Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

“Can you believe it?” Cheryl said.

“I didn’t know,” Josh replied.

Josh was in Cheryl’s room courtesy of Dora Evans, LPN. Upon learning of Dr. Isaacs’s threats, the opinionated hospital worker—who’d lost a son to Death Watch—conspired to keep Josh in the room.

“Kick a good-lookin’ hunk like you off my floor? Not on my watch, child,” Dora had said.

She kept watch in the hallway for Isaacs’s return. Calling the doctor’s name was Josh’s signal to slip into the closet.

The plan went off without a hitch. Dora called. Josh hid. Isaacs poked his head inside the door, looked around, grunted, and left.

Now, Dora stood in the room, having watched the first segment of “Countdown to Death” with them. According to her, every television in the hospital was tuned to the program.

“You sure you want her watching this?” Dora inclined her head toward Stacy.

“We know Hunz Vonner,” Cheryl said solemnly. “We met him last night.”

“Hunz, like the ketchup,” Stacy said.

Dora and Josh laughed. It lightened the mood.

“Stacy! Where did you hear that?” Cheryl asked.

“Hunz told me. Hunz, like the ketchup.”

“Mr. Vonner and Stacy hit it off,” Cheryl explained. “He was very good to us. Arranged to get me back here to the hospital on the station’s corporate jet.”

“Really?” Dora said, surprised. She glanced back at the screen, even though Hunz’s image was no longer there. “He doesn’t look the type, you know what I’m saying?”

10:39 a.m., local time.

Sydney stood on her mark, microphone in hand. She stood alone. Hunz had yet to come out of the bedroom with less than a minute before the studio would switch over to them for the final segment. Once they did, Hunz would have seven minutes of time to fill, and to live.

Dorian knocked on the bedroom door a second time.

“Mr. Vonner? Thirty seconds.”

He pressed his ear to the door.

“Mr. Vonner?”

Sydney wasn’t concerned about Hunz missing his cue. Veteran television newscasters were adept at handling time. It wasn’t uncommon for an anchor to emerge from his dressing room—often in a coat and tie and Bermuda shorts and tennis shoes—make his way onto the set, take his place behind the news desk with less than a second to spare, and launch into the first news story without missing a beat.

Sydney glanced at her watch.

It was dead.

A blank gray face stared back at her. No numbers. No time. Nothing. She pushed the buttons on the side, hoping to stir it to life. She got nothing. The battery. It had to be.

All her attempts to have the precise time had been wasted.

“Fifteen seconds,” the cameraman said.

“Mr. Vonner?” Dorian said to the door, louder now. Veteran or no veteran, anxiety was creeping into his voice.

“Ready on the set,” the cameraman said.

Voices sounded in Sydney’s ear. The anchors were preparing to hand the show to Hunz, and he wasn’t there.

“No, not ready on the set!” Sydney said.

“Mr. Vonner?” Dorian shouted.

“Try the doorknob!” Joanna suggested.

“I did!” Dorian hissed back at her. “You think I’m stupid?”

“Five seconds,” the camera said.

And at the Hilton Hotel at O’Hare International is Hunz Vonner, veteran newscaster and victim of the death watch terror. We’re switching live to him, where he has just seven minutes left to live.

“Four, three…,” the cameraman was counting down.

Let me remind our viewers that this is the first live network airing of a death watch death. Hunz, are you there?

The cameraman cued Sydney.

“This is Sydney St. James,” Sydney said, using her on-the-air voice. “A short time ago, Hunz Vonner retreated into the bedroom, closed the door, and has yet to return.”

Sydney? This is Carol. Did he give any indication why he was going into the bedroom, and when he would be coming out?

“Apparently he wanted to be alone for a while, Carol. At the time, he gave no indication he would not appear for this segment as planned.”

Hal here, Sydney. Has anyone attempted to communicate with him?

“Yes, Hal. As a matter of fact, at this moment, a member of WBBT is attempting to communicate with him through the door.”

Maybe he fell asleep, Hal’s voice said, presumably to his coanchor. Sydney? Do you think we could get a camera shot of the door?

The bedroom door opened. Sydney couldn’t see it, she heard it, along with Dorian chastising Hunz in stage whispers.

“What have you been doing? We’re on the air!”

“Hunz Vonner is coming to the set now,” Sydney said.

While Hunz fitted his earpiece in his, Hal made a lame on-the-air comment about being glad Hunz didn’t die prematurely.

As for Sydney, she was just glad Hunz’s arrival was taking the camera off her. She was angry he’d hung her out to dry like that on national television, and if he wasn’t about to die in six minutes, she would have wrung his neck.

Now that she was off camera, she motioned to the lights that her watch wasn’t working. Joanna appeared from the bright haze. Off to the side, she turned the hotel alarm clock—the one Sydney had turned to the wall—so that Sydney could see it. Sydney nodded in thanks.

10:43 a.m.

“With hard evidence to go on,” Hunz said, without apology to the audience that had tuned in to watch him die, “at this point in time, the best I can give you regarding the origin of Death Watch is this reporter’s observations.

“First, it’s obvious to me there is intelligence behind Death Watch. Whether it’s a singular or collective intelligence, there are not enough facts to determine. We do know, however, that the messages are composed and delivered, both in print and audio format, to select persons. We also know that, whether directly or indirectly, the source behind these notices can pinpoint a person’s time of death. Do they cause every death? I can’t say that with 100 percent certainty. But I do know this: They can determine the time of death, and to know that and to make no attempt to prevent it, in my mind, is equally criminal.

“Second, we know that whoever is behind Death Watch has vast resources. Even with our most sophisticated communication technologies, no one has succeeded in tracing a death watch notice to its point of origin. Yet those who transmit the notices have done so in virtually every country in the world.

“Third, whoever is behind Death Watch has a plan. For reasons unknown, they have remained silent and hidden. Dwelling in the shadows, they strike and retreat before anyone can see them. This darkness in which they dwell is the home of serial killers, stalkers, murderers, and thugs. Hidden and silent, they strike fear in the heart of every being on this planet. For we have yet to see evidence that any of us is protected, that any of us is safe. Maybe this is their plan. To step out of the shadows, to identify themselves, would invite dialogue, and possibly bring an end to their killing.”

10:45 a.m.

Two minutes remaining.

Hunz’s breathing grew erratic. He blinked several times.

All of a sudden, everyone was shouting at Sydney at once. From the studio, the voices in her ear—

Hunz, are you all right? Sydney, help him out. Get him something. Water, or something. It looks like he’s having trouble breathing.

From behind the lights—

“Step closer to him!”

“Grab his arm!”

“He’s going, he’s going! Sydney, take it!”

Sydney didn’t need instruction. She went to Hunz’s side. Her microphone lowered, she whispered, “Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?”