Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

“Lyle Vandeveer is the latest death watch victim,” Hunz reported to the viewing audience. “Everything humanly possible was done to keep him out of harm’s way, yet somehow whoever is behind this cowardly crusade of terror managed to get to him, at the precise moment announced, which makes one wonder: Is there no hope for those who find themselves under the death watch executioner’s blade? Is any among us safe?

“This is Hunz Vonner of EuroNet News on special assignment to KSMJ, Los Angeles.”

Hunz didn’t relax. He listened to his earpiece. “Yes, Cori, it was KSMJ’s own Sydney St. James who spearheaded this failed effort, but I don’t think transporting Mr. Vandeveer to a hospital facility earlier would have made any difference.”

Hunz nodded at the camera, then it was over.

During the broadcast the street was still. No one moved. Everyone focused on the man standing in the spotlight. When the lights were switched off, they blinked, milled about for a few minutes, then walked home in the dark.

Sydney flipped open her cell phone. She punched in the numbers that would connect her with Lawrence, Lyle’s brother in Canada. It was late and he was probably asleep, but with the chance the networks might pick up Lyle’s story, she didn’t want him hearing about his brother’s death on a morning news report.

Phone held to her ear, she waited for someone to answer. She caught sight of a black man standing beside a palm tree across the street. With a shoe box tucked securely under one arm, he stared at her intently. Given the setting, a staring man was not unusual. Most people are fascinated by the way television personalities look in real life.

She smiled and waved. The man with the box didn’t wave back, neither did he smile. He just stared.

Sydney made a quarter turn away from the staring man to better concentrate on the phone call.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end of the transmission was male and groggy.

“Hello. Is this Lawrence Vandeveer?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

Sydney took a deep breath.

There was a time for everything. That’s what the Bible said. After a day like today it was time to crawl under the bedcovers and pull them over her head.

Sydney steered her Volvo onto the Hollywood Freeway heading north with thoughts of bed. She was tired. The lights of monster trucks and SUVs in her rearview mirror hurt her eyes. They were giving her a headache.

“That was a waste of time,” Hunz Vonner said. “A total waste of time. We lost an entire evening.”

Sydney glanced over at him. His jaw was set. He was angry. Unbelievable. “A man died tonight,” she said.

“And a lot more are going to die until we find out who’s behind these death watch notices, and we’re no closer to finding them than we were six hours ago.”

“You’re forgetting Lawrence Vandeveer. He was notified of his brother’s death watch notice. That’s the first we’ve heard of someone other than the victim receiving a notification.”

Hunz shook his head. “An anomaly, if it’s true. Nobody else has reported a third-party confirmation.”

“What if it’s not an anomaly? What if it means something? Why would Lyle Vandeveer’s brother in Canada be sent a notification? And if he didn’t, why would he and Lyle make up something like that?”

“It could have been a misunderstanding: one brother says something; the other jumps to a conclusion. It happens all the time. Never take something someone says as fact until you check it out yourself.”

“I did check it out,” Sydney said.

“You talked to Lyle’s brother? When?”

“When you were wrapping up the shoot.”

Hunz looked at her as though he didn’t believe her. “What did he say?”

“I called to inform him of his brother’s death. When I told him the details, he told me about the phone call. It was just as Lyle described.”

“I still say it’s an anomaly. Meanwhile, we have a definite pattern that has proved true in every case: a person receives some form of printed notification which is followed up by a verbal confirmation.”

Sydney stared through a dirty windshield at the traffic. The freeway was deserted at this time of night, which meant there were only a couple hundred cars on it rather than a couple thousand.

She said, “Do you have a rental car at the station, or should I drop you at your hotel?”

“What are you talking about? We have work to do.”

“It’s nearly midnight and I’m exhausted. Besides, shouldn’t you be experiencing jet lag or something?”

“I don’t require much sleep,” Hunz said. “Two, three hours, and I’m good. I want to talk to someone in the FBI. Someone with authority. Do you have any contacts, any home phone numbers?”

“No,” Sydney said incredulously.

Hunz muttered something about rookie reporters. “Who’s next on the list then?”

“I’m not knocking on people’s doors in the middle of the night.”

“It’s not as though they’re going to be asleep,” Hunz said. “Put yourself in their place. If you were scheduled to die in a couple of hours, would you be asleep?”

“You do whatever you want to do,” Sydney said, “but I’m going home. You may not require sleep, but if I don’t get seven hours, all I do the next day is stare at walls. Where should I drop you?”

“Seven hours? Who knows how many people are going to die in the next seven hours if we don’t stop whoever’s behind this!”

The fact that people were dying had never left Sydney’s mind. She didn’t need a reminder. Problem was, people died every day. They were assaulted, robbed, raped, shot, stabbed, and murdered. There was always someone who needed help, or who had a story of injustice to tell. At some point, for the sake of her own sanity, Sydney had to shut the world out. It wasn’t easy to do, but after a couple of years in the industry, it was getting easier. Was that a good thing? Besides, she still had a couple of hours of crying to do before she could get to sleep.

“Hotel or the station?” Sydney said.

Hunz’s cell phone beeped. He answered it.

“Vonner.”

Still having received no destination information, Sydney continued heading north on the freeway.

Hunz flipped his phone closed.

“How far away is UCLA?”

“About twenty miles. Why?”

“That was the news desk. There’s a boy at Dykstra Hall who claims he just survived Death Watch.”

Dykstra Hall was on the western edge of the UCLA campus. Built forty-five years ago, the ten-story structure was the oldest of four high-rise residence halls. A couple of late-night coeds entered Dykstra a few steps ahead of Sydney and Hunz.

It was quiet outside. Moonlight splashed against the side of the building. All was peaceful. The peace ended the moment they stepped into the hall. Inside it was more like twelve noon than twelve midnight.

Every light was on. Music in a half-dozen or more flavors poured from open doors. There were people everywhere. Reading. Studying. Chatting. Shouting. Eating. Watching television. Throwing things. Chasing each other. Dykstra Hall was a coed anthill.

Sydney was greeted with catcalls the moment she walked through the door. It was readily apparent that both she and Hunz were overdressed in this world of shorts, jeans, and T-shirts—a world where shoes were apparently banned.

They inquired after Jeremy Boles, the name given to them by the news desk.

“Jeremy hangs out on the third-floor lounge, dude,” a sandyhaired student told Hunz. “Hey, you’re the dudes on TV, aren’t you? Were you really with that old man when he croaked?”

After being pointed toward the elevators, Sydney and Hunz made their way to the third floor. Already, they’d gained a substantial following.