The Odds - Jeff Strand Page 0,11

all over.”

“So what’s the next game?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. For now, just enjoy this lovely day, and I’m sorry that your sandwich didn’t live up to your expectations.”

Rick got up and walked away.

Ethan had no appetite now, so he put the half-eaten dry ham sandwich back into the bag.

He should’ve known something like this would happen. He’d been so desperate to recoup his losses that he’d played what was obviously the kind of game where evil people would show up to threaten his family. And now he was in deeper shit than when he was wandering around the casino, completely lost.

He wished he didn’t believe that Rick would fulfill his threat if Ethan broke the rules.

He totally believed him. One hundred percent.

So there wasn’t a damn thing he could do right now but play along.

“Did you see your co-worker today?” Jenny asked, as she broke a handful of dry spaghetti in half and dropped it into the boiling water.

This was definitely a test. Playing dumb by asking “Which co-worker?” would be the absolute wrong answer. “Yeah,” he said. “I apologized again. I’m still pissed at him, though. When the auditors ask for paperwork, you give it to them. He had no excuse.”

Ethan gave her a kiss on the neck, then reached over and stirred the spaghetti sauce, hoping she didn’t suspect that he was lying his ass off. He was more of a “little white lies” husband—big lies like this were difficult for him.

Fifteen minutes later, Ethan had taken his first bite of garlic bread when his phone rang. The Caustin family had a very strict policy against using cell phones at the dinner table, so Ethan didn’t take it out of his pocket.

After the call went to voice mail, it rang again.

After that call went to voice mail, his phone vibrated to notify him that he had a text message.

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking his phone out of his pocket. “Somebody keeps calling.”

The text message was from Rick Oddsmaker: Answer your phone.

“It’s work,” he said, getting up. “I have to take this.”

Work calling him in the evening was completely unprecedented. He didn’t have the kind of job where he was on call 24/7. He walked out of the dining room and into the living room as his phone began to ring again. He answered.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ignore my calls ever again,” said Rick. “That’s now the third rule: have your cell phone on and with you at all times. Should be easy to follow in a world where most people might as well have their phones surgically grafted to their hands.”

“Sorry about that,” Ethan said, trying to keep his voice casual. “I just sat down to dinner.”

“I know. It smells delicious.”

Ethan’s grip on the phone tightened.

“I’m kidding,” said Rick. “I can’t smell the spaghetti.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“I’m offering you a chance to win a bottle of Dom Perignon. 1970. I don’t know much about champagne, but this goes for up to two thousand bucks, so it’s probably pretty good stuff.”

“Not interested.”

“Well, Ethan, the rules of the game are that you can skip any round you want, but I do recommend that you hear me out first. Are you willing to hear me out?”

“Sure.”

“There’s a small playground six blocks from your home. A slide, a merry-go-round, a swing set with one of the swings broken. Do you know the one I’m talking about?”

“Yes.”

“A couple of children are playing in the sandbox. I’ve calculated that you have a 75% chance of finding the three hypodermic needles that are buried in the sand before they do.”

Ethan walked into the hallway and spoke in a whisper. “You son of a bitch.”

“Think how much you’ll enjoy that bottle of vintage bubbly. Pop it open after you win or save it for a special occasion—the choice is yours. Are you going to play this round? You have as long as you want to decide, but your odds obviously get worse and worse the longer they dig around in the sand.”

“Yes, I’ll play.”

“Good luck to you.” Rick hung up.

Ethan hurried back into the dining room. “I’ve got an emergency at work,” he said. “I’ve gotta go.”

“What kind of emergency?” asked Jenny.

“Auditing emergency. I’ll explain everything when I get back.”

“Ethan—”

He ignored her and headed for the front door.

As he drove toward the playground, he kept telling himself that this had to be a prank. No way were there really hypodermic needles buried in the sandbox. The truth had to be that Rick had a very