they?'
'He made me choose between Allah and my family,' Habib said. 'I chose my family.'
Jack figured if you had a god who couldn't forgive you for that, it was time to reassess that relationship, maybe the whole god thing. But he offered a more circumspect response.
'Well, I doubt if Allah or any sane person would forgive you if you hadn't.'
'But don't you see? He made me do it at noon on Friday.'
'So?'
'That is when I should have been in my mosque, praying. It is one of the five duties. No follower of Islam would make a fellow Muslim do that. He is not a Muslim, I tell you. You need only listen to the recording to know that.'
'What recording?'
'I've been using my answering machine to record the monster's calls.'
'Great. We'll get to that in a minute. Okay, so he's not Muslim. What about enemies? Got any?'
'No. We lead a quiet life. I run the IT department at Saud Petrol. I have no enemies. Not many friends to speak of except Russ. Barbara and I keep very much to ourselves.'
If that was true-and Jack had learned the hard way over the years never to take what the customer said at face value-then Habib was indeed the victim of a psycho. And Jack hated dealing with psychos. They didn't follow the rules. They tended to have their own queer logic. Anything could happen. Anything.
'All right. Let's start at the beginning. When did you first realize something was wrong?'
'When I came home from work Thursday night and found our apartment empty. I checked the answering machine and heard a distorted voice telling me he had my wife and son and that they'd be fine if I did as I was told and didn't go to the police. And if I had any thought of going to the police in spite of what he'd said, I should look on the dresser in our bedroom. The photographs were there.' Habib rubbed a hand across his eyes. 'I sat up all night waiting for the phone to ring. He finally called me Friday morning.'
'You recorded that?'
'No. I didn't think about it till later. He would tell me nothing about Barbara and Robby except that they were alive and well and were hoping I wouldn't 'screw up' and not do as I was told.'
'Which was eating the pork?'
He nodded. 'I did as I was told, then hurried home and tried to vomit it up. He called and said I'd 'done good.' He said he'd call me again to tell me the next trick he was going to make me do. He said he was going to 'put me through the wringer but good.''
'And the next trick was…?'
'I was to steal a woman's pocketbook in broad daylight, knock her down, and run with it. And I was not to get caught. He said the photos I had were 'Before.' If I was caught, he would send me 'After.' '
'So you became a purse-snatcher for a day. A successful one, I gather.'
Habib lowered his head. 'I'm so ashamed… that poor woman.' His features hardened. 'And then he sent the other photo.'
'Yeah? Let's see it.'
Habib suddenly seemed flustered. 'It's-it's at my office.'
He was lying. Why?
'Bull. Let me see it.'
'No. I'd rather you didn't-'
'I need to know everything if I'm going to help you.' Jack thrust out his hand. 'Give.'
With obvious reluctance, Habib reached into his coat and passed across another still. Jack immediately understood his hesitance.
He saw the same blond woman from the first photo, only this time she was nude, tied spread-eagle on a mattress, her dark pubic triangle toward the camera, her eyes bright with tears of humiliation; an equally naked dark-haired boy crouched in terror next to her.
And I thought she was a natural blond was written across the bottom.
Jack's jaw began to ache from clenching. He handed back the photo.
'And what about yesterday?'
'He called in the morning and said Sunday was a day of rest. That all I'd have to do was go to Saint Patrick's and receive communion. He said he'd be watching.'
'And did you?'
'Of course. After that, I received no further word all day. I was going crazy. Then he called this morning and said I had to urinate-'take a piss,' in his words-in the street on Fifth Avenue at midafternoon.'
'Swell,' Jack said, shaking his head. 'Stop-and-go-traffic.'
'Correct. But I would do it all again if it would free Barbara and Robby.'
'You might have to do worse. In fact, I'm sure you're going to have to do worse. I think this guy's looking for your limit. He wants to see how far he can push you, wants to see how far you'll go.'
'But where will it end?'
'Maybe with you killing somebody.'
'Him? Gladly! I-'
'No. Somebody else. A stranger. Or worse-somebody you know.'
Habib blanched. 'No. Surely you can't be…' His voice trailed off.
'Why not? He's got you by the balls. That sort of power can make a well man sick and a sick man sicker.' He watched Habib's face, dismay tugging at his features as he stared at his desktop. 'What'll you do?'
A pause while Habib returned from somewhere far away. 'What?'
'When the time comes. When he says you've got to choose between the lives of your wife and son, and the life of someone else, what'll you do?'
Habib didn't flinch. 'Do the killing, of course.'
'And the next innocent victim? And the one after that, and the one after that? What if Russ is one? When do you say enough, no more, finis?'
Habib flinched. 'I… I don't know.'
Tough question. Jack wondered how he'd answer if Gia and Vicky were captives. How many innocent people would die before he stopped? What was the magic number? Jack hoped he never had to find out. The Son of Sam might end up looking like a piker.
'Let's hear what he sounds like.'
Maybe listening to this creep would help him get a read on him.
Habib slid a combo phone/answering machine across his desk and hit a button. The voice on the recording was electronically distorted. Two possible reasons for that. One: obviously to prevent voiceprint analysis. But he also could be worried that Habib would recognize him. Jack listened to the snarling southern accent. He couldn't tell through the electronic buzz if it was authentic or not, but no question about the sincerity of the raw hate snaking through the phone line. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the voice.
Something there… something off-key about this guy… a picture was forming…
7
'What is that?' Kewan said.
Hank smiled to himself. He'd asked the same question yesterday when he'd first seen the thing.
'It's a ray gun. We're going to try it out tonight.'
Kewan toyed with one of his dreadlocks as he stared at the three-foot oblong box with a parabolic reflector attached to one end and a wire coming from another. 'Don't look like no ray gun I ever seen.'
Pretty much overnight, Kewan Lyford had moved from nowhere in Kickerdom to one of Hank's most trusted men. Sort of the new Darryl. Except Kewan was black and in better health. Looked like he'd had a tough time with acne as a teen, but he had an infectious smile and an easy way with people. He got along with almost everyone. Hank needed someone like that to deal with the everyday Kickers.
