Death Watch (18 page)

B
etween the food court and ground transportation curbside the foursome made the decision to split up.

“How far is it to O’Hare?” Hunz asked.

“I’m not very good at distances,” Cheryl replied. “You go straight up Cicero to I-90 west. Fifteen, maybe twenty miles, I think.”

“We’ll meet up with you at the hospital as soon as we can.” Hunz held Stacy while Josh climbed into the back of the limo behind Cheryl.

Cheryl reached a hand across Josh. “Thank you for everything,” she said to Hunz. She squeezed his hand warmly, then looked up at Sydney. “Sydney, you too, dear friend. Come as quickly as you can.”

“We will,” Sydney said.

Hunz closed the limo door and it pulled away from the curb.

“You didn’t tell them?” Sydney asked.

“And add one more worry to her burden?”

He hailed a cab. Sydney checked her watch. Hunz had barely seven hours to live.

H
unz hadn’t spoken a word since they left Midway. He stared out the taxi window at the lights—convenience stores, gas stations, donut shops, strip malls, grocery stores, auto shops, and tire centers.

A man who had less than the length of a workday to live should have something more poetic to look at, Sydney thought, like mountain streams, blue skies, and flowers. Acres and acres of flowers.

She wondered what he was thinking, but didn’t ask. Not that she was afraid. They’d been through enough together—walking through the valley of death is the phrase that came to mind—that she felt comfortable asking him personal questions. He just seemed to need some alone time.

What does a perfectly healthy man who knows he’s dying think about? The details of his impending death? Will it be an accident? A fall, or possibly a runaway vehicle? Does he have an undiagnosed malady? A heart imperfection, like the actor John Ritter, or a blood clot, like Lyle Vandeveer? The body is such a complex and delicate vessel with a thousand ways to break it.

Whether
the stone hits the pitcher, or the pitcher hits the stone, it’s going to be bad for the pitcher.
Words of wisdom from that immortal philosopher, Sancho Panza.

And then there was the biggest unknown—who was throwing the rocks? Who was smashing vessels of flesh the world over?

Aliens? Had anyone considered aliens? Was this some sort of extraterrestrial prelude to invasion? Some sort of otherworldly war? Of course, it would have to be a technologically advanced race. That went without saying, didn’t it? If they had the ability to travel the gazillion light-years scientists said they’d have to travel just to get here, they’d have to be advanced, right? But given the bizarre facts of Death Watch, were aliens out of the realm of possibility?

The cab accelerated onto I-90, leaving the colored store signs behind. It wasn’t long before they could see commercial airplanes low in the sky, approaching O’Hare International Airport runway. Huge green overhead freeway signs provided arrival and departure information.

As they neared the airport terminal, red taillights like fireflies began popping up in front of them. The cab slowed. The driver cursed. It seemed odd to encounter traffic this time of night.

With a pudgy, freckled hand the driver gestured at a large white “Pardon Our Face-lift” sign.

“Can you get us directly to the hotel?” Sydney asked.

“Looks like the police got the hotel blocked off. Wonder what’s up with that?” the cab driver said.

To their left, barricades blocked the road leading to the Hilton.

Hunz opened his door. He threw money at the driver.

“Let’s go,” he said to Sydney.

The next thing Sydney knew, the two of them were running between rows of cars toward the white lights of the terminal. Because of open ditches and construction scaffolding the length of the loading zone, they had to stay in the roadway until they were parallel to the doors.

To their left was the Hilton Hotel, attached to the terminal, its features bleached in the glare of police spotlights. The overhang on the terminal prevented them from seeing the hotel’s roof; neither could they see the street in front of the hotel.

“We have to go down one floor,” Sydney said.

Searching for a down escalator, they raced into the terminal, stepping over piles of luggage, brushing past people, sidestepping long lines in front of the ticket counters.

Hunz spotted it first. Sydney had to quicken her pace to keep up to him.

They raced down the escalator, across the terrazzo floor, past baggage carousels, and out the door, once again in the Chicago night.

Playing cop, Hunz stiff-armed traffic to a halt as they crossed lines of traffic. They dashed under the elevated airport transit tracks just as a train whooshed over them.

A policewoman met them. She was short and freckled, with orange-red hair tucked beneath her hat. “Sorry, folks. Hotel’s temporarily unavailable,” she said. “We got a situation here.”

Sydney looked up at the situation. Billy Peppers was seated atop a ten-story building of glass with a convex facade. At the far right, it met the airport control tower. Billy was in the center, his legs dangling over the edge.

“This is Sydney St. James,” Hunz said to the policewoman.

“I’m Sydney St. James,” Sydney said, a half syllable behind him. She flashed her press pass.

The name didn’t register with the policewoman. “Glad to meet you. Like I said, folks, I’m sorry but. . ”

A short distance away, a man coiling cable overheard the exchange. He grabbed the arm of a woman nearby and said something. She swung Sydney’s direction. Barking orders, she quickly navigated an intercept course. Sydney recognized her. It was Chandra Smyth.

By the time she reached Sydney, she had a microphone in hand, the area was awash in camera light, and she was asking her first question.

“Miss St. James, what is your connection to William Peppers, the man on the ledge?”

The swift approach of the camera crew took the policewoman by surprise. She obviously didn’t like the intrusion but didn’t know what to do about it. The lights and sudden movement caught the attention of another officer, a sergeant fifty feet away. He hurried toward them, scowling.

The suddenness of the ambush caught Sydney off guard. She reacted like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

Hunz stepped forward, putting his hand over the camera lens, a move that angered the cameraman. “Miss St. James has no comment at this time,” Hunz said, positioning himself between Sydney and Chandra Smyth.

“What’s going on here?” said the approaching police sergeant.

Sydney identified herself again.

“Miss St. James, how did you get here so quickly?” Chandra Smyth shouted.

The sergeant recognized Sydney’s name.

“Come with me,” he said. With a forearm, he shoved Ms. Chandra and her microphone aside, earning for his efforts angry words of protest which he shrugged off as he led Sydney away. Hunz attempted to follow. The policewoman stopped him.

“He’s with me,” Sydney said.

The sergeant looked Hunz over. “Sorry,” he said.

Sydney pulled up short. “I’m not going anywhere without him,” she said.

“He your lawyer?” the sergeant asked.

Sydney said nothing. Neither did she move.

The sergeant took another look at Hunz. “All right,” he said, and motioned him through the police cordon.

The sergeant led Sydney to a man in a gray suit. Short and stocky, he wore a no-nonsense facial expression as he stared up at the roof and Billy Peppers. Just as they reached him, he lifted a walkie-talkie and demanded an update.

While they waited for Gray Suit to conclude his transmission, Sydney looked up at the roof. Billy sat on the ledge, his feet dangling, surveying the scene below. The CNN camera lights must have attracted his attention, because he was staring straight at Sydney.

She imagined it wasn’t hard for him to spot her. After all, it was dark, there was no moon, and all the emergency workers were dressed in dark colors. Her blonde hair must have stood out like a struck match in a pitch-black forest.

When he saw her, he smiled. A mouthful of white teeth were framed by black lips stretched wide. He stood up, a move that agitated the crowd below. Then he spread his arms wide, as though to greet Sydney with a hug, or invite her to join him on his precarious perch.

A shiver shook Sydney, chilling her insides and draining her extremities of blood until they were ice cold. At that moment, a gust of wind arrived from Lake Michigan. It whipped the flags on two impressive poles in front of the hotel. Billy’s open shirt, the one on top of several layers of shirts, flapped happily with the flags.

“What is it, Sergeant?” Finished with his conversation on the walkie-talkie, the man in the gray suit turned his attention to them.

“This is Sydney St. James,” said the sergeant.

Gray Suit looked her over with a critical eye. Purely professional. He was registering details, forming opinions, and filing away information in some file cabinet in his head. “Why you?” Gray Suit asked Sydney.

“What do you mean, why me?”

“What does he want from you?”

Sydney said, “All I know is—”

Hunz cut her off. “Exactly who is it we’re talking to?” he said. “Who are you and what is your position here?”

Gray Suit scowled as though asking questions was his private domain and Hunz was trespassing. “You her lawyer?”

“A friend,” Hunz said.

Gray Suit’s jaw ground back and forth. Sydney had heard of men who chewed people up and spat them out, and she’d always thought it was a figure of speech. To look at Gray Suit, she wasn’t so sure anymore.

The sergeant jumped in. “This is Assistant Chief of Police Leonard Caplan,” he said. “He’s in charge of this whole shebang.”

“Well?” Caplan barked. “Can we get on with it now?”

“I don’t know why he chose me,” Sydney said.

“You know him?”

“I recognize him.”

“From where?”

“He watched us do a live broadcast in Pasadena.”

“He watched you. You’re certain it’s the same man?”

‘ ‘Fairly certain. He was carrying a Nike shoe box that night too.”

Caplan nodded as he chewed on this. “So after seeing you do a live broadcast, he thought it would be nice to invite you to a tea party on the roof of the Hotel Hilton in Chicago?”

“He emailed me yesterday,” Sydney said. “He claimed he had information on Death Watch. We"—she gestured toward Hunz—“failed to connect with him. Then, when we did a little investigating, we discovered he lives on the street and volunteers at a rescue mission.”

“In Chicago?”

“In LA.”

“What’s he doing in Chicago?”

“You’ll have to ask him that.”

“I don’t buy it. He asked for an LA reporter thirty minutes ago and now here you are?”

“Coincidence. We’re here on a totally unrelated matter.”

“You mean news story, don’t you?” Caplan ground his jaw. He spat on the ground. “I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

He squared himself and stood inches away from Sydney.

“This is some kind of media stunt, isn’t it? A rivalry between two television stations. Or maybe the payoff on a lost wager.”

Sydney didn’t answer immediately. Guilty people tended to answer too quickly. She looked him dead in the eye. “We just brought a pregnant woman, a friend, from LA to Chicago so that she could deliver her child at home before she dies. Believe me, Assistant Chief Caplan, if I had any choice in this matter, I would be at her side right now, not here.”

They locked eyes.

Caplan grunted. He turned his back, walked a distance, and spoke into the walkie-talkie. A minute later, he returned.

“You’ll talk to this guy?” he asked.

Sydney looked up at Billy. His hands were by his sides. He was looking down at her from a distance of ten stories. The reality of what she was being asked to do hit her. She was a reporter, not a counselor. What did she know about negotiating with a suicide jumper? What if he jumped while she was talking to him? What did he want with her anyway?

She was certain of one thing: She didn’t want to do this.

“I can ask him what he wants,” she said.

In less than a heartbeat—a very short time considering Sydney’s heart was hammering furiously against her chest—Caplan moved into action.

To Hunz: “You, stay where you’re at.”

To the sergeant: “Take the lady up to the roof.”

To Sydney: “And you—no stunts. Promise him anything. Get him to back away from the ledge. We’ll take it from there.”

Caplan walked away, speaking rapidly into the walkie-talkie.

Sydney looked to Hunz.

For what? Assurance? A word of encouragement? A last piece of professional advice? All she knew was that at that moment she craved a positive word from a familiar face.

Hunz flipped open his cell phone. “I’ll get everything set up for the live feed later tonight,” he said, walking away.

“Yeah,” Sydney said to his back.

Get everything set up for his last on-the-air report, the one that would culminate in his death.

Sydney felt the burn of shame. Hunz was the one who was dying, and here she was wanting to be reassured.

She watched him go. Business as usual from the looks of him. She should have said something supportive. But what? Tell him it would be all right? Cream-puff words, all sugar and no substance. Besides, he’d already moved on, and she needed to do the same.

“This way, ma’am,” said the sergeant.

With a heavyhearted sigh Sydney followed the sergeant toward a glass facade that rose up before her like an enormous glacier.

A
t each level between street and rooftop Sydney’s doubts compounded. In the lobby she was struck by a niggling uncertainty as she was escorted to the elevators. Upon reaching the tenth floor the niggle grew to mature apprehension as the elevator doors opened to police with rifles and face shields, while curious hotel guests stood in their doorways in their robes. By the time Sydney climbed the final flight of stairs and emerged on the roof, her doubt had mutated to full-fledged fear.

An expansive canopy of stars opened overhead. This high up there were no buildings to restrict the view, or the wind. It whipped her clothing with authority, reminding her that this was its territory.

It was dark where she entered. Shadowy military figures crouched in every corner. The only one in the light was Billy Peppers. Spotlights from the street and portable lights on the roof crisscrossed on him.

The crunch of gravel announced the approach of two men, one dressed for action, the other in a suit of undetermined color.

The sergeant said, “This is Sydney St. James.”

They were expecting her. The armed man held a walkie-talkie, no doubt linked to Caplan.

The man in the suit leaned close and advised her regarding the man on the ledge. “Don’t anger him. Try to get him talking. And make sure you stay out of arm’s reach.”

The armed man added, “See if you can get him to step down off the ledge. We have men in position behind the lights to grab him.”

Neither asked Sydney if she was having any second thoughts. They each grabbed an arm and led her toward the light.

The man in the suit lifted a bullhorn. “Peppers, we have Miss St. James, just as you requested.”

Billy turned toward the voice. He squinted against the lights. There was no way he could see any of them.

Sydney was pushed forward. Two crunchy steps and she crossed from darkness into light. It was bright. She stopped, holding up a hand, giving her eyes time to adjust, sensing she was close to the edge and that if she took one more step she’d hit the ledge and topple over it.

While it was still too bright for her to see anything, she heard Billy say, “Wow. You look like an angel.”

Sydney’s defenses rose instantly. She was standing on the roof of a hotel in the middle of the night and this guy was hitting on her? She didn’t have time for this nonsense. Cheryl was on her way to the hospital, Hunz had less than—what?—six hours left to live? If this guy had gone to all this trouble to try to pick her up, she was going to push him off the ledge herself.

Her conclusion wasn’t without precedence. In Iowa City, working for the PBS station, she would get calls to interview university professors with significant scientific discoveries, or to interview a classical music celebrity, only to arrive and find there was no discovery, there was no celebrity, only some wise guy who saw her on television and wanted to meet her.

The pattern was always the same. First the compliment, then the pickup line. So she looked like an angel, huh? Not very original.

“When you were a kid,” Billy said, “did you go to Sunday school?”

If that was this guy’s best pickup line, he needed professional help.

“Yeah,” she said. “Is that a requirement?”

Billy smiled. “Just wondered why they chose you.”

“They?”

“I contacted you in LA,” he said. “You didn’t meet me at Hollywood Memorial. I waited.”

Sydney searched for signs of mental instability or drugs. Nervous gestures. Inability to look her in the eyes. Dilated pupils. She noted none of these things. Billy was casual—if such a thing was possible standing on the ledge of a tall building in a windy city—and his speech was clear. So were his eyes.

“I was detained,” she said. “You must have left by the time we got there.” She thought a moment. “We went looking for you at the mission.”

Stalkers never liked it when someone turned the tables on them by showing up unexpectedly at their home or work. Sydney wanted to gauge his reaction to this bit of news. If anything, Billy appeared flattered.

“Then you met Ken Overton!” He spoke as if they were at some kind of reunion.

“And Lony Mendez,” Sydney said. “He told us about your prison background.”

Billy Peppers beamed. He folded his arms contentedly, momentarily covering the wooden cross he wore around his neck. He was every inch what you’d expect to see in a homeless man: layers of clothing; old, worn shoes; hair and face that needed washing. One thing was different, though. A quick mind backlit friendly eyes and powered an intelligent tongue.

A gust of wind hit them suddenly, staggering Sydney and knocking Billy off balance. His eyes grew wide with fright, his arms did the windmill thing as he fought to keep from going over the side. Sydney reached for him instinctively. A chorus of male voices from the dark warned her not to do it.

Billy caught his balance. He pressed a hand to his chest as though to calm a heart gone wild. “I hate heights,” he said.

“Then let’s go someplace safe,” Sydney said, her own heart doing triple backflips. “They have conference rooms here. I’m sure they’ll let us use one. We can talk there.”

Billy fixed his gaze behind her, past the lights, as if trying to discern what was behind them. “My instructions were to deliver the message to you here.”

“Instructions from whom?”

“We’ll get there soon enough.” He paused and stared at his feet for a moment. Then he looked up. “You’re looking for the terrorist who is behind the death watch tragedy.”

“We have several leads.”

“You’re looking in the wrong places.”

“How can you say that? You don’t know where we’re looking.”

Billy smiled knowingly. “I know where you’re not looking,” he said.

“Mr. Peppers, let’s get to the point. Do you know who is behind Death Watch?”

Billy caught her gaze and held it. “Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me who it is?”

“He’s a terrorist,” Billy said. “A terrorist with an organization so strong, so widespread, it makes all other terrorist organizations look like two-bit street punks.”

Something caught his eye behind her. He stared hard at it. Sydney turned to see what he was looking at.

The airport control tower. Two men were watching them with binoculars. Police? Bored air traffic controllers? It was impossible to tell from this distance. Sydney wondered how he would react if he knew that a couple dozen feet behind the lights there were men who had guns, not binoculars, trained on him.

Billy pointed at the Nike shoe box near his feet. “Look inside,” he said.

The box looked innocent enough. It was an ordinary shoe box. No swastikas drawn on it. No skull and crossbones. No protruding wires. Just a regular Nike shoe box. Size ten.

She reached for it.

All manner of shouting erupted behind her from the dark, warning her not to touch the box.

She recoiled.

“It’s just a shoe box,” Billy said. “I keep my stuff in there. If you’d like, I’ll open it.”

He started to reach for the box. Sydney stopped him. There could be a gun in the box. The police would think so too. And though she couldn’t be certain, she had the distinct impression that if he touched the box, he’d be shot, and she’d never know what he wanted from her.

“I’ll do it.” Sydney inched toward the box to a renewed doomsday chorus sung by the choir behind the lights. She touched the lid and hesitated.

He insisted it was personal items. The police suspected a bomb, or something equally dangerous. A chemical weapon? If she lifted the lid of the box and something chemical was released, this wind would spread it quickly and efficiently and there would be no way anyone could stop it.

Which was it? The safest thing to do would be to snatch the box, hold the lid down, and give it to authorities for them to examine. But if she did that, Billy probably wouldn’t talk to her anymore.

He’d had it under his arm in Pasadena. Carried it like it was something personal, like he said. Or something dangerous he didn’t want anyone to touch until the right moment. Which was it? But then what were the chances of a homeless man carrying around a pocket-size nuclear device or a vial of sarin gas in a Nike shoe box?

Cautiously, Sydney lifted the lid.

She let out a small yelp. Two faces stared up at her.

“My angels,” Billy said.

“Yeah,” Sydney said, her hand shaking. “You could have given a girl a warning.”

“The book underneath,” Billy said. “Get it.”

Moving the figurines aside, Sydney removed the book. “It’s a Bible.”

“You said you went to Sunday school. Can you find the book of Job?”

“Yes.”

“Find it. Chapter one. Verse six.”

Sydney opened the Bible to the middle and found Psalms. From there, she tracked backward to Job.

“All right,” she said. “Is this some sort of code?”

“Begin reading with verse six,” Billy said.

Sydney looked around, knowing that all eyes were on her even though she couldn’t see them. Because of the floodlights, everything on the page was bathed in white light, or blotted out by shadow. She adjusted her stance so the light caught the page. She began to read.

“Aloud,” Billy said. “I want to hear it again.”

Sydney looked up at him. She cleared her throat and began again, this time reading aloud. At first, the open space and wind swallowed her words whole. She spoke louder.

“’One day the angels came to present themselves before the LORD, and Satan also came with them. The LORD said to Satan, “Where have you come from?”

“’Satan answered the LORD, “From roaming through the earth and going back and forth in it.”

“’Then the LORD said to Satan, “Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one on earth like him; he is blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil.”

“’"Does Job fear God for nothing?” Satan replied. “Have you not put a hedge around him and his household and everything he has? You have blessed the work of his hands, so that his flocks and herds are spread throughout the land. But stretch out your hand and strike everything he has, and he will surely curse you to your face.”

‘’The LORD said to Satan, “Very well, then, everything he has is in your hands, but on the man himself do not lay a finger.”

“’Then Satan went out from the presence of the LORD.

“’One day—’”

“You can stop there,” Billy interrupted. He was grinning. “What do you think?”

Sydney closed the book and offered it back to him. He didn’t take it, so she held it. “I think I remember reading this story in Sunday school,” she said. “But what does it have to do with reality?”

“Interesting story, wouldn’t you say? Satan roaming through the earth, going back and forth between earth and heaven. One minute among men, the next face-to-face with God.”

Someone in the darkness coughed.

Sydney was getting impatient. She shifted her weight, jutting out a hip.

“What of it?” she said.

“The way I understand it,” Billy said, “it’s happened again. Another convocation. Another challenge. Another agreement.”

“You’re telling me Satan and God have made an agreement and the result are these death watch notices?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

Sydney was nonplussed. “Is that the best you’ve got? Because I’m ready to turn around and let the men with the nets and straitjackets have at you.”

“Is it so hard to believe? You said you went to Sunday school.”

“I did. What of it?”

“You’re a Christian?”

“Yeah . but. ”

“Then why are you finding it difficult to believe what I just told you? I can understand them ” He waved an expansive hand. “They’ve bought into a closed system based solely on measurable phenomenon. They’ve elevated mankind to the status of God. If we can’t see it, or measure it, or understand it, it doesn’t exist. But not you. Not Christians. The very nature of Christianity is based on the supernatural.”

“So you’re saying the notices, the deaths, the intricate timing, all of it is supernaturally related?”

“Natural and supernatural. The two realms coexist in time and space.” He thought for a second. “Remember Elisha and his servant? They were surrounded by an army of men. The servant was
afraid for his life. Elisha told him he needn’t be, because those who were with them were more than those who were against them. That poor servant counted only two, himself and Elisha. So Elisha prayed, ‘Lord, open his eyes,’ and the next thing the servant saw was a whole host of heaven, outnumbering the army of men! Sydney, they’re still here. They haven’t left!”

Sydney was shaking her head. She’d heard the story before. That was something that happened a long time ago. Things were different then.

“Another one!” Billy looked down, trying to remember. He snapped his fingers a couple of times. “In Genesis. Chapter thirty-four…thirty-two…somewhere in that area, Jacob was on a journey. He stumbled into an encampment of angels. Can you imagine that? Walking into an angelic camp? That’s what happened. He named the place Mahanaim. It means ‘two encampments.’ His and theirs.”

“This is nuts!” she said.

“I’ll tell you what’s nuts,” Billy said. “Believing in a supernatural God and not believing in the supernatural. That’s nuts.”

Sydney thought about that.

“I mean, Christians involve themselves in the supernatural everyday, Sydney. When we pray, aren’t we praying to a Being we can’t see? A Being who has revealed himself as Spirit, who inhabits a spiritual realm?”

“Now that’s something I can agree to,” Sydney said.

“Then you’re almost there. The next step is becoming aware that the spiritual realm is nearer than you think. It’s right here, Sydney. Natural and supernatural. Side by side. Sometimes touching. Sometimes overlapping. Men and angels in the same universe, sharing time and space. This is the universe God created!”