Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

It was dark where she entered. Shadowy military figures crouched in every corner. The only one in the light was Billy Peppers. Spotlights from the street and portable lights on the roof crisscrossed on him.

The crunch of gravel announced the approach of two men, one dressed for action, the other in a suit of undetermined color.

The sergeant said, “This is Sydney St. James.”

They were expecting her. The armed man held a walkie-talkie, no doubt linked to Caplan.

The man in the suit leaned close and advised her regarding the man on the ledge. “Don’t anger him. Try to get him talking. And make sure you stay out of arm’s reach.”

The armed man added, “See if you can get him to step down off the ledge. We have men in position behind the lights to grab him.”

Neither asked Sydney if she was having any second thoughts. They each grabbed an arm and led her toward the light.

The man in the suit lifted a bullhorn. “Peppers, we have Miss St. James, just as you requested.”

Billy turned toward the voice. He squinted against the lights. There was no way he could see any of them.

Sydney was pushed forward. Two crunchy steps and she crossed from darkness into light. It was bright. She stopped, holding up a hand, giving her eyes time to adjust, sensing she was close to the edge and that if she took one more step she’d hit the ledge and topple over it.

While it was still too bright for her to see anything, she heard Billy say, “Wow. You look like an angel.”

Sydney’s defenses rose instantly. She was standing on the roof of a hotel in the middle of the night and this guy was hitting on her? She didn’t have time for this nonsense. Cheryl was on her way to the hospital, Hunz had less than—what?—six hours left to live? If this guy had gone to all this trouble to try to pick her up, she was going to push him off the ledge herself.

Her conclusion wasn’t without precedence. In Iowa City, working for the PBS station, she would get calls to interview university professors with significant scientific discoveries, or to interview a classical music celebrity, only to arrive and find there was no discovery, there was no celebrity, only some wise guy who saw her on television and wanted to meet her.

The pattern was always the same. First the compliment, then the pickup line. So she looked like an angel, huh? Not very original.

“When you were a kid,” Billy said, “did you go to Sunday school?”

If that was this guy’s best pickup line, he needed professional help.

“Yeah,” she said. “Is that a requirement?”

Billy smiled. “Just wondered why they chose you.”

“They?”

“I contacted you in LA,” he said. “You didn’t meet me at Hollywood Memorial. I waited.”

Sydney searched for signs of mental instability or drugs. Nervous gestures. Inability to look her in the eyes. Dilated pupils. She noted none of these things. Billy was casual—if such a thing was possible standing on the ledge of a tall building in a windy city—and his speech was clear. So were his eyes.

“I was detained,” she said. “You must have left by the time we got there.” She thought a moment. “We went looking for you at the mission.”

Stalkers never liked it when someone turned the tables on them by showing up unexpectedly at their home or work. Sydney wanted to gauge his reaction to this bit of news. If anything, Billy appeared flattered.

“Then you met Ken Overton!” He spoke as if they were at some kind of reunion.

“And Lony Mendez,” Sydney said. “He told us about your prison background.”

Billy Peppers beamed. He folded his arms contentedly, momentarily covering the wooden cross he wore around his neck. He was every inch what you’d expect to see in a homeless man: layers of clothing; old, worn shoes; hair and face that needed washing. One thing was different, though. A quick mind backlit friendly eyes and powered an intelligent tongue.

A gust of wind hit them suddenly, staggering Sydney and knocking Billy off balance. His eyes grew wide with fright, his arms did the windmill thing as he fought to keep from going over the side. Sydney reached for him instinctively. A chorus of male voices from the dark warned her not to do it.

Billy caught his balance. He pressed a hand to his chest as though to calm a heart gone wild. “I hate heights,” he said.

“Then let’s go someplace safe,” Sydney said, her own heart doing triple backflips. “They have conference rooms here. I’m sure they’ll let us use one. We can talk there.”

Billy fixed his gaze behind her, past the lights, as if trying to discern what was behind them. “My instructions were to deliver the message to you here.”

“Instructions from whom?”

“We’ll get there soon enough.” He paused and stared at his feet for a moment. Then he looked up. “You’re looking for the terrorist who is behind the death watch tragedy.”

“We have several leads.”

“You’re looking in the wrong places.”

“How can you say that? You don’t know where we’re looking.”

Billy smiled knowingly. “I know where you’re not looking,” he said.

“Mr. Peppers, let’s get to the point. Do you know who is behind Death Watch?”

Billy caught her gaze and held it. “Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me who it is?”

“He’s a terrorist,” Billy said. “A terrorist with an organization so strong, so widespread, it makes all other terrorist organizations look like two-bit street punks.”

Something caught his eye behind her. He stared hard at it. Sydney turned to see what he was looking at.

The airport control tower. Two men were watching them with binoculars. Police? Bored air traffic controllers? It was impossible to tell from this distance. Sydney wondered how he would react if he knew that a couple dozen feet behind the lights there were men who had guns, not binoculars, trained on him.

Billy pointed at the Nike shoe box near his feet. “Look inside,” he said.

The box looked innocent enough. It was an ordinary shoe box. No swastikas drawn on it. No skull and crossbones. No protruding wires. Just a regular Nike shoe box. Size ten.

She reached for it.

All manner of shouting erupted behind her from the dark, warning her not to touch the box.

She recoiled.

“It’s just a shoe box,” Billy said. “I keep my stuff in there. If you’d like, I’ll open it.”

He started to reach for the box. Sydney stopped him. There could be a gun in the box. The police would think so too. And though she couldn’t be certain, she had the distinct impression that if he touched the box, he’d be shot, and she’d never know what he wanted from her.

“I’ll do it.” Sydney inched toward the box to a renewed doomsday chorus sung by the choir behind the lights. She touched the lid and hesitated.

He insisted it was personal items. The police suspected a bomb, or something equally dangerous. A chemical weapon? If she lifted the lid of the box and something chemical was released, this wind would spread it quickly and efficiently and there would be no way anyone could stop it.

Which was it? The safest thing to do would be to snatch the box, hold the lid down, and give it to authorities for them to examine. But if she did that, Billy probably wouldn’t talk to her anymore.

He’d had it under his arm in Pasadena. Carried it like it was something personal, like he said. Or something dangerous he didn’t want anyone to touch until the right moment. Which was it? But then what were the chances of a homeless man carrying around a pocket-size nuclear device or a vial of sarin gas in a Nike shoe box?

Cautiously, Sydney lifted the lid.

She let out a small yelp. Two faces stared up at her.