The need to call her P.J. was no longer valid, my oldest daughter having the identical name of my wife Pamela had prompted the switch to initials but now that my wife was dead why not just call her Pamela, her given name? No, the name was still too painful in its entirety, P.J. seemed more appropriate in my own mind. I still held my wife's name in some revered place in the dark corners of my subconscious mind, a vault I had not found the key for yet. Someday, not now, I would explore and hopefully cleanse that part of me, my time at the monastery beneficial but not all encompassing in relief.

"Is that your oldest daughter?" Alex asked leaning forward.

I didn't trust myself to speak at the moment, I gave a silent nod in agreement and he shifted his gaze back at the screen. The room in the video was almost too elegant, like a set for a play or something, it just didn't seem right. Lush artificial palms lined a huge couch where my daughter sat primly, her knees together, her chin tucked in tight and her hands clenched in her lap. Lights shone with a soft glare highlighting her like a movie set and I now realized seeing it for the second time that was exactly what I was looking at, a professionally lighted soundstage.

"Hi Daddy..." the voice began and I listened to the words, dreading what was to follow but unable to take my eyes off the screen as she spoke slowly and carefully, like she was reading a script and, of course she was, now that I watched it again. The words were meaningless taken in their entirety but each sentence conveyed a deeper meaning mainly in the inflections she was using and her mannerisms. The flick of her eyes upward and to the right at one point as if trying to look at someone off camera, the nervous rise in pitch at another time, telltale signs.

"This is a script she's reading," Alex offered.

"Yes, I realize that now. It's a soundstage setting, look at the lights."

"Right and well done. I imagine we are about to witness more than just a prearranged speech?"

"Unfortunately, the scene shifts rapidly just about now," I said, flinching as P.J. let out a loud scream as a man in a black hood suddenly stepped on camera and grabbed her by the hair at the top of her head and jerked her head back, the pale white of her throat exposed as he produced a long scimitar popular with the Middle Eastern terrorists to decapitate prisoners in the name of Allah. The carefully done coif of hair now lay in long stands of light brown running down her face and partially covering the fear frozen features. I flashed back to how my breath had caught in my throat when this scene unfolded, reminding me of the brutal execution of my wife Pamela's only daughter on video, a scene that had haunted me time and again after both my daughters were taken in Spain.

The blade was against her throat as he yelled at her in Arabic but then his voice came out in cultured English reminding the listener he was probably educated in England.

"Now you see what happens to those who try and oppose the will of Allah, infidel scum. You think you and your country are so high and mighty but who is it that now cringes at the sight of their beautiful slut of a daughter as she is held by true believers? I have forbidden my men to soil themselves with her filthy body but unfortunately for both you and her all who follow my hand are not true believers."

He withdrew the blade from P.J.'s throat and let her head drop back down, deep sobs wracking her body as she fought for control. He grabbed her arm and twisted it harshly, a cry of pain escaping her lips as she was flung to one end of the big couch where two swarthy men stood waiting for her. Quickly they grabbed her by the arms and brought her upright to stand in front of the couch. She was wearing a business suit, nicely tailored and of a rose hue with matching jacket and silk looking white blouse. Her shoes were nice heels and she had on stockings. I had noticed at the offset her hair was nicely done, looking like a professional coif further evidencing a professional stylist and makeup person had been made available before the hooded guy had put all that asunder.

I glanced at Alex waiting for his reaction to what I knew was about to occur. The lower front of the rose colored suit now had a large wet stain on it, evidence P.J. had soiled herself apparently in fear the man was about to behead her, an implied threat he had apparently made to her before the cameras began to roll.

"Look the bitch has pissed herself," a big red faced clown said in French. He was laughing and pointing at her crotch as she blushed and cried in shame.

"Bleedin' right mate, done soiled her pretty little suit, she did," the second man replied in the King's English, his accent placing him probably from southern England

The men's hands were busy tearing at the buttons on her suit coat, the black orbs pinging off as they were ripped, the fabric tearing at the waistline where one small plastic button refused to tear loose. P.J. struggled but they had her clutched tight, a quick blow to the side of her head by the Frenchman's closed fist sending her reeling but still held fast. I heard Alex's breath whistle between his teeth in anger at that one.

I hit pause on the media player. "Anything jump out at you yet?" ......(cont)