Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

As with most people who attended these training sessions, Sydney liked the thought of being able to represent her faith if called upon. However, when it came time to actually go visiting or knock on doors, inevitably she came down with an acute case of timidity.

She compared her training to CPR lessons. It was something that was good to know, but something you hoped you never had to use.

Like now. World-renown newscaster Hunz Vonner was sitting across the table from her asking about her personal faith. Why was she so nervous about telling him?

“Actually,” Sydney said, taking up the gospel tract, “if Billy Peppers is right—just assuming for the moment that he is—and the Death Watch is a spiritual assault, then this tract pretty much outlines what a person would have do in order to . well, the term is to be saved, that’s pretty much the evangelical… well, actually the Bible, lingo. In this case, though, it would be the way to. . well,to break the power of the Death Watch.”

She never once looked at Hunz as she spoke, focusing instead on the tract in her hands.

“Sydney St. James, are you trying to proselytize me?” Hunz asked.

Sydney sat up, her eyes wide. His was no small accusation. She could get fired for doing what she’d just done. The network had strict rules against proselytizing.

“We. . we were talking about Billy Peppers,” she stammered. “You asked what he said about the Death Watch and . . well, naturally, in such a discussion.”

Hunz laughed at her.

“Relax,” he said. “I’m not going to turn you in. I just wanted to see you squirm.”

“I well, I you can do what you want,” she said. “You asked me. I told you. Simple as that.”

Hunz was still smiling at her even as he sipped his coffee. Merry eyes peered at her over the rim of his cup.

“We didn’t go to church when I was growing up,” he said. “I was thirteen when the Wall came down. I was raised on the Communist side. The State, the Party, was everything. I grew up in the youth organizations. We saluted, marched, sang songs that glorified Communism. Our god was the land and the Communist philosophy. We had churches. Only a handful of people attended them. They were viewed as weak-minded and superstitious, people to be pitied. The first time I stepped into a church, I was twenty-two years old. A wedding. An old friend.”

He smiled warmly at the remembrance.

“An old girlfriend, actually,” he said, laughing. “She said I was too intense for her. Too work-oriented. Can you imagine that?”

“If I try real hard,” Sydney said.

“Had I done it any differently, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

“Do you regret losing her?”

Hunz grinned at his coffee cup, which he twirled in his hands.

“I never knew how much I missed her until I met you,” he said. “You remind me of her.”

That was certainly unexpected. Sydney didn’t know what to do with it. All she knew was that it brought warmth to her cheeks.

“To some degree your appearance,” Hunz said, “but mostly your outlook on life. Strong, yet always feminine. Compassionate. Caring.”

“You said she got married in a church.”

Hunz nodded. “That was the other reason I lost her. She met a man who spoke to her of spiritual things. She converted, and that made the gap between us even wider.”

“She became a Christian?”

“It lit her up, is that an expression?”

“It’s an expression.”

“It made me angry to think that a mythical philosophy could steal her away from me. Angrier still to think that it could make her happier than I could make her, that she would choose it over me.”

Sydney listened. Sometimes you interact, and sometimes you just listen. The tone of Hunz’s voice indicated this was a soliloquy, not a dialogue.

What struck Sydney was how much the man delivering the soliloquy had changed in just the last few moments. Hunz Vonner, media celebrity, had left the room; in his place was Hunz, the man. It was as though he’d shed a suit of armor to reveal flesh and blood beneath all the polish and shine.

“To tell you the truth, I haven’t given God much thought since then,” Hunz said, “which makes these last few hours that much more puzzling.” He grew animated. “Think about it. Just for the sake of argument, let’s say Billy Peppers is on to something. What I want to know is, what is Satan’s strategy? He has the whole populated world to choose from. Why Cheryl McCormick? Why Lyle Vandeveer? Why Josh Leven?”

“Why you?”

“It doesn’t make sense that, given the scenario that’s been described to us, Satan would respond with a lethal lottery. If indeed there is a battle between him and God, he’d eliminate people in order to gain a strategic advantage, wouldn’t he? So the question is: What threat am I to him? What threat is Cheryl?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have—”

“And then there’s the other side of this celestial drama,” Hunz said. “Why Billy Peppers? Who’s going to believe a street preacher convict who carries around a shoe box full of angels? And why was Billy Peppers so insistent on delivering his message to you?”

“He said the angels told him—”

“There you are,” Hunz said. “Back to all this angel nonsense again.”

He was breathing heavily now. Worked up. He dug into his pocket.

“And how do you explain this?” he said, tossing Billy Peppers’s cross onto the table, the one he wore around his neck.

“Where did you get that?” Sydney cried.

“It fell to the ground when he jumped.”

Sydney examined it. There was no doubt it was Billy’s cross.

Hunz leaned forward, both arms on the table. “And when he fell, why was it that you and I were the only ones who saw him—”

“You saw it!” Sydney shouted.

“I don’t know what I saw,” Hunz said. “Flames. Two men, one on each side

“Billy’s angels,” Sydney said with tears.

“Why didn’t anyone else see that? Why didn’t the cameras record it?”

“You lied to me! You said you saw him fall.”

“Of course I lied to you! “Hunz shouted. “Because what we saw is crazy!”

7:00 a.m. (CST)

Cheryl was still holding Josh Leven’s hand when Dr. Amos Isaacs shoved the door open, talking, walking, and reading Cheryl’s chart as he entered the room.

Josh had pulled a chair beside the bed. When the doctor entered, he released his grip and stood up to step aside. Cheryl tightened her grip. She felt stronger holding it.

“Mrs. McCormick,” said Dr. Isaacs, looking up. “I understand you want a consult.”

Isaacs was of average height, portly, with reddish-blonde hair so thin, you had to look twice to see how neatly he’d combed it over. Fatherly eyes peered over a pair of reading glasses, and he wore a genial expression that had undoubtedly served him well over the years.

He seemed surprised to see Josh.

“Mr. McCormick. I didn’t expect you to be here at this hour of morning.” He noticed Stacy asleep on the floor. “I see the whole family’s here.”

Cheryl spoke up before Josh could correct him.

“Doctor, you’re mistaken if you think I want a consult,” she said. “What I want is to deliver my baby while I’m still alive.”

Her directness caused Isaacs to blink. He checked the chart again, flipping pages. “I don’t understand. I see nothing on your chart to cause alarm, Mrs. McCormick. Why do you think you’re dying?”

She told him about the death watch notice.

“Ah!” He smiled and nodded in a fatherly though condescending way. He furrowed his brow as if pondering a deep thought. “What can I do to convince you that you’re not going to die?” he said.