Death Watch

by Jack Cavanaugh

  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.

  It fell upon Sydney to make the final arrangements with WBBT, the network affiliate in Chicago, for a film crew. A woman with a soothing voice confirmed that the crew would arrive an hour before airtime. She sounded more like a receptionist for a mortuary than a news station. She said they were sending a makeup person too.

  The combination of voice and mention of makeup spawned an image in Sydney’s mind of an open coffin with the corpse wearing a thick layer of cosmetics, as they often do. It takes a lot of effort to make death presentable. Sydney couldn’t shake the feeling the network was so worried about the appearance of the soon-to-be-dead that they were sending a mortuary cosmetician to ensure that Hunz would be presentable.

  Brushing aside the thought like a cobweb, Sydney gave the woman at the station the hotel room number.

  The arrangements made, there was little for her to do but wait.

  She stared at the closed bedroom door. A part of her knew it was best to respect Hunz’s wishes. But there was another part of her that wanted to go in there, to do something, to say something that would ease his suffering.

  Defying herself, Sydney looked at her watch. She couldn’t help herself. She remembered doing the same thing sitting next to Lyle.

  We celebrated too soon!

  Going to the phone, Sydney called the front desk. She asked for the exact time, to the second. The desk clerk gave it to her.

  “What’s your source?” she asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What instrument are you using? Is it accurate?”

  “We have a clock in the lobby, ma’am.”

  “Not good enough. I need the exact time. Get me the naval observatory.”

  “Ma’am?”

  It took some explaining, and then longer for the desk clerk to find a phone number, but eventually he gave her the phone number for time, the National Institute of Standards and Technology.

  She placed the call. Just as she’d feared. Her watch was a minute and four seconds fast.

  Correcting the digital readout of the minute was easy enough, but she didn’t know how to adjust for the errant four seconds. She called the automated time number three more times, just to make sure her watch wasn’t gaining or losing seconds.

  The four-second differential held.

  Hunz’s official death watch time was now 8:47 a.m. and four seconds.

  Sydney’s heart was racing.

  At first it seemed absurd that it would be. She’d set her watch hundreds of times before without anxiety, but add death to the operation and everything changed.

  A phrase came to mind.

  When time shall be no more.

  She didn’t know why it came to mind, or from where. A hymn? The Bible? She couldn’t remember. She did know, however, that it was a phrase she associated in some way with church.

  When time shall be no more.

  Poor watchmakers. Eternity will put them out of business. But then, who would want to keep time in paradise? And for those not in paradise, where time would drag insufferably, they wouldn’t want to be reminded constantly of the time, would they?

  “For an eternity,” Sydney said aloud.

  Another thought came to mind. Another link to something she’d heard in church.

  Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell. .

  “For eternity,” Sydney said again.

  She was certain that was in the Bible somewhere. But where? Hunz needed to see that verse too. But where to begin looking?

  All men die, Sydney.

  Suddenly, she understood what Billy had been trying to tell her. It was not what happened at 8:47 a.m. and four seconds that was important, but what happened after, when time was no more.

  All this outcry over Death Watch. It was absurd, wasn’t it? All the media attention. All the panic. Nations scrambling for an answer, a solution.

  All men die.

  Do not be afraid of those who kill the body. Fear the One who can destroy both body and soul.

  Why the outrage over something that threatens the part of man that grows old and decays? Where was the outrage over the threat against the part of man that is timeless?

  I’ll tell you what’s nuts. Believing in a supernatural God and not believing in the supernatural.

  Sydney went to the table by the window. She stared out at a world that was being tricked, diverted into placing too much emphasis on the wrong death.

  Then she did something she’d been too busy to do for years.

  Sydney prayed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  With two hours and forty-four minutes remaining on Hunz Vonner’s life clock, at 6:03 a.m., Sydney turned on the television.

  Death Watch dominated the airwaves. Reruns of Family Ties and Cheers were preempted by special reports featuring terrorism specialists who gave updates on the latest developments—which meant they rehashed old news—and psychologists who advised parents how to talk to their children about death and terrorists.

  In the bottom right-hand corner of every station in every region of the country, the Homeland Securities Awareness system indicated the nation was now on Level Four, the highest alert. Terrorist attack was imminent.

  A news segment aired on WBBT. The morning anchor, a middle-aged brunette, looked more like some kid’s mother than a media professional. However, she had a warmth and sincerity that came across nicely, and to Sydney, it was obvious why the station had hired her. People tended to adopt news personalities into their families, and this woman had “understanding friend” written all over her.

  Reports of death watch-related deaths are coming in from all over the world.

  Sydney had turned the television on too late to get the woman’s name.

  In Italy, a young couple, both nineteen years old, committed suicide by jumping from the fifth floor of the Leonardi Edera Hotel in historic Rome. The police found a note in their room in which they compared themselves to Romeo and Juliet. The young Romeo was a death watch recipient with less than an hour to live. His Juliet wrote, “I refuse
to live in a world without my true love.”

  The news anchor paused, moved with motherly emotion for the young lovers.

  And closer to home, in Peoria, Illinois, veteran storyteller Homer Blakely, a nationally acclaimed, award-winning storyteller, fell dead just as he was completing his story, “Terror at the Top of the Stairs.” Blakely, a regular at the Chinquapin Folk Music and Storytelling Festival, which is held annually at Camp Wokanda, was performing at the Ghost Story Concert. According to eyewitness reports, he was just about to reveal the terror that lurked at the top of the stairs of his childhood home when he fell over dead. A death watch notice was found in his pocket.

  Meanwhile, around the world, reports attributed to the death watch terror continue to escalate at staggering proportions, prompting several countries to declare themselves under attack, while here at home, the president has scheduled a national address for this evening. It is believed he will at that time explain the rationale behind raising the Homeland Security Awareness system from Level Three to Level Four, the highest level possible, indicating severe conditions. This will be the first time in our nation’s history the risk level has been set at Level Four.

  And finally, here in Chicago, another first. Visiting international newscaster Hunz Vonner, on assignment from EuroNet news, will broadcast a live death watch Special Event from the Hilton Hotel at O’Hare International Airport. Vonner, a death watch victim, will share the thoughts of a dying man as the clock counts off the final minutes of his life. This WBBT Special Event will be.the first live broadcast of a death watch death aired on national television. Here, on WBBT at 10:00 a.m.

  The newscaster pursed her lips with distaste before handing the news to the weatherman. Sydney knew how she felt.

  “It’ll make a splash,” she said flatly, turning the television off.

  6:50 a.m.

  One hour, fifty-seven minutes remaining.

  Sydney sat on the French sofa staring at the bedroom door. She hadn’t heard a sound come from the other side in the last thirty minutes.

  Hunz’s muffled voice had fallen silent. Earlier she could hear him talking, not clear enough to make out what he was saying, but the pattern of speech and pausing suggested he was on the phone.

  Every now and then he’d laugh. Sometimes his tone was conciliatory. Somber. Then his tone would change, indicating another call, another person. Sydney found herself wondering who was on the other end of the line with each change, sort of a mix-and-match game, pairing voice tone with the people Hunz had told her about.

  She chastised herself for listening, but she couldn’t stop herself. At one point she thought he was talking to his old girlfriend, but she couldn’t be sure. It started out lighthearted, turned to melancholy, then almost apologetic.

  On a previous call, he bordered on anger. His father? A coworker? A friend? Hunz never mentioned any of his friends. Probably like her, he didn’t have many outside the industry. Contacts, for the most part. Sources. People you could spend an enjoyable evening with, but not anyone you would consider a friend.

  And now the other side of the door had fallen silent. Sydney ached to cross the room and knock on it.

  Just to see if he was all right.

  But the strength of her desire was far greater than mere casual concern. It bordered on compulsion.

  She wanted to talk to him before the camera crew arrived, to tell him about the Scripture verse she’d remembered, the one about not fearing the one who could kill the body, but fearing the One who could kill the soul.

  She wanted to make sure he understood about the second death.

  That phrase came to her often now, unboxed for the occasion from somewhere in the attic of her mind. Probably from a sermon she’d heard. She wanted to warn him of the greater danger.

  All men die, Sydney.

  She knew the truth of that now. Billy was right. All this death watch hoopla was a clever diversion from the real threat.

  All men die.

  Yet look at all the time and effort and money and resources that go into postponing death, postponing the inevitable. Compare that to how few resources go into warning about the second death. The one that counts. Everyone was so concerned about the pop quiz, they weren’t preparing for the final exam.

  Sydney stood, crossed the suite to the bedroom door, and lifted a hand to knock. Gently. More of a suggestion of a knock than a real knock.

  But before her knuckle hit wood, she heard Hunz’s voice from the other side.

  “Helmut! Hunz… Ja… “Then he began rattling off German sentences, none of which Sydney understood.

  She lowered her hand and retreated to the sofa.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The WBBT crew arrived while the bedroom door was still closed, 7:30 a.m. according to Sydney’s watch.

  One hour, seventeen minutes remained.

  There were three of them. Phil, the cameraman. Dorian, the soundman. And Joanna, to do the makeup.

  Dorian, a round-faced, good-natured African American in a Hawaiian shirt, seemed to be the one in charge. He made the introductions and asked Sydney where to set up. She asked them to wait a moment and knocked on the bedroom door.

  It swung open midknock. Hunz had obviously heard the crew come in. He was all business, pointing and giving instructions without so much as a glance at Sydney.

  She stood off to one side while the soundman and cameraman turned the area surrounding the French sofa into a ministudio. They worked quietly, efficiently, hospital quiet, on the verge of mortuary quiet. They spoke in low tones.

  “Mr. Vonner, if you’ll sit over here.”

  Joanna, a thirtyish woman with auburn hair and fire-engine red nails, pulled out one of the chairs at the table by the window. Hunz sat. She fitted him with a tissue collar and opened up a good-sized tackle box of cosmetic goodies. She grabbed a white wedge latex sponge from a bag. Next she sorted through disks of foundation.

  Hunz sat motionless. He stared straight ahead at nothing, the way Sydney remembered her father sitting in the barber’s chair.

  “You have nice coloring,” Joanna said. “Do you know what shade-—”

  “Suntone,” Hunz said.

  Joanna found the right makeup disk and began with his cheeks.

  Hunz appeared calm. Had this been any other broadcast, Sydney would have equated his quiet mood to a baseball pitcher’s game face. It wasn’t unusual for a broadcaster to withdraw just before airing, using the time to arrange his thoughts and put himself in performance mode.

  But this wasn’t a normal broadcast.

  And Hunz had to have things on his mind other than how he was going to come across on camera.

  “Are you all right?” Sydney asked.

  Joanna glanced at her, as if wondering whether asking such a question of a dying man was acceptable etiquette.

  “You’ll need to do Sydney too,” Hunz said to Joanna. “She’ll be on camera with me.”

  Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it in front of strangers. Either way, Sydney got the message.

  It was 7:49 a.m.

  Hunz had less than an hour to live.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The news program featuring Hunz Vonner’s death began at 8:00 a.m. Pacific Time, 10:00 a.m. local time, though the studio was not scheduled to send it live to Hunz until a quarter past the hour.

  “Countdown to Death” was the title the network settled on. At the top of the hour, the team in the hotel room was performing sound checks and making last-minute adjustments to the lighting.

  Sydney and Hunz stood in front of the French sofa.

  “There will be three cuts to us, the first at 10:15, the second at 10:25, and the last at 10:40,” Hunz said. “At that time we’ll take it to the end.”

  Sydney nodded.

  “The first cut, right after I introduce myself, you introduce yourself. That’s all you need to do.”

  She nodded again.

  “You
don’t have to do anything else until the third cut. I’ll start out, take it for as long as I can, then ” He gave her a half grin. “Well, then you’re on.”

  You’re on. Simple as that. I’ll be lying dead on the floor at your feet; you take it from there. Did he know what he was asking her to do?

  “What do I say?” she asked.

  “A good reporter writes his own copy. Just wrap it up and send it back to the studio.”

  Just wrap it up and send it back to the studio. Simple. Piece of cake. Easy as pie. Walk in the park.

  Sydney really didn’t want to do this. She really did not want to do this.

  10:15 a.m., local time.

  Sydney heard two voices in her earphone, the WBBT morning news team. A prepared clip documenting the sudden appearance of Death Watch two days ago and its vicious rampage around the populated world had just ended. The anchors were segueing from the clip to the live feed at the Hilton Hotel.

  “This morning we have with us one of our own, a veteran newscaster, himself a death watch victim.”

  That was Hunz’s cue.

  Portable tungsten lights made seeing anything beyond five feet impossible. The three-person crew moved like spirits behind the cameras.

  Holding a microphone and looking every bit the professional, Hunz gazed into the camera lens and said, “This is Hunz Vonner…”

  He trailed off.

  Sydney had her own microphone. That would change with the third segment when she alone would hold a microphone. Apparently, the studio execs had discussed this at great length before dispatching the crew. It was their opinion that when Hunz died, it would look unprofessional for him to drop the microphone. Sydney would hold it for him.

  “…and Sydney St. James,” Sydney said to the camera audience.

  Hunz said, “We’re coming to you live from the Hilton Hotel at O’Hare International Airport, Chicago, Illinois.” He took a breath. “Victor Hugo wrote, ‘All men are condemned to death with indefinitely suspended sentences.’ And while that was true in Victor Hugo’s world, a new world began two days ago when thousands of people had their suspended sentences revoked and the time of their deaths appointed and announced. I’m one of them.”