[Veritas]

The next morning threatened rain from the Northwest; the skies over Las Vegas were charcoal grey with the occasional flash of lightning and the distant rumble of thunder. From his suite on top of the Luxor Hotel, Criss could see the approaching storm rolling in. No outdoor taping today, he thought, not with the weather the way it was. Criss had always prided himself on being in control of all his demonstrations, planning them to the smallest detail to insure his safety and its success, but the one thing he could never control was the weather; like everyone and everything on the planet Earth, he was at the mercy of the elements.

He turned away from the window, picked up his keycard, and left his suite to go to the production office. Since taping was cancelled for today, it would be a good time to catch up on the paperwork. Few people outside the MindFreak crew were aware of the white-collar end of showbusiness: the phone calls, the mail, the filing, the bookkeeping. It was tedious, but necessary, something he had learned from his youth working for Monster Music with his brothers.

Criss entered the quiet office. Again, he found his brother, JD, reading the morning Sun, his feet propped up on his desk. Criss went to fetch a cup of coffee. "Morning, JD," he said.

JD mumbled a good morning in return and went back to his reading. "Anything good in the news today?" Criss asked.

"Is there ever?" JD retorted. "Market's down to seven thousand, drought's gonna raise food prices, and--oh, wait, hold the phone!" JD sat up, grinning in amusement. "Here's something interesting. Some former gangster left his entire fortune to his caregiver--almost nine million dollars."

Criss shrugged. "So?"

"So, his son, his ex-wife, and his daughter by her got completely cut out of the deal--zip, zero, bupkus. Now they're gonna fight it out in court. And here's something else--the caregiver is a part-time employee here at the Luxor."

"Won't be for long," Criss said, sipping his coffee. "Not with nine million dollars."




Another dreary day at St. Benedict's Acadamy in Marvinville, Iowa. Alicia whiled away her study time composing poetry about Criss Angel, all but forgetting her reading assignment on The Dark Night of the Soul for Lit class due that afternoon.

Angel bright as day
Please show me the way
Out of this void...

But what rhymed with "void"? she wondered. Annoyed? Paranoid? Avoid? No, this wasn't working, she thought as she scribbled out the last line and tried again.

Angel bright as day
Please show me the way
Out of this eternal night...

Yes, that was much better, she thought. Now she needed a capper for the last line.

Out of this eternal night
Into your (blank) so bright.

Into his what so bright? His heart! Yeah, that was it! Perfect!

Angel bright as day
Please show me the way
Out of this eternal night
Into your heart so bright.

I fly like a dove
On the wings of Love,
Heavenward I fly
Up into the blue sky.

No, that last line broke the rhythm, she thought. Best to erase "blue".

Heavenward I fly
Up into the sky.

Yes, that worked much better, she thought, but suddenly Alicia came down with a bad case of writer's block; she simply didn't know what to write next. She looked up at the clock and almost panicked. Lit class was in five minutes and she hadn't even read word one of The Dark Night of the Soul. Maybe she could just skim over it, get the general idea of the plot or whatever. She put away her poetry and pulled out the book to speed read it, but St. John the Divine's esoteric masterpiece was too complex for her to understand in one go. Sighing in frustration, she closed the book. Maybe the teacher wouldn't call on her to explain it, she hoped against hope. Maybe Teresa, the school bookworm, would dominate the discussion like she always did; for once that would work in her favor.

The bell clanged loudly, signalling the end of the study period and the beginning of the next class. Suddenly, Alicia wanted to just drop everything and run out of that stifiling building that she had been attending for eight years and would be forced to attend for the next five--just run, run, run all the way to Las Vegas and into Criss' arms, run away from Marvinville, run away from the suffocating dreariness that was her life and start anew in the glitter and neon glow of Vegas, even if for Loyalapalooza in two weeks' time.

Loyalapalooza. The very word conjured up images of shimmering lights, laughter, and rapturous joy, with her beloved Criss in the center of it all, performing miracles with a wave of his hand. He would see her among the faces of the crowds, single her out, and make her his queen. If only she could go, if only, if only...

A tap on the shoulder brought her crashing back to grim reality. "Come on, dearie," Sister Roxanne, the plump nun in charge of the library said. "Stop your woolgathering and get to your next class. Hustle, hustle!"

Sadly, Alicia gathered her books, shoved them into her bookbag and trudged off to her Lit class. As she drifted with the flow of the students, her eye caught something new on a wall next to her classroom. She stopped to read it, if only out of desperate curiosity for anything new.

STUDENT RETREAT

[I]

The Manresa Monastery is hosting its annual Youth Retreat on March **, 20**, through March **, 20**.

[I]

There will be discussion groups, games, Bible study, and other activities. Cost: $65 for three days. Please contact Fr. Boyd for details.

Alicia sniffed in disdain. A three day weekend at a monastery, she thought. Big freakin' deal! If she had sixty-five dollars, she'd go to Loyalapalooza instead of wasting it at some boring monk-fest...

She looked at the poster again and discovered the dates for the retreat were the same days as Loyalapalooza. A plan began to formulate in her mind: if she could convince her mother to give her the money under the premise of going to the retreat, she could go to Loyalapalooza, come back Sunday night, and no one would be the wiser. It was crazy, she knew--crazy enough to work.

Her heart lighter than it had ever been, Alicia skipped into the classroom and took her assigned seat. It didn't matter if she hadn't read St. John the Divine's book anymore; she was going to Loyalapalooza!




Several hundred miles to the west, Michael, Jr., sat in his accustomed chair in the living room of his Las Vegas home, fuming over the latest turn of events. A steady desert rain came pelting down on the flagstone pavement, matching his mood. Yesterday, he had high hopes; today, his dreams were in smouldering ruins after having crashed and burned over the reading of Pop's will. He and his father didn't see eye-to-eye over a lot of things, like Michael, Jr.'s, lifestyle, granted, but he was the legitimate, legal heir to the estate. Why the hell did he have to turn on him like that? Why the hell did he leave all that money to his nurse? She got paid well enough, didn't she?

The reasonable part of his brain told him that maybe they could work out a settlement and avoid court altogether. He'd meet with Cassie or whatever the hell her name was and offer her a few thousand dollars and take the rest. She didn't seem like the gold-digging type, unlike Tina LaRue. Indeed, she was quite deferential, almost timid in a way; he could convince her to take less than three thousand, or even two if he was persuasive enough.

But what if she refused to budge? What if she got greedy all of a sudden and wanted it all? Anyone would, he thought. It was basic human nature to want more than the other guy; greed wasn't a vice, it was an instinct. Then what would he do?

But why deal with her at all? Pop and The Guys had ways of dealing with anyone who got in their way, directly or indirectly. If he could just eliminate the competition altogether, he'd have nothing to worry about. But how? That was the question. How could he quietly and discreetly get rid of that little nurse without it coming back to haunt him?

He'd have to make it look like an accident. Not in the Luxor where she was working now, of course, not with wall-to-wall security cameras; you couldn't go to the crapper without being under surveillance in a place like that. No, he'd have to find out where she lived, how she got to work, and other details. Once he found a weak spot, he'd go from there, and no one would be the wiser. Quick, easy and without witnesses--that was the way Pop and The Guys worked.

And while he was at it, maybe he could do something about Tina as well--kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Michael, Jr., laughed at the appropriateness of that tired metaphor. Kill two birds, feather your nest egg, then fly south of the border and bask in the sun. Free and easy, no shoes, no shirt, no worries. Michael, Jr., looked out at the rain pouring down. Let it rain all it wants, he thought. Tomorrow, he was going bird hunting.