Cam reads the truth behind my silence. “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but I want you to be assured that I will get you the money. I’ll get whatever you want. But I’m begging you, please don’t hurt my family.”
I wait for the man’s response, but he stares at the phone in his hand as the silence stretches. He’s thinking, I guess, considering how to answer—if to answer. He looks at me, and his lips move, pink and exaggerated like a silent film star.
Police.
I frown, not understanding until his gaze flits to the phone.
“Did you hear the part about the police, Cam? You can’t call them. He said no law enforcement of any kind. He’ll kill us if you call them.”
“I heard you. I won’t call them. You have my word.”
The man rolls his eyes. Across the hall, the television fades into a commercial break and the house falls quiet, only a soft hiss coming from the phone. I stare at it, stomach acid burning up my throat as my mind bubbles with terrible thoughts. He doesn’t believe Cam. He doesn’t think he’ll bring the money.
Icy fingers clamp down on my heart and squeeze. “How long will it take you to get here? Do you remember the amount?”
“Seven-three-four-two-nine-six. I remember. It’s a strange amount.”
I said the same thing, too, and pretty much word for word. The man refused to tell me anything other than I better hope Cam will be able to scrounge up the cash.
But in the minutes ever since, in between his careful explanation of what I am to say and him punching the call into my phone, I’ve quietly come up with an answer: the number is not random. It’s the bottom line on a bank statement he fished out of our mailbox, maybe, or the purchase price for a building Cam is bidding on for one of his restaurants. Otherwise why not demand an even $800,000? Why not shoot for a million or more?
Another realization is that as strange as the number is, it also could present a problem—it’s too big to just walk into a bank and withdraw. Aren’t there waiting periods for that kind of cash? Precious minutes to wait out the red tape.
And his investment strategy these past few years has been aggressive. Expanding his business, turning every bit of profit into capital for the next location. What if he doesn’t have enough money liquid? Cam might have to gather up cash from different accounts, liquidate some of his assets. He might not have enough time.
Or maybe that’s the whole purpose.
Terror churns in my stomach because maybe this is no typical ransom plot. Maybe this man’s promises of a happy reunion is a lie. Maybe no matter what kind of miracle Cam works, the day culminates with a bullet in each of our heads.
If that’s true, if this whole exercise was intended to fail, then that means nothing I do, nothing Cam does, will change how this day ends. As much as I want him to hurry, every minute he’s not here means another minute the kids and I are still breathing.
Another minute I have to figure out how to get us out of this alive.
“Where are you?” I say. “How long before you can get here?”
“I don’t… I don’t know. It’s going to take me some time to pull that kind of cash together. I’m going to have to empty the safes, move some things around between accounts, and the banks close in what—an hour? It would be a lot quicker to just transfer the money, all I need is a—”
“No.” Another one of the scenarios the man and I discussed, and he was crystal clear. “No bank transfers. It has to be cash, and you have to bring it by seven. He says one second later than that and we’re dead.”
“Seven o’clock tonight?” Cam’s voice cracks through the speaker, incredulous. “I don’t… That doesn’t give me anywhere near enough time.”
“Yes. He was very specific about the time.” I don’t mention that the man smiled when he said it: Tell your darling husband seven o’clock or else. Almost like a dare.
In the background, squealing wheels pierce through the roar of an engine. “Look, sir, whoever you are, listen to me. I will get you this money, but you have to understand there are forces out of my control. It’s rush hour. Traffic is a nightmare, and the banks are going to take forever. I can probably stitch together a couple hundred thousand today, and then tomorrow morning first thing I’ll get you the rest. I swear to you I’ll pull through, but I just don’t—”
“Cam.” The gun’s barrel is flush to my forehead, jabbing it into the bone, pressing hard enough to leave a bruise. Icy metal against scalding skin.