Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

“You can tell me you’ve solved the mystery of Death Watch,” she said.

“I’ve solved the mystery of Death Watch,” he said.

Stunned. At first, Cheryl didn’t know what to say. Finally, she managed, “You have?”

“You have?” Josh echoed.

It was too much to hope for. Cheryl’s heart beat freely, as though the cords that had bound it for the last twenty-four hours had suddenly been cut.

“Really?” she said.

“Really,” Dr. Isaacs assured her.

Cheryl stared up at Josh; he stared down at her. They must have looked like a couple of grinning monkeys, but Cheryl didn’t care. For the first time since Los Angeles, she felt hope, and it felt good. It felt so good, it surprised her.

Until yesterday she hadn’t realized the effect hope had on a life. She had to lose it to appreciated it, much the same way a person takes her internal organs for granted; but let one of them stop working .

And now Isaacs—bless his heart—had revived the invisible organ that dispensed hope, and she was whole again.

She could see beyond tomorrow, a week, a year, decades into the future. She could see Stacy growing up, going to school, falling in love, having children. She would get to know Stacy’s little sister or brother. She could look forward to getting to know Josh better, to…well, it was too soon to go down that road, but that was the point, wasn’t it? She would be going down that road. She would see where it led.

Cheryl had her life back. And Josh, too.

“Oh, Dr. Isaacs, you don’t know what this means to me!” she cried. “This is wonderful news! What needs to be done? Is it a painful procedure?”

Dr. Isaacs smiled. He wrote on her chart. “In your case, nothing. It’s already been done. Have a good day, Mrs. McCormick.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait!” Josh cried.

A single word, and just like that Cheryl found herself back on the edge of the precipice. She felt his alarm. He’d communicated it through their linked hands. She shared it.

Isaacs turned back.

“You said nothing needs to be done,” Josh said.

“That’s correct.”

“How about for me? I have the Death Watch too.”

Isaacs smiled. “I suggest you consult your physician.”

“Dr. Isaacs,” Cheryl said. “Let me put it to you another way. How many death watch patients have you saved?”

Isaacs fidgeted. And with that fidget, Cheryl’s fledgling hope died a stillborn death.

The fatherly tone returned. “Mrs. McCormick .”

“Just answer her question,” Josh said. “How many death watch patients have you treated that have lived past the appointed time of death?”

“Mr. McCormick, there is no need to—”

“The name is Josh. Josh Leven.”

Isaacs raised an eyebrow. “You’re no relation to this woman? Mr. Leven, is it? I must insist you leave. You are in violation of hospital policy. Visiting hours—”

“They’ve all died, haven’t they?” Cheryl said.

Isaacs made a show of dipping into his reserve of patience.

“They died because they all had preexisting conditions,” he said. “Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome, hypertension, arteriosclerosis, adrenocortical carcinoma. You, on the other hand, are a healthy young woman. To put your baby at needless risk at this stage of pregnancy would be foolhardy and criminal.”

Cheryl was squeezing Josh’s hand so hard, he squirmed. “Doctor Isaacs,” she said, “one way or another, this baby is coming out today.”

She wanted to say more, but she was already close to losing control and she was afraid additional words would open the floodgates.

All traces of Isaacs’s fatherly image vanished.

Sternly, he said, “Mrs. McCormick, you are emotional and irrational. This fixation you have regarding death makes you a threat to yourself and your unborn child. Now, I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve tried to reason with you. But you persist in being irrational, leaving me no choice but to confirm Dr. Boscacci’s recommendation of a psych consult. I warn you: If you persist in this unreasonable behavior, or attempt to leave this hospital before a psychological evaluation can be administered, we will be forced to restrain you physically to keep you from harming yourself or your unborn child. Do I make myself clear? As for you . ” He pointed a sausage-fat finger at Josh. “Either leave these premises, or I will have you forcibly removed.”

It was a hit-and-run threat. Isaacs was out the door before either Cheryl or Josh could respond.

For a time, neither of them spoke. Having hope handed to them and then jerked back like some kind of bad practical joke left them numb.

“Maybe I should…,” Josh said.

“Please don’t go,” Cheryl said. She pulled his hand against her cheek. Her tears fell on it.

“I was going to say that maybe I should check on Stacy. But I can see from here, she’s still asleep.”

Josh Leven sat down in the chair beside Cheryl’s bed.

5:30 a.m. (PST)

The red digital numbers on the hotel radio clock read 7:30 a.m. Sydney turned its face to the wall. The two-hour differential gave her heart a start every time she looked at it.

According to her watch, Hunz had three hours and seventeen minutes to live.

Sydney told herself not to look at her watch so frequently. She couldn’t help it. But with each time check, she died a little herself.

She was alone in the room. Hunz had retreated to the bedroom. He said he needed to do some things, make some calls. Sydney didn’t pry. Not because she’d known him for such a short time—it was amazing how quickly you could get to know someone when you share a crisis—but because of the shortness of time. A man with only hours to live should be allowed to call the shots. Lyle Vandeveer had welcomed company; Hunz wanted to be alone.

He took his cell phone into the bedroom with him, and Billy’s Bible. Sydney had circled a verse on Lony’s tract and inserted it into the Bible like a bookmark. Before closing the door he mentioned he wanted to touch base with EuroNet, to see if they had any more leads. He’d already told them of his Death Watch, and they had arranged to carry a live feed from the American network.

He’d also told Sydney there were a couple of people he wanted to call.

Before I die.

He didn’t say those last three words. The inevitable didn’t have a voice. It didn’t need one.

Though she didn’t say anything to him, Sydney hoped one of Hunz’s calls would be placed to his father. And she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d call his old girlfriend. Married or not, she’d want to know, wouldn’t she?

Meanwhile, Sydney occupied her time by taking care of business. A conference call with Sol and Helen ruled out the possibility of an on-the-air report regarding the Billy Peppers incident.

As Sol put it, “The suicide of a religious fruitcake isn’t newsworthy. And the sooner people forget his request to speak to a reporter from our station, the better. We don’t want viewers associating us with that kind of religious fringe element.”

He came to his conclusion based on the videotape of Billy’s fall—both Sol and Helen had seen it—and Sydney’s account of what took place on the roof.

Sydney didn’t tell them what she and Hunz alone had seen. It bothered her that she didn’t tell them. But every time she played out the telling in her mind, it sounded like something out of a Ray Bradbury science fiction novel.

Besides, if she linked Hunz to some kind of angelic appearance now, she was afraid they might think twice about putting him on the air in a couple of hours. They might conclude he was mentally or emotionally unstable. Better to say nothing for now, though she didn’t feel good about it.