Death Watch (15 page)

B
arb Whitlock, you have the highest spin. The category is Royalty
Notes, correspondence of literary legends.
Play or pass?”

The leading contestant did not appear as confident as she did when she was sitting on what appeared at the time to be an insurmountable lead. Strands of hair dangled against her perspiring forehead. If she played and won, the game was over. The resulting total would put her out of reach. If she played and lost, it was over for her.

“Play or pass?” Skip repeated.

Barb said nothing.

“I have to have an answer.”

More precious seconds ticked.

A buzzer sounded.

“I’m sorry, but that sound means you’ve forfeited your turn,” Skip said.

Barb Whitlock didn’t argue.

“She did that on purpose!” Hunz said.

“To run as much time off the clock as possible,” Josh said.

“Junior Wicker, you have a grand total of negative $39,500. You just spun a sixty-three and an eight for a total of $50,400 which would put you in the black by $10,900. Not enough to win. Your category is
Noah’s Nightmares, annoying animals on the ark.
Now remember, Junior, even if you answer the question correctly, you can’t win. You’re too far behind. At this point, a gentleman might consider stepping aside for a fellow contestant.”

“The network wants Cheryl to win,” Sydney said. “Why else would he say something like that?”

“A beautiful pregnant woman who is about to die is good for ratings,” Hunz said.

“It’ll make a splash,” Josh said, tongue in cheek.

“Nah, I’m gonna play, Skip,” Junior said.

The audience booed.

Junior took exception to the audience’s disfavor. He said something that was deleted from the live broadcast, possible now since all live shows were delayed five seconds as a result of certain indiscretions at a notorious Super Bowl performance.

“Very well,” Skip said. His tone was that of a disapproving mother. “For $50,400, here’s your question: What is the smelliest member of the weasel family? Is it, (a) Ermine, (b) Skunk, (c) Otter, (d) Mink.”

Junior’s eyes gasped as he thought out loud. “I don’t know what an ermine is, so I don’t know if it’s smelly or not. And minks, they’re not smelly, are they? I mean, women wear them. They wouldn’t wear them if they were smelly, would they? Unless it’s a trick question.”

“Ten seconds.”

“Skunks are definitely smelly. Ask me, I know. Whooowee. But a skunk’s not a weasel, is it?”

Time was running out, both for Junior and for Cheryl.

“Skunk, Skip.”

“Correct!” Skip shouted.

The audience gave a smattering of applause. Junior’s tally went from red to black: $10,900. Barb Whitlock clapped the loudest for him. Not only had Junior kept Cheryl from getting another question, but he’d just made Barb Whitlock an extra ten grand.

Skip looked to the director.

“Is there time?”

He was cued to proceed, followed immediately by a wrap-it-up signal. Skip Hirshberg launched into the next question. He spoke so fast each sentence sounded like a single word. •

Standing in the vomitory, Sydney and Hunz exchanged glances. Hunz shook his head. He didn’t think Cheryl was going to get the
question in time. This from a man who was an expert at timing newscasts down to the second.

Josh was riveted on Cheryl. He was smiling at her with a silly half grin.

Skip Hirshberg went supersonic: “Cheryl-McCormick-with-$43, 900-you-need-$17,200-to-win-you-spun-a-twenty-one-and-nine-for-a-total-of-$18,900-the-category-is-Say-Ahh-anatomy-/for-amateurs-for-the-win-pass-or-play?”

“Play,” Cheryl said, right on his heels.

She looked remarkable. Her eyes flashed readiness, powered by a quick mind. Sydney teared up just watching her.

Skip gave a quick glance at the floor director.

He was given the signal to proceed.

“Here’s-your-question-the-word-Costa-refers-to-which-of-the-following:-(a)-Nerve-(b)-Rib-(c)-Gland-(d)-Muscle.”

Time had run out. The director was rising to his feet, his hands signaling the cut to commercial. It was one of those moments in life where momentous events occur between heartbeats and decisions are made between ticks of the clock.

In that instant, that fraction of a second, no breath was taken, no pulse had time to beat, no one lived, no one died. Universal timespace hiccuped.

And in that hiccup, Cheryl McCormick said, “B. Rib.”

“Correct!” Skip shouted.

The television audience heard only, “Cor—"; the second half of the master of ceremony’s word was cut off by a toilet tissue commercial.

In the studio, the audience was popping and splattering with shouts and applause like water on a hot skillet. Barb Whitlock left her podium to complain to Skip that time had run out. Her protests were drowned out by the celebration of not only the people in the stands but the network executives. In the vomitory, Hunz was jostling Stacy for joy. Josh turned and hugged Sydney, who was crying. On stage Cheryl was smiling. Her podium flashed her total winnings: $134,800. She looked tired.

T
wenty minutes after the Wonder Wheel went dark, the hub of activity shifted to the greenroom, a holding area where the contestants could relax before their appearance on the show. Behind the closed door, Cheryl was conferring with studio executives and Skip Hirshberg.

Sydney and Hunz waited for her in the hallway. Hunz had enticed Stacy into going on a treasure hunt for a vending machine. He wanted to put distance between her and the shouting that could be heard coming from the greenroom.

The door opened. An exasperated executive, a short man with glasses that were too large for his face, emerged. Sydney could see Cheryl inside seated on a couch, flanked by another executive and Skip Hirshberg.

“You work for the station, right?” the exec with glasses asked Sydney.

“Both of us do,” Sydney said, including Josh.

“See what you can do with her,” said the frazzled exec. “She insists on going back to Illinois. Talk her into staying for one more show. Earn your paychecks.”

Wiping his brow, he hustled down the narrow corridor to regions unknown. Sydney glanced at Josh. They stepped inside the room.

The three people on the couch glanced up simultaneously. Cheryl was red-eyed with exhaustion.

“Let me talk to her,” Sydney said.

The remaining exec, a portly man with balls for cheeks, got up, straightening the wrinkles in his pants. Sydney took his place. Skip gave her one of those “reason with her, will you?” looks.

“Alone,” Sydney said. “Josh and I would like to speak to her alone.”

The station exec bit his lower lip in thought, then said, “We’ll be right outside.” Leaning close to Sydney’s ear, he whispered, “Don’t let her leave this room until she agrees to appear on tomorrow night’s show.”

Skip stood and lingered a moment. “The station is being more than generous,” he said to no one in general. “They’ve offered her a $50,000 appearance fee. They didn’t have to, you know. She signed a contract. Winners return the next day. Those are the rules of the game.”

He left, closing the door behind him.

For a long while, no one spoke. Josh shuffled uneasily, then moseyed over to the couch and sat next to Cheryl, trying to appear nonchalant. He reminded Sydney of a junior high boy trying to summon up the courage to ask a girl to dance.

They were surrounded by dozens of photographs on the walls of past
Wonder Wheel
contestants, all smiling. Some held fistfuls of money. Master of ceremonies Skip Hirshberg was in every picture. It was a mosaic of the American dream—go to Hollywood, hit it big, be the envy of everyone in the country. The message to the contestants who waited in this room was clear: This
could be you!

Tonight Cheryl McCormick qualified to have her picture on the wall along with all the other winners. Unlike them, Cheryl wasn’t smiling.

The strong odor of day-old coffee came from a pot at the far end of the room. Next to it was a tower of white cups, a bowl of pink sugar packets, and a cup filled with red stir sticks.

“That coffee’s turning my stomach,” Cheryl said. She pushed herself up from the couch with effort. She wobbled.

Josh jumped to steady her.

Cheryl didn’t seem to notice. “I’m going home,” she said.

“I’ll bring the car around,” Sydney said.

“Don’t do me any favors. I’ll call a cab.” Cheryl’s eyes were cold, her words clipped.

“Cheryl—”

“I can manage on my own, thank you very much.”

Pressing a hand against her back, the pregnant woman made for the door. Sydney stood and caught her by the arm.

“Cheryl, let us help you.”

The response was quick and heated. “I don’t want your help,” Cheryl spat. “I thought we were friends. Chalk it up to Midwestern naivete. I should have known reporters don’t have friends, only news sources.”

The on-the-air death notice announcement. In all the excitement, Sydney had forgotten about it.

“My purse,” Cheryl said, scanning the room.

Josh lunged for it and handed it to her.

“Can someone tell me where I can find my daughter?”

“Cheryl, listen to me,” Sydney said. “I don’t know how Skip Hirshberg found out, but I didn’t tell him. You have to believe me.”

Cheryl wasn’t listening.

Sydney’s hands fell helplessly to her sides. What could she say to convince her? “If you don’t believe me, ask Skip,” she blurted.

Cheryl’s hand was on the door.

“Syd’s telling the truth,” Josh said.

Maybe it was the quiet way he said it, or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t said anything up to now, but whatever the reason, Cheryl listened.

“I was at the station this afternoon,” he said. “Syd took a lot of heat for not interviewing you. And I heard her tell our assignment editor you wanted to keep the death watch thing quiet. She took heat for that, too. Any other reporter would have screwed you over.”

Josh looked at Sydney. “I can’t believe Helen would disregard your promise and give out the information,” he said.

“It was Cori,” Sydney said.

“Makes sense.”

This was the first time Sydney had ever heard Josh acknowledge Cori Zinn’s devious side.

“Why would this woman do this to me?” Cheryl asked. “She doesn’t even know me.”

“It’s not you,” Sydney said. “Cori is an ambitious, unscrupulous woman. She did it to hurt me.”

Josh turned to Cheryl. “You have every right to be angry. It was a cheap shot to boost ratings. But let me tell you something about Syd. She’s not like other reporters. She doesn’t play those games. If Sydney St. James said she didn’t tell the
Wonder Wheel
people about your death watch notice, she didn’t.”

“One reporter vouching for another?” Cheryl said. “Sort of like one con vouching for another con, wouldn’t you say?”

Josh looked down and blinked a couple of times before responding. “Point taken. I’m a sportscaster. But think about it. What possible reason does a sportscaster have for being here tonight? You think reporters have some kind of secret signal they flash whenever they need someone to cover their backside? I’m here because an hour and a half ago I opened my email and found a death watch notice.”

That got Cheryl’s attention.

“I haven’t told anybody yet, not even my parents. I came here tonight because I needed a friend, someone I could talk to, someone I could trust.”

Cheryl touched Josh Leven’s hand. “Thank you,” she said. Josh stepped aside, and she turned to Sydney. “Sydney. I.. ”

“Forget it.” Sydney gave her a soft smile.

In a room that smelled of scorched coffee, the two women embraced, as best they could bending over the large bulge between them.

T
o everyone’s surprise they found the hallway outside the greenroom empty. Neither the ball-cheeked exec nor Skip Hirshberg was on guard as expected.

“Where’s Stacy?” Cheryl asked.

“With Hunz,” Sydney said.

“I’ll go find them,” Josh said.

“They offered me open-ended use of the suite at the Excelsior Hotel if I stayed,” Cheryl said, after Josh had gone.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Sydney said.

“When I reminded them that I wouldn’t be alive to take advantage of it, they offered to arrange for my burial at Forest Lawn cemetery. Said they could get me a grave a stone’s throw from Walt Disney, that some network bigwig would give it up for me. They also threw in an amusement park package for little Stacy after I was gone. They said it would cheer Stacy up.”

“Oh, Cheryl, I’m so sorry. That’s how things work here.”

“They didn’t offer me the one thing I wanted.”

“To go home.”

Cheryl smiled. “You do understand, don’t you?”

Men’s voices came down the hallway. Happy sounds, obviously not the studio executives returning.

As Cheryl gathered herself to leave, she said, “Not being in the hallway just now is the first thing they’ve done right all night.”

Hunz and Josh appeared at the end of the hallway with Hunz carrying Stacy. Sydney couldn’t remember the girl’s feet touching the ground all night. Stacy was licking a half-eaten fudgesicle. She wore much of the other half on her face. Hunz Vonner’s suit was stained where she’d laid her head against him. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Oh, honey!” Cheryl cried. “You got Mr. Vonner all dirty!”

A moment later the girl was in Cheryl’s arms being cleaned with a tissue.

“I sent Skip Hirshberg and his fellow barracuda on an errand,” Hunz said. “I hinted Stacy was partial to pistachio ice cream. I think they went to find her some. Then we found the cafeteria .

While Cheryl was occupied cleaning her daughter, with an amused Josh looking on, Sydney pulled Hunz aside. “I don’t have
time to take you back to the hotel,” she said. “I have to get Cheryl to the airport. You can call a cab, or perhaps Josh can drop you off.”

Hunz turned serious. “What are your plans?”

Sydney shrugged. “Get them on a plane to Chicago any way I can. Medical emergency. Hardship case. I’ll use my press credentials. Beg. Plead. Bribe. Whatever it takes.”

“Use your feminine wiles,” Josh said, grinning. Apparently he could watch Cheryl and listen at the same time.

“Private joke,” Sydney said to Hunz.

Hunz wasn’t laughing. He turned and walked away. Just before he disappeared around a corner, he pulled out his cell phone. Sydney caught a few words.

“Sol. This is Vonner

She winced. She could expect another angry lecture from Sol in the morning. It angered her that Hunz was acting like a child.
Tattletale! Tattletale!
But she’d didn’t have time to worry about that right now. She had to get Cheryl and Stacy to the airport.

Cheryl was looking for a trash can to stow a couple wads of chocolate-stained tissues. Stacy’s face was presentable, though there were still a few stubborn smudges on her chin.

Josh offered to take the tissues. Cheryl thanked him and grabbed Stacy’s hand. “We’re ready now,” she said.

Sydney led them toward an exit. “I’ll bring the car around,” she said. “Wait for me at the top of the steps.”

“Can I go with you?” Josh asked. Then, his gaze resting on Cheryl, he added, “That is, if you don’t mind.”

Cheryl smiled shyly. “I’d like that.”

Their gaze lingered noticeably. Under different circumstances, Sydney would have interpreted the exchange as romantic. Reality bludgeoned that thought. Neither Cheryl nor Josh had a future beyond two days. Whatever passed between them was more likely that of two victims sharing a common fate.

All because some egomaniacal Russian general had planted microscopic killing machines in their bloodstreams. To make a statement? To flex his political muscles?

Sydney felt a rage such as she’d never felt before. It was as though she was standing at ground zero of the World Trade Center on 9/11. She could see the planes approaching. She knew what was going to happen, but she was powerless to do anything to stop it. No amount of screaming, no amount of shouting, no amount of anger or rage or tears could prevent the tragedy from happening. And Cheryl and Josh were on the ninety-first floor.

They reached the exit. Sydney shoved the crash bar harder than what was necessary to open it.

In the next instant, a multitude of lights flashed in her face. Camera lights blinded her. A crush of reporters pressed, thrusting microphones in her face. Everyone shouted at once, demanding information about Cheryl, who hadn’t stepped from the building yet, who wouldn’t step from the building if Sydney could help it.

She backpedaled, nearly bowling over Josh and Cheryl, pulling shut the door with all her might. Several hands tried to stop her and got their fingers smashed.

“What do they want from me?” Cheryl cried.

“You’re a hot news story.” Hunz walked up behind them. “Popular game show winner and expectant mother who is also a death watch victim. Sells papers. Raises ratings.”

Cheryl turned to Sydney. “Is there another way out of here?”

“All the exits are covered,” Hunz said.

Josh frowned. “We need a plan.”

“Already taken care of,” Hunz said.