Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

“May I see the letter?” Sydney asked. She found it difficult to say Death Watch, as though saying it would confirm it. It wasn’t needed anyway. Cheryl knew what she was referring to.

Without getting up, she groaned in an effort to reach across her belly for her purse. Sydney jumped up to help.

“Thank you,” Cheryl said. “Sometimes I feel like a beached whale at low tide.”

With Cheryl directing her, Sydney found the envelope stuffed in the purse. She opened it. The wording was identical to all the other death watch notices. The time of notification was at the top. 7:28 a.m. The exact time she checked in. Cheryl had less than forty-two hours to live.

“Did anything happen after you got this?”

Sydney was hoping Cheryl would say no. That this was someone’s idea of a joke, like the one played at Dykstra Hall.

“How did you know?” Cheryl said. “I got a phone call shortly after we settled in. It was the strangest voice.” She wrinkled her nose. “I couldn’t tell if it was male or female. Weird, huh? Sort of like special effects. And it was as though it knew I was the one going to answer the phone, you know what I mean? No hello. It didn’t ask who it was speaking to. It just repeated what was in the letter.”

Sydney’s heart ached. This was the real thing. “No, it doesn’t sound weird at all. And it conforms to prior experiences.”

“So what’s this all about? Are you at liberty to tell me?”

Sydney glanced out the window. An entire city lay before her. For most people, this was an ordinary workday. For death watch victims like Cheryl, there was no such thing as ordinary anymore.

“We don’t know,” Sydney said. “At this point, we really don’t know.”

Cheryl smiled.

Smiled.

Why would Cheryl smile?

“You seem so calm about all this,” Sydney said. “If I were in your shoes I’d probably be a blubbering puddle of emotion right about now.”

Cheryl glanced down at her hands that were folded serenely across her belly. Her expression was that of a game show contestant who knew the answer to the million-dollar question.

“I have to admit,” she said, “I have some experience in this sort of thing.”

“You do?”

“A degree in theater. I’m used to being under the lights, to thinking on my feet. We did a lot of improv.”

“You’re talking about the game show.”

Cheryl nodded. “I’m hoping my experience will give me an edge. We can really use the money.”

“And the death watch notice?”

“I was surprised at first. Off the record? It shook me. That’s why I called the police. Then I remembered where I was. Hollywood, with all those reality shows.” She looked around. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. They put us up in these rooms outfitted with hidden cameras, introduce an unexpected element when I check in—the letter—designed to throw me off balance, then send someone to interview me. All part of the game. “She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “When I answered the door, you confirmed my suspicions. You’re far too pretty to be a reporter.”

Sydney was stunned. Cheryl McCormick had no idea she was going to die.

“Haven’t you watched the news lately?” Sydney asked.

“Will there be a lot of current-event questions? For the last week, I’ve been so tired, all I’ve done is take care of Stacy. Last night was the first time I’d turned on the television in a week. Talk about good timing. You know, I called Wonder Wheel on a lark, never expecting to get through, and when I did, I certainly didn’t expect to win. After that, everything’s pretty much a blur.”

The poor thing didn’t know.

There had been times when Sydney was appalled at how little people were aware of world events, until she realized that this was her chosen field, not theirs. It was sort of like dentists who are appalled at how little thought people give to their teeth, and nutritionists in arms over how little concern people give to their diets.

She fingered Cheryl McCormick’s letter and thought of little Stacy in the next room, and of the unborn child Cheryl was carrying. How to break the news to her? All of a sudden Sydney knew how doctors feel when they say, “I’m sorry, it’s cancer.” Or police knocking on the door in the middle of the night with “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“Cheryl, there’s no easy way to tell you this,” she said.

The pregnant woman looked at her with an unassuming grin.

“This notice? It’s not part of the Wonder Wheel game. It’s not Hollywood. It’s real.”

Sydney spoke in a hushed voice so Stacy wouldn’t overhear. She told Cheryl about Jeffrey Conley’s car accident, about Lyle Vandeveer, about the escalating terror that was gripping the world, and about the 100 percent fatality rate.

Cheryl listened intently. At times a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She still wanted to believe this was part of the show, that it was Sydney’s role to sell the charade. But there was something about Sydney’s earnestness that began to sink in. Her cheerful foundation began to weaken until, at last, her footing gave way and she plunged into icy reality—in less than two days she was going to die.

“My baby,” Cheryl said. A trembling hand caressed her belly. “If I die, my baby will die.”

She broke down and sobbed.

There was a knock at the door.

Torn between comforting Cheryl and answering the door, Sydney answered the door because she thought she knew who it was. She was right.

Fred Zappa, the clothes hamper with legs, lumbered in with his KSMJ camera atop his shoulder. “Here comes bad news,” he said cheerfully.

Sydney grabbed him before he got two steps into the room.

“This isn’t a good time,” she said.

Zappa saw the weeping woman on the far side of the room. “I can’t hang around,” he said. “I have to be at city hall in forty-five minutes or Cori will have my head.”

“What about after that?”

“Sorry.”

Sydney looked at Cheryl. It would be cruel to put her in front of a camera now.

“Just tell them we couldn’t get the interview. I’ll explain when I get back to the station.”

“We have a slot for it at six,” Zappa said.

“I’ll take responsibility for it,” Sydney said, turning him toward the door. The cameraman offered no resistance.

“Your funeral,” Zappa said, shaking his head. “But, hey, I’m easy. This way I can grab a donut.”

He ambled out.

Sydney rejoined Cheryl in the alcove. She was flushed red and wet with tears.

“What am I going do?” she cried.

Sydney put her arms around the woman. So much for remaining detached and objective.

How desperately she wanted to tell Cheryl it would be all right, that she would use the full resources of the station to protect her. Then she thought of Lyle Vandeveer and how much her assurances had helped him.

“I’ll contact the station,” Sydney said, “and tell them you’re not going to be able to go on the game show tonight.”

Cheryl nodded, dabbing her nose and eyes with a tissue.

Then, suddenly, she changed her mind.

“No, I have to go on tonight.”

“Cheryl, you’re in no condition.”

“I need the money. Especially now. Who’s going to take care of my babies after I’m gone? If I win, at least they’ll have money. If I win big, maybe they’ll even have enough for college.”

“You’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself.”

But Cheryl had made up her mind. “I have to do it.”

“What about relatives? Is there someone you can call?”

“We’re alone. Both my parents died when I was young. I was raised in foster homes. Larry’s father died a few years ago. His mother is sickly and needs round-the-clock care. And his only brother is younger. He’s in the Marines in Afghanistan.”