Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

Cheryl answered Sydney’s question. “I’m meeting my OB/ GYN at Prentice Women’s Hospital. It’s part of Northwestern Memorial Hospital on Superior Avenue.”

“You’re not going home first?” Sydney asked.

Cheryl shrugged. “I want to get checked in as soon as possible. My doctor’s reluctant to take the baby early. He says all this death watch stuff is nonsense, that once I’m in the hospital I’ll be safe, what with ail their medical resources and stuff.”

That’s what Sydney had told Lyle Vandeveer.

“Don’t let him talk you into waiting too long,” Sydney said.

“I won’t.”

Sydney knew she wouldn’t. Cheryl was quiet, but she was strong and determined. Sydney admired her like no other woman she knew, and felt an incredible urge to hug her. Having had so few close women friends, it pained Sydney to think that now she’d found one, she would soon lose her.

The hatch opened. Single file, they stepped into the brisk September night. A ground crewman pointed them toward the glass terminal door. Josh and Cheryl went ahead. Sydney and Hunz waited for Cheryl’s luggage.

The terminal was surprisingly populated for one o’clock in the morning. The interior was brightly lit with a white, open-beamed metal ceiling.

They made their way down Concourse A, following the ground transportation signs where, according to Hunz, a limo was waiting for them. Josh, Cheryl, and Stacy looked like a family returning from vacation. Hunz stepped briskly behind them.

Sydney had to hurry to catch up. “Are we going with her to the hospital?”

“To complete your story,” Hunz replied. “You can report how the station helped her back to Chicago, then provided for her safety. It’ll make a splash.”

Sydney looked at him. Was he mocking her? Or was he mocking Sol? Or was this simply an attempt at humor? She found it hard to read Hunz at times. Of course, his reason for going with Cheryl to the hospital was 100 percent malarkey. That was the kind of thing that could be confirmed with a phone call. Hunz didn’t fool her. He was concerned that Stacy would be cared for after her mother died, even though he could do little to help given the fact that his time would run out before Cheryl’s less than eight hours from now.

They reached the junction of three concourses. Not surprisingly, it was a food court. In the center of the triangle stood a magazine kiosk. Every newspaper, every magazine had Special Edition slashed across the front. Death Watch was the feature story. Time magazine featured a large black question mark on the cover, set against a bloody red background, with the words, “Who’s Next?” printed beneath it in bold block letters.

The competing odors of deep fried foods—french fries, donuts, fried chicken, fish—commingled at the concourse intersection. Backlit franchise signs vied for patrons with bright colors and pictures of burgers, tacos, pizza, gyros, and hoagie sandwiches.

Even though it was the middle of the night and Sydney’s stomach knew better, it was aroused by the odors. They did a job on Stacy, too. She stirred and looked up with half-open eyes.

“Mama?”

“Go back to sleep, honey,” Cheryl said. “We’re not there yet.”

Just then Sydney realized Hunz was missing. She looked around for him and found him standing at an unoccupied American Airlines gate watching a television mounted high on a white pillar. Even from a distance, Sydney recognized the CNN logo in the corner. Nothing unusual. CNN produced a special airport edition of their show. However, this wasn’t it. On the bottom of the screen were the words SPECIAL REPORT—DEATH WATCH UPDATE.

Sydney joined Hunz. Intent on the news report, he gave no indication he knew she was there.

The CNN correspondent, an attractive black female, held a microphone and addressed the camera. She stood in front of a Hilton Hotel sign.

Two more bizarre death watch stories came to light today. At the South Pole, photographer Robert Helwys, a member of the National Geographic scientific expedition at the Atmospheric Research Observatory, is reported to have received a death watch notice on his digital pager, even though that device is well beyond normal transmission range. Authorities are unable to explain it.

And in an equally bizarre event, the Russian Space Agency has just confirmed that Cosmonaut Alexei Kovalenko has received a death watch notice while aboard the International Space Station. The transmission arrived via highly secure communication channels.

Which begs the question: Who is behind this far-reaching terrorism? Theories abound, and there is no shortage of terrorist groups claiming responsibility. However, authorities are quick to point out that none of these terrorist groups have the means or resources to pull off a strike of this magnitude. So who is behind Death Watch? One man says he knows.

The camera panned up the side of a glass building to the roof of a hotel where a man stood precariously close to the edge. Tucked beneath his right arm was a Nike shoe box.

“Good Lord!” Sydney cried. “That’s him!”

“Who?”

Sydney looked harder. “I’m almost certain it’s him. Yes. In Pasadena. He was holding a Nike box!”

“Who?” Hunz cried.

Cheryl and Josh, having doubled back, joined them looking up at the television.

“Billy Peppers!” Sydney said.

“It can’t be,” Hunz said.

“Peppers,” Josh said. “Isn’t he the crackpot who keeps contacting Cori with end-of-the-world messages?”

High atop the Hilton Hotel at O’Hare International Airport, here in Chicago, a man stands on a ledge. He says he alone has the answer. Police have identified him as William Peppers, a resident of Los Angeles and self-proclaimed gospel minister.

“He must have followed us here,” Sydney said.

“How?” Hunz countered. “We just got here. He had to have arrived before us.”

“Oh, no,” Sydney said.

“What?” Hunz demanded.

“The groundskeepers.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The groundskeepers at the cemetery. They said they heard Billy Peppers talking about going to Chicago.”

“A coincidence,” Hunz said.

“Is it?”

“What are those white patches all over him?” Josh asked, pointing at the screen.

“They look like torn pieces of paper,” Hunz said.

On screen, emergency and camera lights reflected off the patches, making it difficult to see what they were. The camera zoomed in for a tighter shot.

“Angels,” Sydney said. “They’re pictures of angels.”

“Why would he paste pictures of angels to his clothes?” Hunz asked.

“That’s right!” Josh exclaimed. “He’s the crackpot who says angels talk to him.”

However, Mr. Peppers refuses to talk to authorities. He says he will speak to only one person —

Premonition. Intuition. Call it what you will, but a sense of anticipatory dread chilled Sydney.

— Sydney St. James, a Los Angeles news reporter. Police are attempting to contact Miss St. James now.

Everyone looked at Sydney.

“How did he know you’d be here?” Hunz said.

Sydney was shaking her head. “He couldn’t have known. I didn’t even know until we got to the airport.”

Hunz’s cell phone rang. He answered it. “Yeah, she’s right here. We just landed. I don’t know. She doesn’t know. All right. No idea. All right. Yeah.”

He closed the phone.

“That was Sol Rosenthal. The Chicago police are looking for you.”

“Did he tell them we were here?” Sydney asked.

“No. He told them he’d attempt to locate you. He wants you to get over there.”