He glanced down at the caller ID. A number had formed in the LCD window. A 212 area code, just like all the previous calls. But the seven digits following were a new combination, unlike any of the others. And when Munir called it back, he was sure it would be a public phone. Just like all the rest.

"Are they all right? Let me speak to my wife."

Munir didn't know why he said that. He knew the caller couldn't drag Barbara and Robby to a pay phone.

"She can't come to the phone right now. She's, uh… all tied up at the moment."

Munir ground his teeth as the horse laugh brayed through the phone.

"Please. I must know if she is all right."

"You'll have to take my word for it, Mooo-neeer."

"She may be dead." Allah forbid! "You may have killed her and Robby already."

"Hey. Ain't I been sendin' you pichers? Don't you like my pretty pichers?"

"No!" Munir cried, fighting a wave of nausea… those pictures-those horrible, sickening photos. "They aren't enough. You could have taken all of them at once and then killed them."

The voice on the other end lowered to a sinister, nasty growl.

"You callin' me a liar, you lousy, greasy, two-bit Ay-rab? Don't you ever doubt a word I tell you. Don't even think about doubtin' me. Or I'll show you who's alive. I'll prove your white bitch and mongrel brat are alive by sending you a new piece of them every so often. A little bit of each, every day, by Express Mail, so it's nice and fresh. You keep on doubtin' me, Mooo-neeer, and pretty soon you'll get your wife and kid back, all of them. But you'll have to figure out which part goes where. Like the model kits say: Some assembly required."

Munir bit back a scream as the caller brayed again.

"No-no. Please don't hurt them anymore. I'll do anything you want. What do you want me to do?"

"There. That's more like it. I'll let your little faux pas pass this time. A lot more generous than you'd ever be-ain't that right, Mooo-neeer. And sure as shit more generous than your Ay-rab buddies were when they killed my sister on nine/eleven."