Death Watch (17 page)

S
ydney couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You? A death watch notice?”

“On the flight from Atlanta,” Hunz said.

“All this time?”

She still couldn’t believe it. From the time she’d met Hunz, he’d been living under the threat of death. At Lyle Vandeveer’s house. At Dykstra Hall. At FBI headquarters. Now it all made sense. He hadn’t wanted to sleep.

“Who knows?” she asked.

“Sol. Now you.”

“You told Sol ”

“When I arranged for this flight.”

“Why not earlier?”

“You saw the way Helen reacted when she thought you had the Death Watch. I couldn’t risk it.”

He was right, of course. Helen was ready to bench her, which explained why Hunz acted so cavalierly when he interceded for her in Helen’s office.

“On the flight in ,” Sydney said, counting back the hours. “That means. ”

“8:47 a.m.”

Sydney looked at her watch. It was after midnight. 12:26 a.m., to be exact. “That means you have.”

“Eight hours, twenty-one minutes to live.”

“And the live interview you promised Sol. It’s not Cheryl.”

“Never said it was.”

“Oh, Hunz.”

“Works out well for you, though,” he said breezily. “That’s why I brought you along, to wrap up the story once I’m gone. You’ll get

international exposure.”

“Don’t joke about that. It’s not funny.”

“Who’s joking? Besides, I know exactly how Lyle Vandeveer felt. Just having you near makes things easier.”

“Don’t you have someone in Germany?”

Hunz looked at his empty hands. “I’ve pretty much sacrificed everything to get where I am. Married the job, no time for a social life. You know the drill.”

“Family?”

“My mother’s gone. Haven’t spoken to my father in a couple of years.”

“You should call him.”

Hunz Vonner’s face turned to granite. The friendliness that had been there a moment before was gone. “Don’t offer advice about things you know nothing about.”

He was out of his chair and walking to the back of the plane before Sydney knew what was happening. She called to him.

He stepped into the lavatory and closed the door.

Sydney looked at her watch, refusing to believe Hunz Vonner had no more than the time of a normal working day to live.

S
ydney sat alone, staring out the window of the plush corporate jet, her reflection staring back at her. She looked past it to the lights below. For most of the journey only an occasional light dotted the black prairie beneath them. Now lights were appearing with greater frequency. They came in clumps and strings.

The sound of the engines changed as the plane began its descent. Sydney buckled in, her thoughts and emotions as black as the night outside her window.

She found it hard to give up on the nanotechnology theory. She had no reason to hang onto it; she just wanted to. Not only did it make sense, it was something they could understand, something they could fight. Scientists could come up with something to neutralize the little buggers, couldn’t they? The theory had given her hope. Now that it was gone, hope was gone and they were right back where they started, asking the same disturbing questions. Who was behind this? How were they doing it? What could be done to stop them?

On the other side of the Plexiglas partition, Josh stirred. Taking his feet from the table, he stood and stretched. He said something to Cheryl. She smiled and said something back.

Maybe Sydney was mistaken, but she thought she saw a fledgling love sparkle in their eyes, the kind that gives couples a giddy feeling and makes them smile and laugh a lot. No, they hadn’t known each other long enough. Besides, there was Cori. And what did Josh and Cheryl have in common besides a very short future?

Little Stacy was still asleep. Josh and Cheryl talked.

Sydney sighed. Five passengers on board, not counting the one in Cheryl’s belly. Three marked for death. Later today, after Cheryl was settled, Sydney would fly back to Los Angeles. Possibly alone, possibly with Josh, but he’d be going back to LA to die. For all its leather and polished wood, the Dessault Falcon was a coffin with wings.

Hunz stepped out of the restroom. He joined the others in the conference room. The three adults chatted casually, then both men assisted Cheryl to her feet. It took both of them. Hunz buckled himself into a chair with them, leaving Sydney alone and frightened.

She couldn’t help but feel that an invisible terrorist rode in the plane with them. He sat with the others in the conference room, having claimed them as his own. Somehow, Sydney had to find a way to stop him. But she didn’t know where to begin, and she was running out of time, and soon she would begin losing people she cared for.

T
he lights of Chicago slid beneath the Dassault Falcon as it made its approach to Midway Airport. Smaller than O’Hare, Midway serviced connector flights for the major airlines and corporate aircraft.

The plane slowed to a stop a short distance from the terminal. Sydney unbuckled and joined the others. Josh was holding a sleeping Stacy upright while Cheryl dressed her in a light jacket. Josh was obviously inexperienced at this sort of thing. The little girl’s head and arms flopped this way and that like a rag doll.

“Do we need to arrange for transportation?” Sydney asked.

“Already taken care of,” Hunz said.

The man was efficient, you had to give him that.

“Evanston?” Sydney asked Cheryl.

The pregnant woman zipped up Stacy’s jacket, then put a hand against her own back to straighten up again.

“I’ve got Stacy,” Josh said to her, picking up the girl.

The girl laid her head on Josh’s shoulder. Hunz looked on attentively, several times making motions to help get Stacy situated. He obviously wanted to carry her.

Cheryl answered Sydney’s question. “I’m meeting my OB/ GYN at Prentice Women’s Hospital. It’s part of Northwestern Memorial Hospital on Superior Avenue.”

“You’re not going home first?” Sydney asked.

Cheryl shrugged. “I want to get checked in as soon as possible. My doctor’s reluctant to take the baby early. He says all this death watch stuff is nonsense, that once I’m in the hospital I’ll be safe, what with ail their medical resources and stuff.”

That’s what Sydney had told Lyle Vandeveer.

“Don’t let him talk you into waiting too long,” Sydney said.

“I won’t.”

Sydney knew she wouldn’t. Cheryl was quiet, but she was strong and determined. Sydney admired her like no other woman she knew, and felt an incredible urge to hug her. Having had so few close women friends, it pained Sydney to think that now she’d found one, she would soon lose her.

The hatch opened. Single file, they stepped into the brisk September night. A ground crewman pointed them toward the glass terminal door. Josh and Cheryl went ahead. Sydney and Hunz waited for Cheryl’s luggage.

The terminal was surprisingly populated for one o’clock in the morning. The interior was brightly lit with a white, open-beamed metal ceiling.

They made their way down Concourse A, following the ground transportation signs where, according to Hunz, a limo was waiting for them. Josh, Cheryl, and Stacy looked like a family returning from vacation. Hunz stepped briskly behind them.

Sydney had to hurry to catch up. “Are we going with her to the hospital?”

“To complete your story,” Hunz replied. “You can report how the station helped her back to Chicago, then provided for her safety. It’ll make a splash.”

Sydney looked at him. Was he mocking her? Or was he mocking Sol? Or was this simply an attempt at humor? She found it hard to read Hunz at times. Of course, his reason for going with Cheryl to the hospital was 100 percent malarkey. That was the kind of thing that could be confirmed with a phone call. Hunz didn’t fool her. He was concerned that Stacy would be cared for after her mother died, even though he could do little to help given the fact that his time would run out before Cheryl’s less than eight hours from now.

They reached the junction of three concourses. Not surprisingly, it was a food court. In the center of the triangle stood a magazine
kiosk. Every newspaper, every magazine had
Special Edition
slashed across the front. Death Watch was the feature story.
Time
magazine featured a large black question mark on the cover, set against a bloody red background, with the words, “Who’s Next?” printed beneath it in bold block letters.

The competing odors of deep fried foods—french fries, donuts, fried chicken, fish—commingled at the concourse intersection. Backlit franchise signs vied for patrons with bright colors and pictures of burgers, tacos, pizza, gyros, and hoagie sandwiches.

Even though it was the middle of the night and Sydney’s stomach knew better, it was aroused by the odors. They did a job on Stacy, too. She stirred and looked up with half-open eyes.

“Mama?”

“Go back to sleep, honey,” Cheryl said. “We’re not there yet.”

Just then Sydney realized Hunz was missing. She looked around for him and found him standing at an unoccupied American Airlines gate watching a television mounted high on a white pillar. Even from a distance, Sydney recognized the CNN logo in the corner. Nothing unusual. CNN produced a special airport edition of their show. However, this wasn’t it. On the bottom of the screen were the words SPECIAL REPORT—DEATH WATCH UPDATE.

Sydney joined Hunz. Intent on the news report, he gave no indication he knew she was there.

The CNN correspondent, an attractive black female, held a microphone and addressed the camera. She stood in front of a Hilton Hotel sign.

Two more bizarre death watch stories came to light today. At the South Pole, photographer Robert Helwys, a member of the National Geographic scientific expedition at the Atmospheric Research Observatory, is reported to have received a death watch notice on his digital pager, even though that device is well beyond normal transmission range.
Authorities
are unable to explain it.

And in an equally bizarre event, the Russian Space Agency has just confirmed that Cosmonaut Alexei Kovalenko has received a death

watch notice while aboard the International Space Station. The transmission arrived via highly secure communication channels.

Which begs the question: Who is behind this far-reaching terrorism? Theories abound, and there is no shortage of terrorist groups claiming responsibility. However, authorities are quick to point out that none of these terrorist groups have the means or resources to pull off a strike of this
magnitude.
So who is behind Death Watch? One man says he knows.

The camera panned up the side of a glass building to the roof of a hotel where a man stood precariously close to the edge. Tucked beneath his right arm was a Nike shoe box.

“Good Lord!” Sydney cried. “That’s him!”

“Who?”

Sydney looked harder. “I’m almost certain it’s him. Yes. In Pasadena. He was holding a Nike box!”

“Who?” Hunz cried.

Cheryl and Josh, having doubled back, joined them looking up at the television.

“Billy Peppers!” Sydney said.

“It can’t be,” Hunz said.

“Peppers,” Josh said. “Isn’t he the crackpot who keeps contacting Cori with end-of-the-world messages?”

High atop the Hilton Hotel at O’Hare International Airport, here in Chicago, a man stands on a ledge. He says he alone has the answer. Police have identified him as William Peppers, a resident of Los Angeles and self-proclaimed gospel minister.

“He must have followed us here,” Sydney said.

“How?” Hunz countered. “We just got here. He had to have arrived before us.”

“Oh, no,” Sydney said.

“What?” Hunz demanded.

“The groundskeepers.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The groundskeepers at the cemetery. They said they heard Billy Peppers talking about going to Chicago.”

“A coincidence,” Hunz said.

“Is it?”

“What are those white patches all over him?” Josh asked, pointing at the screen.

“They look like torn pieces of paper,” Hunz said.

On screen, emergency and camera lights reflected off the patches, making it difficult to see what they were. The camera zoomed in for a tighter shot.

“Angels,” Sydney said. “They’re pictures of angels.”

“Why would he paste pictures of angels to his clothes?” Hunz asked.

“That’s right!” Josh exclaimed. “He’s the crackpot who says angels talk to him.”

However, Mr. Peppers refuses to talk to authorities. He says he will speak to only one person
—

Premonition. Intuition. Call it what you will, but a sense of anticipatory dread chilled Sydney.

—
Sydney
St.
James, a Los Angeles news reporter. Police are attempting to contact Miss St. James now.

Everyone looked at Sydney.

“How did he know you’d be here?” Hunz said.

Sydney was shaking her head. “He couldn’t have known. I didn’t even know until we got to the airport.”

Hunz’s cell phone rang. He answered it. “Yeah, she’s right here. We just landed. I don’t know. She doesn’t know. All right. No idea. All right. Yeah.”

He closed the phone.

“That was Sol Rosenthal. The Chicago police are looking for you.”

“Did he tell them we were here?” Sydney asked.

“No. He told them he’d attempt to locate you. He wants you to get over there.”

“And do what?” Sydney cried.

“Get the story. It’s national.” Hunz turned to Josh. “Oh.. .and he’s looking for you, too. He sounded peeved. Grant Forsythe did the sports tonight.”

“You didn’t tell anyone you were leaving?” Sydney said.

“I had more important things on my mind than reporting a bunch of scores,” Josh said.

Meanwhile, police are trying to talk Mr. Peppers down from the ledge.

The camera cut back to the reporter in front of the Hilton Hotel sign.

When
asked if they thought Mr. Peppers could solve the mysterious death watch puzzle, authorities declined comment. But in a world gone mad, where messages transcend normal transmission limits and breach ultrasecure
channels
in space, who’s to say? And if, as it has been said, fortune favors fools and small children, perhaps we should listen to a
homeless
man who says he converses with angels. This is Chandra Smyth
reporting
live from Chicago. Back to you, Bill.