Gerald’s phone rang. He snatched it off the table he’d been staring at for the past hour, waiting dully for the call. He swiped his thumb and raised it to his ear, mouth suddenly dry.
He hesitated. “Damon?” His voice cracked on the second syllable. He stared at the mahogany surface’s relentless shine, faint lemon wafting from his housekeeper’s polish.
“Your son is fine,” a deep, mechanical voice echoed down the line. The voice was the nightmare of every parent who hadn’t been quite suspicious enough.
He clenched his free hand around the carved chair arm, trying to consciously loosen his grasp on the phone before it shattered through sheer willpower and frustration.
The voice said nothing. Its silence said everything.
“I want my son back,” Gerald said. He was proud that his voice didn’t quaver.
Maniacal, metallic laughter came booming through the line. “It’s good to want things.”
Gerald glanced up. Joe wasn’t just his business partner. He’d helped raise Damon after Lisa died in childbirth. The company wouldn’t have lasted this long without his advice and support. Joe was critical in a crisis, always knowing who to call. But this time, Joe shook his head and looked away.
“Listen carefully,” the modulated voice demanded. “You have until three o’clock. The bomb strapped to your son explodes then, unless you send ten million dollars to the following bank account.” The voice rattled off a number.
“We have hacked your phone. The timer is linked to it. Send the money if you want to see your son alive again. We will know.”
“No cops!” The phone beeped monotonously at him several times before Gerald realized the voice had disconnected.
Joe stared at the dark wooden floor. “This one’s weird, Gerald.”
He barely heard his friend. Blinking rapidly, he thought hard. “Three is only twenty minutes away.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t do it,” Joe said.
“He’s my son,” Gerald said fondly.
He looked up and saw Mindy, the housekeeper, hesitating in the entrance to the room. She held a plate of homemade cookies. Waving her in, he snagged a still-warm shortbread. The cookie broke into sandy pieces across his tongue. The flavor of butter filled his mouth.
“I’ve got it,” Gerald said. “The timer is linked to my phone. I just have to hack my phone and make sure it never reaches three P.M.”
Joe sighed, and slumped over the table. He stretched out a hand and Mindy pushed the plate toward him.
“Geohack it. Travel backward through time zones,” Joe suggested. He tapped a macaron against the blue plate, scattering grainy white desiccated flakes of coconut across the shining wood.
Mindy shook her head. “You’re overcomplicating it. Just break the phone.”
Damon peeked his head around the hallway entrance. “That only works if the kidnappers are telling the truth.”
“Huh,” Gerald said, tapping his fingers. “Excellent point. C’mere, you.” He hugged his son, feeling the soft hair under his hand.
“I like this game, Dad.” Damon wriggled away. “But I want a cookie now.”
Gerald let him go. Twelve years old meant cookies would always win.
His eyes followed Damon as he ran outside, chocolate chip firmly in hand.
Mindy met his gaze after a few moments. Her unblinking blue eyes made Gerald uncomfortable. “I can’t believe you play a game called ‘Contingency Planning’ with him.”
“To be fair, he knows it as ‘Outsmarting Dad,’” Gerald protested.
Joe scraped his chair back but didn’t stand. “You really think there’s a threat because the company grew so big so fast?”
Gerald shrugged and yawned. “I’d rather he be prepared for anything. And he loved the voice modulator.”
“He certainly can think on his feet,” Mindy said. “He’s a kid, and runs circles around me.”
“Around most people, the precocious brat.” Joe shook his head again. “It has still got to be the weirdest game I’ve ever heard of.”
“You try entertaining a tiny genius,” Gerald retorted.
In the next room, they heard the tones of the clock striking three.
