as though he had no life other than news broadcasting. Now it seemed he had a close personal friend, a female.

“No. She wasn’t making fun of you. Did she say where to get these fabulous fish tacos?”

Hunz mentioned a fast-food chain.

Starting the car, Sydney said, “Well, the ambiance leaves something to be desired, but you’ll like the tacos.”

Ten minutes later they were seated at a bright red table next to a window overlooking a busy intersection. Fast-food wrappers served as plates as the German newscaster, still dressed in a black suit, took his first bite of fish taco. Three small plastic containers of hot sauce were lined up in front of him.

Sydney grimaced. “I can’t believe Sol took you to Ago’s and I take you to Taco Hut.”

A few more bites and Hunz fanned his mouth. “This one’s too hot,” he said. “The green’s good, but I like the red better.”

“Most people prefer the mild sauce starting out,” Sydney said.

On the table beside her taco wrapper were two sheets of paper stapled together. Her cell phone sat on top of them. The papers were a compilation of the people who had called the station during the noon newscast to report that they had received a death watch notice. The list was arranged by time; those who were scheduled to die first were at the top of the list.

Time had already passed on the first two names.

Maxine Hoffa 2:36 p.m.

Charles Bishop 3:55 p.m.

Were they dead?

Sydney took another bite of taco and gazed out the window. A silver Mercedes turning right stopped for a woman pushing a baby stroller in the crosswalk. His turn signal blinked impatiently. The Mercedes inched forward needlessly, dangerously. Californians were always in a hurry.

She felt her anger rising at the needless endangerment of life. Yesterday, she would have watched the same scene and thought little of it, other than the fact the guy behind the wheel of the Mercedes was a jerk. This morning’s death watch notice changed all that. Now everyday life seemed more fragile.

She remembered having a similar feeling on September 11, 2001, after watching the two World Trade Center buildings collapse, after watching the burning of the Pentagon and the tragic plane crash in Pennsylvania. The world felt different. It lost its innocence. It was as though the world was told it had cancer, and the prognosis wasn’t good. Nothing was the same. Everything was tainted by the news—work, home life, purchases, vacation plans, relationships, even simple things like getting the mail—because even during those everyday moments, in the back of your mind, you knew you had cancer. And the name of the cancer was terrorism.

Death Watch was just another symptom that she was living in a sick world. What kind of person or organization went around killing people indiscriminately? What kind of monsters taunted their victims for forty-eight hours before killing them?

And how could anyone sit at a fast-food restaurant and enjoy a fish taco knowing that people were being handed numbers and told to stand in line for their turn to die?

“These are really good,” Hunz said, his mouth full. “I’m going to get another one. Want anything?”

“I’m fine,” Sydney said.

Hunz slid out of the booth. “You going to call them?” He pointed to the list.

“Yeah.”

While Hunz stood in line for another fish taco, Sydney called the first two names on the list. The news was bad. Both Maxine Hoffa and Charles Bishop were dead.

Sydney couldn’t bring herself to ask how they died, or at what time, mainly because she couldn’t think of a way to ask, “Did your loved one die according to schedule?” Fact was, they were alive for the noon broadcast, and now they were dead.

She looked at her watch. The third name on the list was Jennifer Magill, thirty-one, a grocery store checker. According to the sheet she had less than three hours to live.

Sydney wrapped up her half-eaten taco with resolve. Somehow, she was going to keep Jennifer Magill alive.

Hunz slid back into the booth. The taco was unwrapped and a bite taken before he sat down. “They dead?”

“Yes.”

“Both of them?” He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “You know, this idea of trying to keep someone on that list from dying is a waste of time. We need to find out who’s behind it and stop them.”

“That’s a heartless thing to say,” she snapped.

Though Sydney had never met Jennifer Magill, the image of a young, vibrant woman came to mind. She found it hard to think of the woman’s life as a waste of time.

Hunz appeared taken aback by her anger. “Look, even if you succeed in saving one person’s life, what good does it do?”

“It gives everyone hope,” Sydney said. “If we can prove that death is not inevitable for those who receive these notices, it will provide immeasurable relief to a lot of people.”

“Granted. But my point is, you can’t protect them all. From everything we know so far, more people are going to die. Hundreds. Possibly thousands. Wouldn’t it be better to use our time tracking down the people behind this assault and stop them? Cut off the head of the snake, and he can no longer bite you.”

“So you suggest we just turn our back on Jennifer Magill?”

“Who’s Jennifer Magill?”

“The next person on the list.”

Hunz chewed. “What’s the time on her notice?”

Sydney consulted the sheet. “7:22 p.m.”

Hunz checked his watch. He sighed. “All right,” he said, “but just this one. Then we do it my way.”

As it turned out, Jennifer Magill didn’t want to be saved by television station KSMJ. For fifteen minutes Sydney pleaded with her to get her to change her mind. But Jennifer Magill stood firm. “I’m not going to die in front of a bunch of television cameras.”

Sydney had no choice but to go to the next person on the list, Lyle Vandeveer of Pasadena. His notice had a time of 10:05 p.m.

Hunz wasn’t happy about losing an additional two and a half hours. “I have better things to do than hold an old man’s hand.”

“Does that mean you’re not going with me?”

“I’ll go, but I’m not going to waste time sitting around.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Something productive.”

The KSMJ team descended on Lyle Vandeveer’s house in force—a mobile news truck, an ambulance with two paramedics, a car with four armed private security men, and Sydney’s beige Volvo. Their arrival drew stares from Vandeveer’s neighbors on Fair Oaks Avenue, an older section of town lined with palm trees.

Even in the dark it was clear Vandeveer kept his house nice. The lawn was carpet smooth and trimmed. The house was white with green trim.

It was 7:56 p.m.

When Lyle Vandeveer opened his front door, he seemed staggered by the commotion just outside his house. “Wasn’t expecting all this,” he said, as the technicians raised the satellite dish on the van.

Sydney introduced herself and Hunz, and Vandeveer invited them in.

Lyle Vandeveer was a sixty-one-year-old machinist who had taken early retirement. The aerospace industry had brought him and his first wife to California from Texas in 1964. Of medium build, Vandeveer had a round face and a belly that stretched his shirt. He was wearing beige shorts, white socks, slippers, and an open flannel shirt over a T-shirt that read:

REAL RAILROADERS

DO IT WITH STEAM.

“Mind if we go back here?” Without waiting for an answer, he led them to the back of the house. “It helps if I keep my hands busy.”