Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

“The plane you’re loading, it’s going to Chicago, right?”

Buster took a step back. “How’d you know that?”

“God wouldn’t have led me here if the plane wasn’t going to Chicago,” Billy said. “I have to get to Chicago, Buster. I’m on a mission.”

“What kinda mission?”

“A mission from God.”

“That’s not good enough. I need to know more if I’m going to get involved.”

“You’re going to have to take a step of faith, Buster.”

Buster was staring at the shoe box. Couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Maybe it was the way Billy was carrying it; maybe it was because of all the security measures that had been instituted at airports, all the warnings about packages and bombs.

“What’s in the box, Billy?”

“Angels.”

Buster’s eyebrows rose. “Did your angel visit you again?”

“I’m not going to try to convince you, Buster. This is something you’re going to have to do on faith.”

“It’s about all this death watch stuff, isn’t it?”

“Buster, what difference would it make if the whole world needed saving, or just one soul? God’s giving you a chance to be part of his mission. You know he won’t force you, and neither will I.”

Buster looked around again. “Okay,” he sighed. “Wait here. Keep an eye on that ramp.” He pointed to a ramp leading into the belly of a cargo plane. “When I give you the signal, you skedaddle up the ramp as quick as your old bowlegged legs will carry you, understand?”

“God will bless you for this, Buster,” Billy said.

He crouched in the shadows of the hangar for twenty minutes as men and forklifts went in and out of the belly of the cargo plane. The activity became more sporadic; the intervals between forklifts grew longer.

Buster appeared at the top of the ramp. Keeping an eye on the portion of the hangar Billy couldn’t see, Buster made a quick waving motion.

Billy scurried out of the shadows and up the ramp into the plane. It was longer and steeper than it looked, and midway up the ramp he was laboring for breath.

“Hurry!” Buster said, frantically checking the hangar.

When Billy managed to make it to the top, bent over and gasping for air, Buster led him to the midsection of the plane, past a section of animal crates—dogs, cats, parrots—where a large wooden crate lay open. Inside, Buster had fashioned a bed of pink packing peanuts. A heavy jacket lay on top.

“It’s the best I could do,” Buster said, sweating from exertion or nervousness, or both.

Billy ducked inside the crate, pulled on the jacket, and nested in the middle of the packing peanuts.

“You’ll need this to get out.”

Buster handed him a hammer.

“I’m proud of you, Buster,” Billy said.

“Just promise me that someday you’ll explain exactly why I risked my job tonight.”

Buster lifted the side of the crate to nail it shut.

“Buster?”

“Yeah?”

“Does this flight serve complimentary drinks?”

“And now, America’s favorite game show— Wonder Wheel!”

Cued by the flashing sign, the studio audience erupted with noise—clapping, yelling, a couple of wolfish whistles. After all, this wasn’t your grandmother’s game show; it was a game show for the postmodern generation, one in which the viewing audience participated.

“And the host of Wonder Wheel —Skip Hirshberg!”

The smiling, trim master of ceremonies jogged into the bright studio lights, dressed in casual tan slacks and a black polo shirt. He gave the appearance of being an easy-going, fun-loving guy, the kind you’d feel comfortable inviting over to the house for a few laughs. Though in his midfifties, Skip had a perpetual boyish charm about him, largely due to his hair, which was all his, color and all.

“Goooood evening, America!” Skip shouted to the audience. “Are you ready to play Wonder Wheel?”

The audience was on its feet, shaking the rafters with their shouts and stomping.

Sydney and Hunz stood in the vomitory, an entrance to the stage cut beneath the stadium seats. Hunz was holding Cheryl’s daughter Stacy in his arms, the surprise of the night.

Three-year-old Stacy had taken to Hunz at the hotel the moment she saw him. More surprisingly, Hunz had taken to her. Sydney had never pictured the German newscaster around children. He didn’t seem the type.

While Cheryl made one last pass through the motel room, gathering up her things, little Stacy grabbed Hunz by the finger and pulled him into the back room to show him her coloring book pictures and Brenda doll, a knockoff of Barbie with a modest figure. International news broadcaster Hunz Vonner followed enthusiastically.

Actually, there were two surprises at the hotel. Hunz and Stacy were the second surprise. The first was when Cheryl opened the door. She greeted Sydney with an embrace that was surprising for both its enthusiasm and its duration. It was a lingering hug normally reserved for dear friends and long-absent family members.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Cheryl said, her breath warm on Sydney’s ear.

Sydney couldn’t remember the last time she’d been hugged by another woman with such genuine affection. The affection soothed an ache in her soul and brought tears to her eyes.

“Tonight will be a lucky night for one of our three studio contestants, or possibly someone at home!” cried master of ceremonies Skip Hirshberg. “It could be you!”

Along with the two other studio contestants, Cheryl McCormick stood behind an electronic podium smiling radiantly, her red hair ablaze under the studio lights.

“Let’s meet them, shall we?” Skip said. “Our returning champion and reigning queen of Wonder Wheel, Barb Whitlock!”

“Hello, Skip,” Barb said with a note of familiarity. A matronly middle-aged woman wearing a conservative print dress, Barb could easily be mistaken for a research librarian with her short brown hair, black-frame glasses, and thickset figure.

“Barb Whitlock is a district manager for Southern California Edison. She lives in Alhambra, California, with her husband, Phil, and pet cockatoo, Sir Talks-a-Lot. To date, Barb has won $123,568!”

Cheryl joined the audience applause, as did the middle contestant, a male in his late twenties, well over six feet tall, with a belly that hung over his belt like a flow of thick ooze, straining his shirt buttons. He weighed three hundred pounds easily.

“Our second contestant is Wendell Wicker Jr., a senior at Cal Poly, Pomona, where he is majoring in computer science. Welcome to Wonder Wheel, Wendell.”

“C-c-call me Junior, Skip.”

As he spoke Junior’s eyes bulged, revealing an abnormal amount of white surrounding the pupils. It was as though they were gasping. He repeated this annoying habit two or three times a minute, more when he was nervous.

“Tell me, Junior,” Skip said. “When you’re not hitting the books at Cal Poly, do you have a hobby? Or a girlfriend?”

The big man tittered. His eyes breathed. “Video games, Skip,” he said. “I just changed my major from French poetry to computer science so I can make some really awesome games. You know, Skip, video games are good for society. They keep kids off the streets.”

“How often do you play, Junior?”

Junior shrugged. “Five hours a day, minimum.”

“Our third contestant tonight is—my, my, my, she certainly is, isn’t she?—our third contestant is an expectant mother and last night’s winning telephone contestant, an elementary school teacher from Evanston, Illinois. Meet Cheryl McCormick!”