When the phone rang, Chris thought it was Amy calling to say she'd be late home from College and her parents had collected Emma from Daycare.
"Hi, honey!" he said, expecting to hear her chuckle at his psychic mastery.
"I’m not your wife, Chris." a man's voice echoed down the line. "But I do have your wife and child, and if you don't listen very carefully, they'll soon be dead."
Chris drew in a deep breath. The phone suddenly felt heavy in his hand. "Who is this?" he asked.
Silence.
"Is that you, Rob?" Chris silently prayed it was his Rob, his old friend and constant practical joker. But he knew it wasn't Rob.
"Shut up and pay attention; the fate of your family depends on it." The man's tone was stern, unyielding, accentuated by a recipe of broad brushed strokes blended with upper class Britain and blue collar Jersey. Chris pictured a thug wearing a bowler hat.
Is my family still alive, he thought. He had watched enough documentaries to know kidnappers seeking a ransom could murder whatever bargaining tools they had even before negotiations took place.
"I want to speak to them," Chris blurted.
Silence.
"Please," he begged.
"Christopher," the voice replied, "there are certain rules you're going to have to follow; certain things I'm going to ask you to do which will affect that wonderful moral compass of yours. So, shut up, and stop interrupting me!"
"Please... I just want to speak to them. I need to know if they're safe, that's all." He believed his question was reasonable under the circumstances.
"You're not listening to me, Christopher, I tol..."
"They could already be dead! I need to know they're alive!" Chris shouted.
"Goodbye, Chris." The voice said, and phone went dead.
"No, no! Hello? Hello? Oh, God, oh no, oh God."
His legs turned to jelly, and Chris fell to the carpet, and cried.
"What have I done?" he whispered to no one.
The house, often warm and inviting, suddenly became a tomb. The ticking clock on the wall seemed to stop and Chris found himself staring at the flashing red light on the handset. Seven messages awaited to be checked. He felt numb. Were his wife and child dead? Would a hostage negotiator have acted so stupidly, asking for proof of his family's well being? Would he have raised his voice to their abductor?
He knew he had to call the police, but his hands were shaking too much and his stomach lurched. He felt like he was going to be sick. In slow motion, he raised a finger to dial 911, and flinched when the phone rang again.
He sat up and pressed his back against the sofa.
"H-hello?"
"Chris? Honey, it's me! It's me! Can you hear me? Chris?"
"Daddeee!" his little girl cried.
"There you go," the man's voice returned, "now you know. They're both alive. For now."
"Emma," Chris choked.
"You have a beautiful family, Chris. Your little girl is very beautiful."
"You leave her alone! You hear me? Don't you touch her!" Chris shouted.
Silence greeted him again.
"Are you done?" the voice asked.
Chris didn't reply.
