“Did anything happen after you got this?”
Sydney was hoping Cheryl would say no. That this was someone’s idea of a joke, like the one played at Dykstra Hall.
“How did you know?” Cheryl said. “I got a phone call shortly after we settled in. It was the strangest voice.” She wrinkled her nose. “I couldn’t tell if it was male or female. Weird, huh? Sort of like special effects. And it was as though it knew I was the one going to answer the phone, you know what I mean? No hello. It didn’t ask who it was speaking to. It just repeated what was in the letter.”
Sydney’s heart ached. This was the real thing. “No, it doesn’t sound weird at all. And it conforms to prior experiences.”
“So what’s this all about? Are you at liberty to tell me?”
Sydney glanced out the window. An entire city lay before her. For most people, this was an ordinary workday. For death watch victims like Cheryl, there was no such thing as ordinary anymore.
“We don’t know,” Sydney said. “At this point, we really don’t know.”
Cheryl smiled.
Smiled.
Why would Cheryl smile?
“You seem so calm about all this,” Sydney said. “If I were in your shoes I’d probably be a blubbering puddle of emotion right about now.”
Cheryl glanced down at her hands that were folded serenely across her belly. Her expression was that of a game show contestant who knew the answer to the million-dollar question.
“I have to admit,” she said, “I have some experience in this sort of thing.”
“You do?”
“A degree in theater. I’m used to being under the lights, to thinking on my feet. We did a lot of improv.”
“You’re talking about the game show.”
Cheryl nodded. “I’m hoping my experience will give me an edge. We can really use the money.”
“And the death watch notice?”
“I was surprised at first. Off the record? It shook me. That’s why I called the police. Then I remembered where I was. Hollywood, with all those reality shows.” She looked around. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. They put us up in these rooms outfitted with hidden cameras, introduce an unexpected element when I check in—the letter—designed to throw me off balance, then send someone to interview me. All part of the game. “She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “When I answered the door, you confirmed my suspicions. You’re far too pretty to be a reporter.”
Sydney was stunned. Cheryl McCormick had no idea she was going to die.
“Haven’t you watched the news lately?” Sydney asked.
“Will there be a lot of current-event questions? For the last week, I’ve been so tired, all I’ve done is take care of Stacy. Last night was the first time I’d turned on the television in a week. Talk about good timing. You know, I called Wonder Wheel on a lark, never expecting to get through, and when I did, I certainly didn’t expect to win. After that, everything’s pretty much a blur.”
The poor thing didn’t know.
There had been times when Sydney was appalled at how little people were aware of world events, until she realized that this was her chosen field, not theirs. It was sort of like dentists who are appalled at how little thought people give to their teeth, and nutritionists in arms over how little concern people give to their diets.
She fingered Cheryl McCormick’s letter and thought of little Stacy in the next room, and of the unborn child Cheryl was carrying. How to break the news to her? All of a sudden Sydney knew how doctors feel when they say, “I’m sorry, it’s cancer.” Or police knocking on the door in the middle of the night with “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Cheryl, there’s no easy way to tell you this,” she said.
The pregnant woman looked at her with an unassuming grin.
“This notice? It’s not part of the Wonder Wheel game. It’s not Hollywood. It’s real.”
Sydney spoke in a hushed voice so Stacy wouldn’t overhear. She told Cheryl about Jeffrey Conley’s car accident, about Lyle Vandeveer, about the escalating terror that was gripping the world, and about the 100 percent fatality rate.
Cheryl listened intently. At times a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She still wanted to believe this was part of the show, that it was Sydney’s role to sell the charade. But there was something about Sydney’s earnestness that began to sink in. Her cheerful foundation began to weaken until, at last, her footing gave way and she plunged into icy reality—in less than two days she was going to die.
“My baby,” Cheryl said. A trembling hand caressed her belly. “If I die, my baby will die.”
She broke down and sobbed.
There was a knock at the door.
Torn between comforting Cheryl and answering the door, Sydney answered the door because she thought she knew who it was. She was right.
Fred Zappa, the clothes hamper with legs, lumbered in with his KSMJ camera atop his shoulder. “Here comes bad news,” he said cheerfully.
Sydney grabbed him before he got two steps into the room.
“This isn’t a good time,” she said.
Zappa saw the weeping woman on the far side of the room. “I can’t hang around,” he said. “I have to be at city hall in forty-five minutes or Cori will have my head.”
“What about after that?”
“Sorry.”
Sydney looked at Cheryl. It would be cruel to put her in front of a camera now.
“Just tell them we couldn’t get the interview. I’ll explain when I get back to the station.”
“We have a slot for it at six,” Zappa said.
“I’ll take responsibility for it,” Sydney said, turning him toward the door. The cameraman offered no resistance.
“Your funeral,” Zappa said, shaking his head. “But, hey, I’m easy. This way I can grab a donut.”
He ambled out.
Sydney rejoined Cheryl in the alcove. She was flushed red and wet with tears.
“What am I going do?” she cried.
Sydney put her arms around the woman. So much for remaining detached and objective.
How desperately she wanted to tell Cheryl it would be all right, that she would use the full resources of the station to protect her. Then she thought of Lyle Vandeveer and how much her assurances had helped him.
“I’ll contact the station,” Sydney said, “and tell them you’re not going to be able to go on the game show tonight.”
Cheryl nodded, dabbing her nose and eyes with a tissue.
Then, suddenly, she changed her mind.
“No, I have to go on tonight.”
“Cheryl, you’re in no condition.”
“I need the money. Especially now. Who’s going to take care of my babies after I’m gone? If I win, at least they’ll have money. If I win big, maybe they’ll even have enough for college.”
“You’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself.”
But Cheryl had made up her mind. “I have to do it.”
“What about relatives? Is there someone you can call?”
“We’re alone. Both my parents died when I was young. I was raised in foster homes. Larry’s father died a few years ago. His mother is sickly and needs round-the-clock care. And his only brother is younger. He’s in the Marines in Afghanistan.”
Sydney took her hand. “You’re not alone. We’ll work something out. I promise you.” She meant it, though she had no idea how she could complete the promise. It didn’t matter. The way she felt right now, she’d lead a crusade to see that Cheryl’s children were taken care of.
“I should make airline reservations for after the show tonight,” Cheryl said. “No offense, but I don’t want to die in LA.”
“Can you fly this late in your term?”
“I lied to get out here. I can do it again.”
Sydney said, “Let me take care of getting you back to Chicago.”
“Evanston, actually,” Cheryl said. “And I should call my obstetricia
n. If I’m going to die, I’m not taking this baby with me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Billy Peppers sat beneath a tree with an open Bible on his lap. The sky was clear and blue, the grass was green. A beautiful sight even though Billy was surrounded by death.
His angel shoe box beside him, he read while keeping an eye on the Santa Monica Boulevard entrance to Hollywood Memorial Park Cemetery. In the distance he could see the Hollywood sign in the hills. Behind him was the historic Paramount Studios back lot.
Billy was waiting for a beige Volvo to pass through the gates.
He read:
But mark this: There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God—having a form of godliness but denying its power.
He heard a car approaching. He looked up. A dark blue Bonneville.
The reporter from KSMJ was late. He’d emailed her to meet him here an hour ago. He’d wait another thirty minutes. She might have been delayed. After all, she was an important person with a lot of responsibilities. But then, so was he. At least it was pretty here.
Billy placed his Bible in the shoe box, careful not to bend or wrinkle any of his angel pictures. He took out his favorite ceramic piece and held it. The angelic figurine didn’t seem out of place here, not like it did in the trashy alleys. Maybe it was because this place was frequented so often by angels.
Oh-oh. Trouble.
The driver of the Pontiac Bonneville had gotten out of his car. He was talking to two groundskeepers. The driver was pointing at Billy and talking. The groundskeepers did some head nodding, then came walking toward him.
It always amazed Billy how people could ignore paper and plastic trash in streets and alleys, but couldn’t pass by a man in ragged clothes and not try to do something about it.
Billie knew the drill. He gathered up his box. He’d save them the trouble and leave.
Something interrupted him.
“Chicago?” he exclaimed. “How am I supposed to get to Chicago?”
The two groundskeepers slowed, eyeing him like he was crazy.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t go,” Billy said.
“Then go, already,” one of the workers said.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Billy said. “Can’t you see I’m busy? I’ll be with you in a minute.”
The groundskeepers exchanged glances.
“Impossible!” Billy said to the air. “It’d take me a couple days at least.”
“Listen, buddy,” one worker said.
“Fly?” Billy shouted. “In case you haven’t noticed, not everyone in this conversation has wings!”
“Hey, buddy! “the worker shouted. “I don’t know what you’re on, but we don’t want any trouble here.”
“I said I’d be with you in a minute,” Billy replied. Then, picking up his first conversation: “All right, I’ll get there. Are you going to tell me why I’m going to Chicago?”
Billy threw up a hand in frustration.
“That’s enough, fella!” the worker shouted.
Billy didn’t hear him. Pressing past the groundskeepers he said, “Sorry, guys. Can’t talk now. I have to get to Chicago.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The first thing out of the receptionist’s mouth when Sydney arrived back at the station was a clipped, “Helen wants to see you.” The message wasn’t totally unexpected.
She knocked on Helen’s door and entered.
“What happened?” Helen said the instant she entered.
Sydney took a deep breath. It would be a mistake to presume Helen’s friendship, such as it was. The woman was a professional; Sydney’s job was to get the story.
“The poor girl thought the death watch notice was part of the game show experience. When I told her the truth, she took it hard. She was in no condition to give an interview. She’s pregnant and frightened.”
“No condition to give an interview? Since when is that a requirement for a news story? We cover people immersed in tragedy every day, pregnant and otherwise.”
Sydney made no effort to reply.
“And what are we going to fill that fifteen seconds with?”
It was a rhetorical question. At least Sydney hoped it was a rhetorical question.
“Cheryl is still going on the show. Then she plans to return to Evanston, Illinois. She wants to induce labor and have the baby before her time runs out. Let me follow up on it. There’s still a story here.”
Helen punched a button on her phone. “Get Cori in here,” she said to her assistant on the other end.
“There’s a problem,” Sydney continued. “It’s doubtful the airlines will let her fly considering how far along she is.”
“Irrelevant. They won’t let her on the plane once they find out she’s received a death watch notice.”
Cori Zinn and Josh Leven entered the office.
“About that,” Sydney said. “Cheryl wants to keep her death watch notice quiet. She doesn’t want people to know about it until after she’s been on the game show. I told her we’d honor her wishes.”
Helen slapped her pen down on the desk.
“You’re a reporter, not a social worker,” she snapped. “Your job is to get the story, not to cater to everyone’s wishes!”
Sydney could feel Cori’s pleasure over witnessing this scene. Josh looked like he didn’t want to be here.
“You’ve lost your objectivity,” Helen said, “and your focus, which is understandable if what I suspect is true.”
The conversation had just taken a left turn, which made Cori and Josh’s presence all the more mysterious.
“Cori came to me earlier today,” Helen said. With a nod she indicated that Cori should take it from here.
“We know about your death watch notice,” Cori said.
“What?” Sydney cried.
“This morning I received a confirmation call,” Cori said. “Josh was with me at the time. The caller identified you as the recipient of a death watch notice.”
Cori Zinn turned to Josh. He backed her up with a slight nod.
“This is ridiculous,” Sydney said. “I haven’t received a death watch notice.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you off this assignment, Sydney,” Helen said.
“Helen, on my honor, I have not received a death watch notice!”
“Have you checked your home mailbox lately?” Cori said. “Maybe it’s there. You’re familiar with the pattern. A written notice followed by a confirmation.”
“Along with a verbal confirmation to the victim,” Sydney added. “I haven’t received a verbal confirmation either.”
She was fighting for her life here. Sydney could guess why Cori Zinn was doing this to her, but Josh?
“Take the rest of the day off, Sydney,” Helen said. “Get your affairs in order. Cori, you’re now officially on the death watch story.”
That was it! That’s what Cori wanted! She’d orchestrated this whole thing to wrestle away the death watch story from her. And she’d gotten Josh to go along with it. What had she promised him? It had to be good.
“Josh, help me out here, “Sydney pleaded. “Tell the truth. How do you know who Cori was talking to?”
“Sorry, Syd,” Josh said apologetically.
“Let’s see how the next forty-eight hours goes,” Helen said. “If this is all a mistake, we’ll know soon enough.”
“Helen, don’t do this!” Sydney pleaded.
“I won’t have an employee of mine running around with a Death Watch hanging over her head. The liability to the station is too great. Go home, Sydney.”
This was ridiculous. Cori Zinn was capable of dirty politics, but this was beneath even her.
There was a single rap on Helen’s door. Hunz Von
ner poked his head in the door.
“There you are,” he said, looking at Sydney. “Helen, can I steal her away?”
“Sydney St. James is on a temporary leave of absence,” Helen said. “You’ll be working with Cori from here on out.”
For a moment it appeared Hunz would accept Helen’s decision without question. Then he said, “Is it disciplinary?”
“Personal,” Helen said.
“They think I’ve received a death watch notice,” Sydney said.
Hunz Vonner studied her with eyes that narrowed to slits. “Have you?”
“No.”
“Good enough for me,” Hunz said. “Let’s go.”
Sydney looked to Helen. After a long moment, the assignment editor reluctantly nodded her consent.
Cori Zinn’s protests could be heard through the closed door as Sydney and Hunz left.
CHAPTER TWENTY
On the way to the FBI field office on Wilshire Boulevard, Sydney’s hands shook, but overall she was feeling good about sticking up for herself in Helen’s office. It wasn’t like her to do that. Having been taught all her life to respect authority, she usually acquiesced. This time, she fought, and she was glad she did. If she hadn’t, she’d be on the Hollywood Freeway right now heading home.
Still, she wished she’d said more. She wished she’d told Cori to her face she was a liar. She wished she could have said something to convince Helen to believe her. She wished she’d expressed her disappointment to Josh, shaming him into telling the truth. That was one conversation she would most definitely revisit.
When she and Hunz reached the field office, this time instead of having her circle the block, he had her accompany him inside. She took this as a positive sign. Maybe he was beginning to think of her as a coreporter instead of a Barbie-doll chauffeur.
They were issued badges at security, then ushered into a ten-by-ten office with barren walls painted sea-foam green. It was a sickening neutral color that had been splashed on the walls of every government building in Southern California. Apparently someone at cost control had made a killing on a shipload of the stuff. No wonder. Anybody with a shred of taste would never pay good money for this color.
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