Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

Gingerly, because he had to use his hands to push himself up and they were presently screaming at him, Billy managed to get to his knees. There was a stiff breeze and some of his angels were trying to fly away. They looked like they’d forgotten how, tumbling this way and that.

“Hey! You!”

One of the voices he’d heard earlier took human form. It became a body dressed in gray coveralls with a face that didn’t look pleased to see him. In fact, there were three men just inside the hangar. Two were smoking. One was sitting on top of a crate, his feet dangling.

“Get away from that plane!”

All three men were looking at him now. The one shouting had taken a last draw from his cigarette and tossed it aside. He picked up a crowbar and came toward Billy. The crowbar fit his hand with familiarity, much the same way a nine iron would fit in the hand of a golfer, or a bat in the hand of a baseball player.

Billy scrambled to capture the last of the runaway angels and shoved them into the box. The two ceramic angels were scuffed but not broken. His Bible lay open, the wind’s fingers flipping its pages.

He grabbed them all and tossed them into the box, then wrestled with the lid. His knees complaining loudly, he managed to get on his feet and—hobbling—put some distance between him and the crowbar.

“That’s right, get outta here! Go on. Git! Git!”

Maybe it was a universal thing; Chicago was no different than LA. In both places they used the same language to chase away dogs and bums. Billy hobbled out of the hangar lights and into the darkness.

To one side, in the distance, like a finger pointing heavenward, stood the O’Hare airport control tower. Splayed beneath it were lights, both stationary and moving, a city of people in transit from all quarters of the world.

“Well, we’re here,” Billy said to the air. “Now what?”

Sydney couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You? A death watch notice?”

“On the flight from Atlanta,” Hunz said.

“All this time?”

She still couldn’t believe it. From the time she’d met Hunz, he’d been living under the threat of death. At Lyle Vandeveer’s house. At Dykstra Hall. At FBI headquarters. Now it all made sense. He hadn’t wanted to sleep.

“Who knows?” she asked.

“Sol. Now you.”

“You told Sol ”

“When I arranged for this flight.”

“Why not earlier?”

“You saw the way Helen reacted when she thought you had the Death Watch. I couldn’t risk it.”

He was right, of course. Helen was ready to bench her, which explained why Hunz acted so cavalierly when he interceded for her in Helen’s office.

“On the flight in ,” Sydney said, counting back the hours. “That means. ”

“8:47 a.m.”

Sydney looked at her watch. It was after midnight. 12:26 a.m., to be exact. “That means you have.”

“Eight hours, twenty-one minutes to live.”

“And the live interview you promised Sol. It’s not Cheryl.”

“Never said it was.”

“Oh, Hunz.”

“Works out well for you, though,” he said breezily. “That’s why I brought you along, to wrap up the story once I’m gone. You’ll get

international exposure.”

“Don’t joke about that. It’s not funny.”

“Who’s joking? Besides, I know exactly how Lyle Vandeveer felt. Just having you near makes things easier.”

“Don’t you have someone in Germany?”

Hunz looked at his empty hands. “I’ve pretty much sacrificed everything to get where I am. Married the job, no time for a social life. You know the drill.”

“Family?”

“My mother’s gone. Haven’t spoken to my father in a couple of years.”

“You should call him.”

Hunz Vonner’s face turned to granite. The friendliness that had been there a moment before was gone. “Don’t offer advice about things you know nothing about.”

He was out of his chair and walking to the back of the plane before Sydney knew what was happening. She called to him.

He stepped into the lavatory and closed the door.

Sydney looked at her watch, refusing to believe Hunz Vonner had no more than the time of a normal working day to live.

Sydney sat alone, staring out the window of the plush corporate jet, her reflection staring back at her. She looked past it to the lights below. For most of the journey only an occasional light dotted the black prairie beneath them. Now lights were appearing with greater frequency. They came in clumps and strings.

The sound of the engines changed as the plane began its descent. Sydney buckled in, her thoughts and emotions as black as the night outside her window.

She found it hard to give up on the nanotechnology theory. She had no reason to hang onto it; she just wanted to. Not only did it make sense, it was something they could understand, something they could fight. Scientists could come up with something to neutralize the little buggers, couldn’t they? The theory had given her hope. Now that it was gone, hope was gone and they were right back where they started, asking the same disturbing questions. Who was behind this? How were they doing it? What could be done to stop them?

On the other side of the Plexiglas partition, Josh stirred. Taking his feet from the table, he stood and stretched. He said something to Cheryl. She smiled and said something back.

Maybe Sydney was mistaken, but she thought she saw a fledgling love sparkle in their eyes, the kind that gives couples a giddy feeling and makes them smile and laugh a lot. No, they hadn’t known each other long enough. Besides, there was Cori. And what did Josh and Cheryl have in common besides a very short future?

Little Stacy was still asleep. Josh and Cheryl talked.

Sydney sighed. Five passengers on board, not counting the one in Cheryl’s belly. Three marked for death. Later today, after Cheryl was settled, Sydney would fly back to Los Angeles. Possibly alone, possibly with Josh, but he’d be going back to LA to die. For all its leather and polished wood, the Dessault Falcon was a coffin with wings.

Hunz stepped out of the restroom. He joined the others in the conference room. The three adults chatted casually, then both men assisted Cheryl to her feet. It took both of them. Hunz buckled himself into a chair with them, leaving Sydney alone and frightened.

She couldn’t help but feel that an invisible terrorist rode in the plane with them. He sat with the others in the conference room, having claimed them as his own. Somehow, Sydney had to find a way to stop him. But she didn’t know where to begin, and she was running out of time, and soon she would begin losing people she cared for.

The lights of Chicago slid beneath the Dassault Falcon as it made its approach to Midway Airport. Smaller than O’Hare, Midway serviced connector flights for the major airlines and corporate aircraft.

The plane slowed to a stop a short distance from the terminal. Sydney unbuckled and joined the others. Josh was holding a sleeping Stacy upright while Cheryl dressed her in a light jacket. Josh was obviously inexperienced at this sort of thing. The little girl’s head and arms flopped this way and that like a rag doll.

“Do we need to arrange for transportation?” Sydney asked.

“Already taken care of,” Hunz said.

The man was efficient, you had to give him that.

“Evanston?” Sydney asked Cheryl.

The pregnant woman zipped up Stacy’s jacket, then put a hand against her own back to straighten up again.

“I’ve got Stacy,” Josh said to her, picking up the girl.

The girl laid her head on Josh’s shoulder. Hunz looked on attentively, several times making motions to help get Stacy situated. He obviously wanted to carry her.