[Smurf]

Grrrr why can't these people leave alone , Great chapter cant wait to read more

[Veritas]

Summer gave way to autumn, though in the arid climate of Nevada hardly anyone would have noticed. The only hint of summer's end would come in the form of that most anticipated yet most dreaded annual ritual--the first day of school. Store shelves which had once held colorful summer fun-in-the-sun stock such as flip-flops, sunglasses, giant beach towels, sunblock, pool toys and assorted varieties of sugary beverages, now carried somber reminders of the academic term to come: pencils, pens, notebooks, calculators, planners, lunchboxes and other accessories needed for classes. Bright pastel dresses, Bermuda shorts, tube tops, sandals, and beachwear were banished to the clearance aisles, replaced by dress slacks, longer skirts, knee socks, long-sleeved shirts and sensible shoes. Electronic stores upped the ante by pushing electronic tablets, iPods, SmartPhones and laptops as necessary items for academic success. The cash registers rang before the school bells did.

With the prearranged monthly support payments sent to Pastor Beaman by his parents, Cole didn't have to worry about being unprepared as far as supplies were concerned. It was the thought of starting high school in a new city that gave him butterflies; he was a stranger in a strange land, so to speak. He would be attending public school for the first time in his life--no more private academy for him. How different would it be? How would his new classmates treat him? What would they do if they found out he was on probation? Would they despise him? And what about the teachers? He wouldn't be wearing a uniform, but there was still a dress code; how did that work? Cole could not help being nervous, despite the pastor's and Mrs. Beaman's assurances to the contrary.

"You're gonna do just fine, honey," Mrs. Beaman told Cole as they shopped for school shoes at a discount outlet. "Just remember to be yourself, that's all. I know high schoolers can be cliquey and all, but if you don't put on airs or pretend to be someone you're not, people will like you more. To thine own self be true, and no one will play you false."

"Easy for you to say, Mrs. B.," Cole retorted. "You're not on probation for assault like me."

"No one has to know, honey," Mrs. B. said reassuringly. "It's none of their business, anyway." She pulled out a pair of black athletic shoes. "Now, these look comfy," she said. "They look like dress shoes, but they'll get you to classes faster." She laughed at her own little joke.

Cole tried them on. They were "comfy", as Mrs. B. said, and they didn't look too geeky like the dress shoes he used to wear at the acadamy: stiff, patent leather ones that pinched his growing feet, with slippery soles that had him skating up and down the polished wood corridors. He looked at the cart filled with his new school clothes--sports shirts, loose slacks (no jeans allowed), even (wonder of wonders!) a black bomber's jacket for cooler morning temps. True, it was a cheap knockoff, but it was better than those itchy blue blazers he used to wear, and he could finally attach all his CA appliques that he had been storing up for over a year now. As he walked with ease in his new footwear, he started to think that maybe the new school year wouldn't be so bad after all.





Meanwhile, thirty miles north of Las Vegas, Crystal Rathbone and her best friend, Hayley, were taking a more serious approach to back to school shopping, especially when it came to wardrobe. They were entering their junior year of high school, one year short of being seniors, and they were determined to make the best impression among their classmates. Having done their fashion homework more thoroughly than any assignment from classes past, they mapped out the best outlets for the "right" clothes to buy. Then, it was off to the mall.

Flipping through a rack of belted blouses--the latest trend--Crystal examined each one carefully for the best color to bring out her best features. She found an Asian kimono-style top with black and white calligraphy, and a sea-green one that reminded her of Kayala, a member of Criss' surreal Believe family.

Criss. Crystal stopped flipping blouses. Try as she might, she just couldn't forget that horrible day when he was wounded by that maniac Hiram Block. She wanted to remember as he was when she finally met him, although briefly--well and whole, shaking hands with everyone and smiling. But the more graphic image of his assassination attempt kept coming back like an annoying pop-up ad on the Internet, no matter how hard she tried to delete it from her memory. I wonder if it's the same for those who lived through Nine-Eleven, she thought. Probably more so, since it was a national tragedy.

Crystal knew a few of her classmates besides Hayley who were Loyals. Had they been there when it happened, or did they see it on the news? Did any of them take pictures? Crystal shrugged. Well, she'd have to wait and see. She went back to flipping blouses.

Hayley came rushing up to her. "Hey, Crys!" she called out, holding up some glam-camos. "Check out these awesome pants!"

"Cool," Crystal said, though she didn't care much for the military look herself. She rather envied Hayley in a way; she was one of those lucky girls who looked good in anything. Crystal had to be more discriminating; yellow made her look sallow, giant prints dwarfed her slender frame, vertical stripes reduced her to a soda straw, and too tight tops flattened her bosom, even with a bra on. She stuck with greens, earth tones and muted blues and greys, with a touch of red for contrast. She steered clear of anything black. It made her look too Gothic.

They made their purchases and headed for the food court for lunch. They carefully chose veggie wraps with low-fat dressing and flavored bottled water, foregoing any type of dessert--God forbid they should face their classmates with ravaged complexions. As they munched their sandwiches and sipped water, their purchases secured underneath the table, they chatted about the term to come.

"What's your schedule gonna be?" Hayley asked Crystal.

"I got it all planned out," she replied. "I set it up so that my first class is farthest from the hallway where my locker is, and work my way forward so that when I finish my last class, I'm, like, right out the door!"

"There you go!" Hayley cheered. "But just make sure you're not late for your first class, that's all."

"Relax, I'll be fine. What's yours?"

"Mine's more like in a circle. Well, more of a semi-circle, really." She outlined it with her finger. "First, I got Civics in A-Wing, then around to Math One, then all the way to Music, then Biology in B-wing, then double back for lunch, then back to B-Wing for English Lit, then a short run to Gym, then back to A-wing for Psych."

"You need a pair of Nikes for that kind of a trek," Crystal said half-jokingly.

Hayley laughed. "Tell me about it."

"Crystal? Hayley?" came a familiar voice from beside them.

The two girls looked up and brightened. "Danielle!" Hayley squealed. "Long time no see! How's it going?"

The three embraced. Danielle Pourdes was a classmate and fellow Loyal, and the most artistically talented student in school. Her fantastical drawings of surreal landscapes and mythical creatures as well as her sultry sketches of Criss Angel were in great demand for posters, banners and tattoos. She had even been commissioned to design the cover of the previous term's yearbook by the principal herself, with great success and rave reviews.

Danielle sat down with her friends. "So, how was your summer?" she asked.

"Well, it was pretty much the same old same old," Crystal answered drily. "Except..."

Danielle divined what she didn't want to say. "What happened to Criss Angel?" she finished for her. "I know. I saw it on the news. That bratty little brother of mine kept jeering about him being 'my boyfriend' when they were wheeling him to the ambulance. I was, like, 'Someone just shot him! He's, like, gonna die, you know?' And he was, like, 'Good! I hope he does!'. And I just, like, slapped his face so hard I almost spun his head around!"

"Geez!" Hayley sniffed. "What an insensitive brat!"

"So, Mom sent both of us to our rooms," Danielle continued. "Which was fine with me, because I was, like, too depressed to watch anymore. I got the details online. God! How could anyone do such a thing? Personally, I wish that kid who stabbed the (bleeper) who shot him had killed him right there! What's-His-Name...uhhh?"

"Cole Shoope," Hayley filled her in. "You know, we met him before the demonstration."

"You were at the demonstration?" Danielle cried incredulously.

"Yeah, right up front," Hayley replied. "We saw the whole thing."

She went on to relate her and Crystal's meeting with Cole at the McDonald's restaraunt, his passing himself off as sixteen when he was really three years younger, and treating them to sundaes.

"I wonder what happened to him?" Danielle mused aloud.

"I got it on Google," Crystal said. "He got off with two years' probation, and is staying with Pastor Beaman at Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless--you know, the one Criss held that auction for a few years ago to raise money for?"

"Well, at least he's not in jail for it," Danielle said. "But why is he with Pastor Beaman?"

"Can't say for sure," Crystal replied. "But I'm sure everything's gonna be okay for him from now on."

Her friends nodded. Danielle was struck with a thought. "Hey, if you witnessed it right up front as you said, wouldn't you have to testify at the trial?"

They hadn't thought of that. "I don't know for sure," Crystal replied thoughtfully. "But there were so many others there as well, and they got it on tape, so they can't get everyone to testify."

"Yeah," Hayley laughed, "if they did, it would go on longer than OJ Simpson's trial." She hesitated. "Say, when is the trial, anyway? Anybody know?"

Danielle and Crystal shook their heads. "Too early to tell, I guess," Crystal said.

Daniell clenched her fists, digging her sculpted nails into her palms. "I so want to be there when they put that (bleeper) on trial," she hissed. "I want to be there when those lawyers rake his butt over the coals!"

"Would he get the death penalty?" Hayley asked.

"If Criss had died, he would have," Danielle replied. "But he'll probably get life for attempted murder or something."

"I think they'll have to keep it secret," Crystal opined. "If the date of the trial became public, there's gonna be a lynch mob right outside the courthouse."

"I think they'll be there just to see Criss," Hayley said. "Either way, it's gonna get pretty crowded in that courthouse."





October arrived, and in two weeks, the gala premire of Believe would be presented to the world. Years of planning and preparation would culminate in one singular event, eagerly anticipated by Loyals everywhere. Those who had purchased their tickets months ago congratulated themselves on their prudence and excellent sense of timing, while the more desperate scoured the Internet and eBay for even a single ticket for any price. For female Loyals, it was the equivilent of being invited to Cinderella's Ball--those who were going anticipated dancing with the Prince, while those who couldn't languished by the window in self-pity.

One young Loyal who accepted his fate was riding to school on his dirt bike one early October morning. The few months he had stayed with Pastor Beaman had turned out to be the happiest in his life. Cole found helping the homeless to be surprisingly rewarding; in the past, he had been taught to stay away from "those people" by his parents, that they were diseased, that they should not receive handouts because that would only feed their addictions, whatever they were, and that they were mentally unstable, a danger to themselves and society in general. Only when Cole began to actually work with them, under the pastor's supervision did he realize that "those people" were not some sort of subspecies, but real human beings with real problems. After a month of serving meals, sorting through donated clothing, and wheeling the disabled residents, he began to break under the strain of having seen so much misery to the point where he cried in bed one night. The good pastor had gone into his room to comfort him.

"Don't let it get to you, Cole," he had said. "Just remember, even if you give someone a drink of cold water, you'll be doing more for them than anyone else. You've been a big help to us here, son. Just don't give in to the misery of it all. That's how these people got here in the first place. They gave into the misery of their existance instead of seeking help from God. That's why we're here."

Cole was moved, and not just by the pastor's words. His father had never spoken to him in such a gentle tone, nor had even offered a single word of comfort when he was troubled. It had always been buck up, get off the pity pot, there's no free lunch, deal with it, I'm too busy. He counseled everyone but his own son, it seemed to him.

He rode to school, his dirt bike buzzing like a saw. He was the only kid who rode one to school; that alone made quite an impression on his new classmates. His new school was better than he anticipated: it was more relaxed, more easygoing, not as regimented as the private acadamy had been. His teachers were not as straitlaced, nor the students so cliquish. Best of all, he found fellow Loyals by the score! No longer did he have to live in isolation, but could proclaim his Loyalty openly and without fear. That alone was gratifying.

Along the way he saw a large number of eighteen wheelers parked end-to-end in a field. A quick glance told him it was Criss Angel's production crew. Thrilled, he detoured and parked alongside one of the trucks. Criss' RV had to be here somewhere, he thought. He searched quickly and diligently. Turning a corner, he saw Criss himself, stretched out on a folding chair, a bottle of water in his hand.

Cole checked his watch. He had some time to spare before school. He tiptoed quietly towards Criss. Unfortunatly, it wasn't quietly enough, because Criss saw him coming and turned his head to face him. Cole froze.

"Hey, Cole," Criss greeted him, sitting up in his chair. "What's up, dude?"

"Hi, Criss," Cole managed to get out. "I was just on my way to school and I saw your trucks there, and so I just wanted to say hello." It sounded lame, he knew, but he was so awed to be seeing his idol again it was the best he could do at the moment.

"Pull up a chair," Criss told him. Cole found another folding chair and sat down. "So, how's life been for you? Pastor Beaman treating you okay?"

"Oh, yeah, it's been great," Cole eagerly replied. "I don't feel so alone like I did when I was home with Mom and Dad. I've been helping out at the shelter, going to school, stuff like that."

"How's school been so far?" Criss asked.

"Pretty good. It's not as stiff and formal like my old school. You would not believe how many Loyals go there! In my old school, I had to keep it under cover because it was so snobby and stuff, but now I can relax and be me." Cole smiled sheepishly. "They found out about me being the one who stabbed Hiram Block. There are some hardcore Loyals who said I should have killed him."

"And what did you tell them?"

"I said I was just happy you're still alive and all. I'll admit I was proud of having done it at first, but now I'm not."

"I'm glad to hear it," Criss told him.

"Anyway," Cole sighed ruefully, "since everyone thinks that I saved your life, they think I know you personally; they're hitting me up for favors--tickets for your show, pictures, autographs, stuff like that. While it's nice to be popular, it's kinda getting me down. I mean, how do you stand all the publicity you get?"

"Well, you just have to take it in stride," Criss shrugged. "Fame is fleeting, Cole. You've had your fifteen minutes of fame, and in time you'll be just another face in the crowd. Just hang in there, and don't let it go to your head. When your star fades, it won't hurt as much." Criss shifted in his seat. "So, you keeping out of trouble since you've been on probation?"

"Yeah." Cole stirred uneasily. "Well, I try, anyway."

Criss eyed Cole warily. "Okay, what happened?"

"Well, I was with some of these guys from school, and me and them went to the back of this topless bar. There weren't any windows, but the back door was open, so we sneaked in and saw some of the dancers on stage. It was, like, whoa!"

"Did you get caught?"

"Almost. We saw the manager coming and we ran like hell away from there. It was late in the evening when I should have been back home at the shelter, so I thought I could slip in without anyone seeing me. Well, Pastor B. saw me."

"Busted!"

"Busted is right. He was pretty cool about it at first; he let me explain what happened. He actually listened to me, something my dad never did."

"You tell him the truth?"

"I had to. If I lied, then I'd be violating my probation. I told him I got talked into going into that bar and seeing the dancers--I only saw them for a few seconds, I swear! And then I said I was sorry and I wouldn't do it again. And he believed me. He warned me about falling into old habits, or picking up bad ones from my friends, and reminded me that if I did get busted, I'd go to Juvie, and he cared enough about me not to see me go there. He did say he was glad I was so honest with him, though."

"Well, you gotta be careful, Cole," Criss told him sternly. "I don't want to see you go to Juvie, either. I had to take time off of my own schedule to come to your hearing, you know."

"I know," Cole said gratefully. "And I'll never forget it. Never."

"So, no more sneaking into topless bars, okay? Promise?"

"Cross my heart." Cole stood up and reached over to Criss to hug him. "You're still the greatest, Criss."

"And you're late for school," Criss told him. "You'd better get a move on."

Cole dashed away, waving at Criss behind his shoulder. " 'Bye, Criss! See ya!"





Brother Bob Talbot sat in his empty storefront church, seething in righteous anger. Since the Anti-Christ, that devil's minion, Criss Devil, showed up that one Sunday during the worship service, his ministry had crumbled. Half of his flock had defected to other churches, or stopped attending services altogether. One of the faithful few, Brother Hiram, was in jail. That backslider, Abigail Runyon, who no longer deserved to be called Sister, had betrayed him to the police, as Judas betrayed Christ to the Jews.

Oh, his tricks and deceits were many, that Devil! Two months ago, he had watched one of his television shows, where he actually walked on water! Like Jesus Himself did on the Sea of Galilee! It was blasphemy, pure blasphemy! He had almost ripped the set out of the wall and thrown it out the window when he saw it. That Devil actually mimicked Christ, right down to the beard on his face! It was too much!

The next week he had challenged God again by handcuffing himself to a building about to be demolished. Brother Bob prayed that the Lord would crush him underneath all that falling rubble. For a few hopeful moments, it looked as if his prayer had been answered! The Devil was destroyed! Praise the Lord! But his elation had been short lived, as Criss Devil reappeared, covered in concrete dust, but still alive. Was there no end to his diabolical miracles?

Brother Bob brooded over this. From what he saw in the papers, the Believe show was in two weeks. Big opening night, red carpet, the works. A grim determination came over him. Brother Hiram failed, he thought. Sister Abigail failed, too. But Brother Bob Talbot would not fail. He'd be waiting for Criss Devil as anxiously as his followers, but for a different reason. With God's help, that red carpet on opening night was going to get a lot redder.

[RACHEL02189]

here we go again

[Smurf]

Great chapters , these girls are getting annoying , can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

Senior Housekeeping Manager Lisa Genaldi sat at her desk, reading through the employment application of the woman sitting in front of her. She had been sent to the Luxor Human Resources department through the Clark County Works program, a subsection of Social Services dedicated to reducing unemployment either by finding jobs or providing training for the homeless, senior citizens or those who just had no luck finding work.

"All right, Abigail," Ms. Genaldi said, setting down the application. "I see you've done some private housekeeping for a 'Brother Bob Talbot'. Could you give me any details about that?"

"Yes'm," Abigail nodded. "Brother Bob's the minister of our church, see, but he din't have no wife, so I done all the housework for him. All the cleanin' an' the scrubbin'--I done it all."

"I see." Ms. Genaldi looked at the application again. "And you had worked for Holiday Inn for a while?"

"Yes'm. It was a very nice place to work. Not like a lot of these motels around here, all shabby lookin' and showing dirty movies on TV. Real nice and friendly like."

"And why did you leave the Holiday Inn?"

Abigail lowered her head. "Well, they wanted me to work on Sundays. Brother Bob tole me I'd be breaking God's commandments if I did, so I had to leave. Went to work for him instead."

"Do you still have any hesitations about working Sundays?" Ms. Genaldi asked. "We do have a flexible schedule here, and we do require some Sundays and holidays?"

"Not any more, ma'am," Abigail answered somberly.

"Good. We'll start you out part-time on a thirty-day trial basis. You'll be working with one of the senior housekeepers during that time. Then, you'll have your own list of rooms to clean. We do inspect our suites before anyone checks in, so make sure you follow the procedure to the letter."

"Yes'm." Abigail agreed. "I can clean, ma'am. I can clean real good."

"I'm sure you can, Abigail," Ms Genaldi said. "Uh, do you like to be called Abigail, or Abby, or what?"

"Abby's fine, ma'am. It's not as stiff as Abigail."

"Fine, Abby, I think we're all set. Report to Housekeeping on the main floor in the service corridor first thing Monday morning at seven AM. Pauline will brief you on cleaning procedures, and where your cart is."

Abby's face broke into the first big smile since she could remember. "Oh, thank'ee, ma'am!" she cried. "I promise to work real hard, no matter what day it is!"

"I'm sure you will, Abby." Ms. Genaldi stopped short, suddenly remembering something. "Oh, I almost forgot. In a couple of weeks, the new Criss Angel show will be opening here at the Luxor. We're practically overbooked, so we're going to be very busy, busier than we've ever been. So, brace yourself for an onslaught."

"Don't worry, Ms. Genaldi," Abby smiled reassuringly. "That's why you got me. I'm here to help in any way I can."

"There you go!" Ms. Genaldi chortled. "That's the spirit I like! Well, we'll see you Monday morning, okay?"

"Yes'm." Abby got up to leave. "I'll be here bright and early. And thank ye again, ma'am."

Ms. Genaldi sat down at her desk again. Abby left, feeling light as an angel. She got the job! Praise the Lord! she thought gleefully. For the first time in her miserable existance, she felt free. She felt alive! God had given her a new lease on life, it seemed, free of Brother Bob's overbearing manner and the prying eyes of her former churchgoers. Her eyes swept around the enormous atrium, the wonder and luxury of it all, with its marbled fountains and endless shops filled with things she had only seen in magazines but could never hope to buy. It was the closest thing to Heaven on this earth for the lonely, sad woman with the heavy dark circles under her pale blue eyes partially veiled under stringy mousy hair.

He gaze fell upon an enormous banner advertising Criss Angel's show, Believe. His dark, sultry gaze seemed sinister, almost devil like, frighting her. Small wonder Brother Bob didn't like him much. But she had met him in person, in the hotel police station. He didn't seem devil like then; he even stated that he had faith in God just like her. But there was so much about him that wasn't too, well, Christian. Real Christians didn't go around floating in the air, or making things appear out of thin air, or read people's minds. It just wasn't done.

Her mind returned to that last Sunday at Perfecting Church, when Criss Angel barged in and called Brother Bob out. It had been rude to say the least, yes, but there was no need to gang up on the poor man. Criss did put up a fight, though. He could have taken on any one of her boy cousins and won, and they were no lightweights, either. He was right about one thing, though: Brother Bob should not have told her to go out and shoot him, just because she saw him on the street. That was just plain wrong.

And he seemed so gentle when she returned all of his necklaces to him. Thank you, he had said, bless you. Nothing devilish there, and his necklaces were all crosses; the devil don't wear Christian crosses, unless they were upside down like the Satanists wore them, and these were right side up. She looked at the banner again. Maybe all that spooky looking stuff was just an act, she thought, like for Hallowe'en, all painted up ghosts and goblins made up to scare people. There was a lot of entertainments that were fakery--special effects, they call them. They just make you believe it's real magic, like the movies to which she had never gone but had caught previews on television.

She caught the time on the digital screen by the main desk. Land's sake! She'd been wool-gathering so long she almost missed her bus! She trotted out the door and headed for the bus station, still elated over her improved lot in life. For a gleeful moment she wished she had a hat so she could whirl around and toss her hat in the air like Mary Tyler Moore on TV. You're going to make it after aaaalllllll!




Costa stuck his head through the door of the Production office. "Hey, everybody," he called out cheerfully. "Any messages for me while I was gone?"

JD, Criss, Banachek, Gerard, and Baram stood up in delighed surprise. "Hey, Costa!" they cried happily, rushing over to greet him and peppering him with questions. "When did you get back? Why didn't you call us? How's Mom? Is she okay? They ever find the guy who broke into her house?"

Costa held up his hands for order. "Whoa! Waitaminute! Waitaminute! One at a time, please!" He picked up a stray bottle of water and settled down on one of the sofas. He drank deeply, wiped his mouth, and sighed, leaning his head back in exhaustion. I just had a long trip, okay? I'm pretty tired right now."

Criss sat across from him, leaning forward. "So, how's Mom?" he asked again.

"Mom's fine, okay?" Costa replied wearily. "We got the new security system installed all right: fire, break-in, carbon monoxide, and she's even got a special Medic Alert bracelet in case she falls or has a heart attack or something."

May God forbid, Criss thought, not a little horrified at the thought of anything bad happening to his beloved mother. One heart scare was one too many as far as he was concerned. "Well, that's good to know, Cos," he said.

"They ever find the thief?" JD asked.

"No, they're still looking for him," Costa answered, a hint of anger in his voice.

"They'll find him, I'm sure," Criss said, feigning optimism. "I mean, it's not like he's a serial killer or anything'; it's just a smash-and-grab, a bee-and-ee, you know."

"Yeah, but when it's your mom who's a victim..."

Baram spoke up. "Well, the important thing is, she's okay. And we're glad you're back, Costa. We got a lot of work to do here."

Costa wrenched himself from the couch, turning to Criss. "I heard that Block tried to take another shot at you, " he said casually.

"More like a knife attack," Criss corrected him.

"What happened to the kid that stabbed him?"

"Well, he got lucky and got probation; he's staying with Pastor Beaman at the shelter. He's doing all right."

"Oh, well, that's good." Costa shrugged.

"Now Felix is really turning it up a few notches as far as security is concerned," Criss informed him. "All the guards have metal detector wands, and the video's practically high-def. And no visitors backstage without a pass, not even family. And from now on, I'll be under constant surveillance, twenty-four-seven."

"Big Brother is watching you," Costa joked.

Criss sniffed, "Big Brother, yeah."

"Let's just hope that there won't be any more attacks on you, okay?"

Criss shook his head. "I don't think anyone's gonna take another pot shot at me any time soon," he said. "It's been pretty quiet around here."

"Yeah," Costa nodded. "Like they say in the movies, it's too quiet."

Criss playfully slapped Costa on the side of the head for his paranoia, laughing.




The preparations for the gala opening night of Believe were in full swing. There was to be a pre-opening cocktail buffet in the Grand Ballroom for the VIPs, then an afterglow party when the show was over. Felix Rappaport had spared no expense when it came to food, drink and decor: large surreal posters of the Cirque performers hung from slender wires along the walls, the tables were covered in boldly colored tablecloths, champaigne glasses stood stacked at one table like a crystal tower. He had even hired some struggling actors and actresses to dress up in the garish mode of the show and entertain the guests. The Luxor had poured one hundred million dollars into this show, and, by God, the audience (and the investors) were going to get their money's worth!

The Chief of Security, Lucas Macaffey, may not have had the expense account of the boss, but he was just as determined to make opening night a success, if for a different reason. It would be an all-hands-on-deck night, every square inch of the hotel under tight surveillance, inside and out. If anyone came in with so much as a sewing needle in his pocket, that (bleeper's) ass was grass. One near fatal shooting was one too many as far as Big Luke was concerned. "Eyes and ears open, lips zipped," he had ordered his security staff. "You're there to patrol, not to party, so keep it professional."

He sat at his desk, going over the roster for the next two weeks, when he heard a faint, meek little voice coming from above. Macaffey looked up. One of the housekeepers stood there, intimidated by his presence. Macaffey softened up a little to put her at ease, but there was something familiar about this woman that he just couldn't put his finger on. It was the eyes that did it, the dark circles under them--that was a clue. "What can I do for you?" he asked in a blunt and friendly manner.

"I-I need a security pass keycard for work," she stammered. "I just started today, and..."

Macaffey mechanically pulled out a keycard form. "Name?"

"Abigail Runyon," she squeaked.

Abigail Runyon. That name definatly rang a bell, Macaffey thought. He scribbled down Abigail Runyon's name, pulled out a keycard from a small file box, slapped a bar code on the back, and handed it to her. "Welcome aboard," he said genially.

"Thank'ee," Abby said, taking the card and dashing out the door. Macaffey paused. Abigail Runyon. The way she said "thank'ee" instead of thank you. The raccoon eyes. Of course! She was the woman who had been arrested carrying a gun into the hotel to kill Criss Angel! And now she was working here? It made no sense! True, she had surrendered on the spot and came quietly, and Criss did drop charges, but still!

He grabbed the phone and punched the extention for Housekeeping. "Is this the Manager?" he said sharply. "This is Security. Did you just hire a Abigail Runyon as a housekeeper?"

"Why, yes, we did," Ms. Genaldi replied, taken aback over the Chief of Security's rough demeanor. "We hired her last Thursday. Why?"

"Do you realize we picked up that same woman a few months ago for carrying a gun to kill Criss Angel?" Macaffey thundered.

Ms. Genaldi stiffened. "We are fully aware of what happened, Chief," she replied testily. "We have her record on file. All charges were dropped, and she is here on probation, like all our other new hires. I assure you, she has no intention to shoot anyone. She's perfectly harmless, I promise you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." She hung up.

Macaffey slammed down the phone. Here he was, busting his ass to ensure the safety of all concerned, and Housekeeping hires a would-be assassin! Perfectly harmless, she had said. Has no intention to shoot anyone, she had said. Well, he was going to make damned sure she didn't! He picked up the phone and redialed Housekeeping. This time, he got Ms. Genaldi's voicemail.

"This is Security." Macaffey barked into the phone. "Make sure that Abigail Runyon doesn't come in on opening night. I don't care how you do it, just keep her away from Angel, and everyone else that night! Got it?"

He hung up, satisfied for the moment, but knowing he'd have to be on full alert from now on. Complacency was death, as he well knew from having worked for fifteen years with the most dangerous criminals in the tightest supermax prison in Nevada. Nothing, no one, was going to escape the eye of Big Luke Macaffey--not on his watch.





Night fell. Cole was getting ready for bed when Mrs. B. knocked on his bedroom door for prayers. Cole rather enjoyed this simple bedtime ritual, though he never had any formal religious training; his family had been more of the Christmas-and-Easter type churchgoers. It was a chance to bond with the motherly Mrs. B., talk about things he could never get his own mother to listen to, and share a private moment with her. It gave him a sense of belonging, of being loved.

"You about ready, Cole?" she asked. She always waited until he was fully dressed for bed before coming in.

"I'm good," he replied.

Mrs. B. came in, smiling. Not the patronizing, condescending smile that his mother gave when he tried to communicate with her, but a warm one that told you everything was okay, there was nothing to worry about. A real mom smile. "All your homework done and everything?" she asked.

"All done," he said. Thank God it was all done, he thought. A full chapter of science, three pages of math, and an English essay had drained him. At least he didn't have to study Latin like he did in his old school. That had been a real pain in the you-know-where.

"Good." Mrs. B. sat down in the large chair in the corner of the room. Cole was sleeping in Verona's old room, a rather large one with a huge, cushy chair in the corner with an overhead lamp for reading. Cole never sat in it, preferring to do his reading lying on the bed; he reserved it as "Mrs. B.'s chair". He knelt down at her feet and laid his head on her knees, letting her stroke his stringy brown hair.

"Spoke to your probation officer today, hon," she said casually. "She says you doing just fine so far. You meet with her Wednesday after school, okay?"

Cole nodded. His probation officer was really a nice lady, not the stern police type he had envisioned before he was assigned to her. She was genuinely interested in his making good, and he tried not to disappoint her. Besides, he saw the photos of her own kids on the side of her desk. She was a mom, too. She understood that kids screw up sometimes--some more than others.

"You ready for prayers?" Mrs. B asked.

Cole sat up, folded his hands and closed his eyes, just as he had been taught. He was way past the now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep phase, preferring to wing it as he went along. Mrs. B. was pleased with that, even if Cole's prayers happened to include Criss Angel along the way. He had been frantic when Criss narrowly escaped being blown up in that hotel in Florida, and gave fervent thanks when he was spared. Criss was a wonderful man, she thought, but why did he have to do these things? His poor mother, she thought, what she must go through, having a son like that!

"Dear Lord," Cole prayed. "Thank You for the blessings of the day. Thanks for getting me through my homework tonight--especially math. I mean, three pages? Anyway, thank You for the second chance You gave me. Help me stay out of trouble so I can stay out of Juvie. Bless Pastor and Mrs. B. They've been like real parents to me."

Then, reluctantly, but knowing Mrs. B. expected it, "Bless my mom and dad back home. Keep them safe, and help them work out their differences. And bless Criss Angel, Lord. Keep him safe in all he does and all he's about to do. Please make sure that his new show is a great success. Keep the crazies away from him--You know, like Hiram Block? Watch over everyone on opening night, Lord, and I pray that everyone has a good time. In Jesus' Name, amen."

Mrs. B. smiled indulgently, kissing Cole on the forehead. "That's good, honey," she praised him. "Just fine. Good night, and see you in the morning."

Cole kissed her back. "Good night, Mom--I mean, Mrs. B." He blushed over his slip of the tongue. Mrs. B., however, understood.

"You miss your folks, don't you, honey?" she cooed.

Cole thought about it. "Well, to tell you the truth...not really," he confessed. "You and the Pastor have been more of a mom and dad to me than them. Mom never sat with me like you're doing right now; she just told me to go to bed and that was it. We only said grace on Thanksgiving, and Dad never even mentioned God, unless he had 'dammit' following after it."

"Well, you just keep praying for them. I'm sure they love you and miss you a whole bunch." She hugged Cole. "Now, you go on to bed. School tomorrow."

"Night, Mrs. B." Cole climbed into bed. Mrs. B. snapped off the light. As he lay in the darkness, he thought about how wrong she was. Cole hardly heard from his parents. The few phone calls he made led only to voicemail, with no returning calls. His letters, both paper and electronic, elicited no replies. Only the monthly support checks gave any hint of their acknowledging his existance. His thoughts fast forwarded to the future. When his probation was over, what then? Would they take him back home? Did he even want to go back home? If he did, would there be a home to go back to?

Cole pondered these thoughts as he lay in bed, his hands behind his head. He was happy here, happier than back in California. Maybe he should just forget his parents and live with the Beamans for the rest of his life. They actually cared about him, unlike his parents. Yeah, just cut his losses and make a whole new life here in Las Vegas. Here he was with people who loved him, and whom he loved in return: Pastor Beaman, Mrs. Beaman, and above all, Criss Angel.




And they worshipped the dragon which they gave power unto the Beast: and they worshipped the Beast, saying, "Who is like unto the Beast? Who is able to make war with him?"

Brother Bob Talbot had read Revelations since his tender years, but now it took on new meaning as he glanced up from his Bible to look at the full-page ad for Criss Angel's Believe show.

And I beheld another Beast coming up out of the earth; and he had two horns like a lamb, and he spake as a dragon.

And he exerciseth all the power of the first Beast before him, and causeth the earth and them which dwell therin to worship the first Beast, whose deadly wound was healed.

And he doeth great wonders, so that he maketh fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men.

And deceiveth them that dwell on the earth by the means of those miracles which he had power to do in the sight of the Beast; saying to them that dwell on the earth, that they should make an image to the Beast, which had the wound by a sword, and did live.

And he had power to give life unto the image of the Beast, that the image of the Beast should both speak, and cause that as many as would not worship the image of the Beast should be killed.

Hiram Block had wounded the Beast, Criss Devil, but his wound was healed. Soon, his blasphemies would be trumpeted all over the world. His image was all over Sin City for those who dwelled on the earth to worship. His coming had been foretold in the Word of God two thousand years ago, but no one paid any attention to it. Except for Robert Talbot, that is. He hadn't been fooled, not for one minute by the fraudulent miracles of the Beast.

Believe. A good word in itself, if directed to the Lord, but he noticed that the three letters in the word lie were in boldface. An admission of guilt if there ever was one. Well, the gloves were off! The Day of Judgement was at hand, and he, Robert Andrew Talbot, was going to send Criss Devil to his deserved damnation. He closed his Bible and set it carefully on the desk in his study, then picked up the newspaper with Criss' picture on it. A final glance, then he tore it into pieces, flinging them away in disgust. He went to the gun rack that he had made in wood shop in seventh grade and took down his Winchester rifle. It wasn't the fanciest gun he owned--it was designed for deer hunting--but it had a telescope and a good enough range to do the job from a distance. Once he had his vantage point, the rest would be easy. But there had to be some preparation beforehand.

Opening night. Oh, there'd be an opening night, all right, he thought, but not what anyone expected. He didn't have a ticket or a VIP pass, but he'd be there, just the same. With a single shot, he would usher in the opening night of Armageddon.

[Smurf]

What is with this guy , great chapter , can't to read more

[RACHEL02189]

How in god's name is he going to get a Winchester rifle into the Luxor.

[Veritas]

Criss stared at the calendar on his desk with anticipation and trepadition. Three days. Only three days until the premiere of Believe. Five years of planning, developing, negotiating, designing, rehersing, arranging, rearranging, sweating and worrying were behind him now. His magnum opus was ready to be revealed to the world. No longer would people think of Las Vegas magicians as cheesy hucksters doing card tricks in clubs. Believe would raise the bar even higher, creating a sense of wonder and magic in a cold technological world that had lost it. It would be the culmination of a dream, the accomplishment of a lifetime.

So why was he scared (bleep)less?

Okay, a few pre-opening night jitters was normal, he said to himself. He was only human after all. This was a huge undertaking for anyone. Opening night has always been a harrowing experience in the world of theater, and always would be. Once it was over, it would get easier. He had the metaphorical butterflies when he produced MindFreak on Broadway, and he came through it with flying colors. He just had to stay focused, just like he always did before each of his demonstration. He had practiced his illusions for the show with and without the Cirque cast until he could do it in his sleep. The show would be a success, he knew it would be.

Then why did he suddenly have this sense of impending doom?

Criss got on the phone and called the garage to bring up his new Harley-Davidson motorcycle. He had to get away for a while, clear his head, and he certainly couldn't do that in the goldfish bowl of the MindFreak production office. He needed to be alone with his thoughts. He pulled on his fashionably tattered denim jacket and headed out to the garage. A quiet, solitary ride through the Nevada desert would be just the ticket. The wide open spaces of the Southwest was his best if not his only refuge from the constant demands of his career. Out there, he could breathe freely, escaping the pressure and the stress of his chaotic life.

Escaping? Or running away from what frighened him? What did frighten him, anyway? He had no reason to be scared of anything. Oh, sure, he had survived two attempts on his life (he didn't count the one by Sister Abigail because she had been an unwilling pawn) but he bounced back, just like he always did. And didn't he go and see Hiram Block in the hospital? And didn't he show him pity and not resentment? And didn't he face that church which hated him so much in person? Hiram Block was back in jail. So what did he have to fear now?

Down in the garage, his new Harley stretched out before him like a Playboy centerfold, seducing him with its gleaming chrome and wicked black leather seat and saddlebags. He pulled on his helmet, mounted the bike, and gunned the starter with one kick of his booted heel. The motor roared to life like a dragon awakened, and Criss was off and running. The open road beckoned.

Desert to the left of him, desert to the right. Criss remembered how overwhelmed he felt when he first saw the Nevada desert landscape. There was so much space, miles and miles of it as far as he could see. To the younger Criss Angel, fresh from the brick and steel canyons of New York, it was like being on another planet. And the heat was so oppressive he feared he'd be crawling across the sand in tattered clothes, gasping for water, like in so many one-panel cartoons he had seen. Why would anyone want to live here? he had wondered at the time.

Well, now he was living here, and living well, thank you very much. The alien landscape in time became a haven for him from the other concrete jungle of Las Vegas. Out in the desert, one could see the stars up in the sky more clearly than in the light-polluted Entertainment Capital of the World. In the desert, there was a silence so rare it inspired reverence for God and nature.

He pulled over to the side and killed the motor, letting the growl give way to the desert's silence. The setting sun glowed red, orange and pink in the westen sky. An artist's dream, he thought as he lost himself in the colors of the sunset. Who had once said that it was like someone leaving the gates of Heaven ajar? Bruce Springsteen, he thought. Well, it was true. Criss felt that he could soar right up through them before they closed, or at least sneak a peek inside. He chuckled to himself as he wondered what his late father would say when he saw his son snooping around the Pearly Gates.

His father. The pain of ten years' separation tugged at his heartstrings. His father did not live to see his youngest son achieve international acclaim as the greatest magician since Houdini. He had been a struggling performer when John Sarantakos lost his three-year battle with stomach cancer. Every episode of his show was dedicated to his memory, although the credits rolled so fast on the screen hardly anyone noticed the dedication itself. He had honored his father by levitating over the apex of the Luxor. He had planted a tree in Mexico for him. Still, it did not lessen the pain.

Criss leaned back on the seat of his motorcycle, taking a deep cleansing breath. "Dad," he said to the fading sunset, "I wish you were here with me right now. I wish I could see your face again--not the pinched, sickly one when you died, but the strong healthy one of the past--the one that watched me do my tricks and smiled at me when I did good. When I came here, I was scared. I don't know why, but I was scared all of a sudden. I don't know if it was the show coming up, or having been shot at, or what, but I was. I mean, I bust my ass creating illusions and performing demonstrations for everyone to see, and someone tries to kill me. Now my new show is opening in three days. I should be proud and happy, but instead I'm actually frightened. Dad, when you were alive, I came to you for help when I had problems; I could always talk to you about anything, and you always made me feel better."

Criss felt an incredible calm settling over him. Was it his father's spirit reaching out beyond the sunset? Yes, he reasoned, it must be. For one fleeting moment, his father was beside him, comforting his son from the Other Side. He could not hear his father's voice, but he could sense his pride and joy over his youngest son's many accomplishments, and the assurance that his spirit would always be near him, counseling him, guiding him. Then the moment was gone, the gates of Heaven closed as the sunset faded away, leaving only grey twilight in the desert. Criss snapped back into reality, wiping the tears from his eyes.

He looked up at the fading remains of the day. "Thanks, Dad," he whispered. "I feel better now."

Then he started his motorcycle and rode back to Las Vegas.




Pastor Beaman sat in his favorite chair in the living room of the parsonage, reading the letter Cole had just given him. Cole, meanwhile, stood before him, his face expressionless. Mrs. Beaman sat on the sofa opposite her husband, her crocheting lying on her lap, a look of concern on her usually sunny face. "Rob?" she asked her husband, "what is it?"

The pastor stared at the letter. "Dear Cole," he read aloud,

This is to let you know that your mother and I are getting a divorce. We have settled our terms amicably, so there will be no need to go to court. We will be separating effective immediatly. I will be moving to a loft apartment downtown across from the office, while your mother will remain at the house. You will still receive your monthly stipened, care of Pastor Beaman. The only thing we need to settle is where you will be living when you complete the terms of your probation. Do you wish to live with your mother, or with your father? We need to know as soon as possible in order to complete the divorce proceedings. You may either respond in writing or call my office--you have my number. Don't take this too hard; it's all for the best. Dad.

"

"That's it?" Mrs. Beaman said incredulously. "No 'hello, how are you?', no apologies, no nothin'? He could have broken it to him a little more gently, you know." She picked up her crochet hook and began working furiously. "Man must've been a lawyer for so long he don't know how to write a decent letter to his own son. Read more like a court summons than anythin'."

Pastor Beaman looked up at Cole. "So, how do you feel about all this, son?"

Cole thought about it. "Well, it's a bit of a shock," he replied evenly, "but it's not really a surprise. I mean, they hardly ever spoke to each other at home. They hardly ever spoke to me, except when I got in trouble. I don't know what they did on all those vacations they took."

"You think you got in trouble so that your parents would pay attention to you?" the pastor asked Cole. "That's usually the case when kids feel neglected; they cause trouble, so their folks come running to rescue them. Bad attention is better than no attention at all for some kids."

"I got in trouble last time because I wanted to see Criss Angel," Cole argued. "And I stabbed Hiram Block to try to protect him."

The pastor pondered this. "Well, I'm no shrink," he said, "but I think your infatuation with Criss Angel is sort of a surrogate parent thing. You substituted Criss for your own father, it seems to me."

Cole was taken aback. "Whoa! That's deep, Pastor."

The pastor read the letter again. "Even so, there's still the matter of which of your folks you gonna live with."

Mrs. Beaman muttered something about the lesser of two evils. Her husband ignored her. "You don't have to decide right now, Cole," he said. "It can wait until morning at least."

Cole straightened to his full height before his guardian. "I don't want to live with either one of them, Pastor," he said firmly. "You and Mrs. B. here have been better parents than they ever were. You cared. Even when you were mad at me for sneaking into that topless bar, I knew you cared."

Mrs. B. stopped crocheting. "Topless bar?"

"I'll explain later, Mrs. B." Cole told her. "Anyway, living here with you has been the happiest in my life. For the first time, I feel like I belong somewhere. This has been a real home to me."

He knelt before the pastor. "Please let me keep staying here with you," he pleaded. "I'll get a job somewhere and pay for my own food! I'll do all the work in the shelter--for nothing! Just keep me here with you."

Cole lunged and wrapped his arms around his guardian. "Please, Pastor," he sniffled. "I'll be real good, and I won't cause any more trouble."

Pastor Beaman cradled Cole in his arms. "Now, Cole," he crooned. "You don't have to do any of those things you said. Of course you can stay here. I'll talk to your folks first thing in the AM. We'll work something out."

"Oh, thank you, Pastor!" For the first time, Cole kissed the Pastor on the face. The pastor released him and looked him in the eye.

"Now, I think you got some homework to do, young man," he said with mock sternness. "You'd better get to it."

"I will," Cole nodded happily, and he dashed off to his room. Mrs. Beaman eyed her husband warily.

"What's this about a topless bar?" she pressed.

With an embarrassed grin, he related Cole's little misadventure with his schoolmates. His wife simply sighed in chagrin, and continued with her crocheting in silence. Las Vegas was so full of temptations, she thought, it was no wonder they called it Sin City.




Abby Runyon had finished her shift for the day at the Luxor. She punched out and fetched her sweater from her locker in the housekeeper's closet, waving good-bye to her co-workers as she headed out the door. She followed a series of "landmarks" to find her way out; two weeks on the job, and she still couldn't find her way around. This place was bigger than her hometown of Littleton, Texas, she thought. At least she knew her way around there.

She took a wrong turn (again!) and found herself at the North Parking Garage of the hotel, where she saw the fanciest cars she'd ever seen. Who owned them? she wondered. Well, she wasn't going to go wool-gathering again, no sir! She had a bus to catch. She walked briskly to the exit, where one of the parking guys sat in a little booth. He looked nice enough, so she decided to wait with him until her bus arrived in the next ten or fifteen minutes. It was safer that way, even though the place was lit up like Christmas. She giggled to herself. All of Las Vegas was lit up like Christmas every day. She hated to think how much their electric bill was.

Abby approached the booth. "Hi," she said. "Can I wait here until my bus comes?"

"Sure can," the valet answered with a Southern twang. Abby wondered if he was Texan.

"I'm Abby," she said by way of introduction. "I just started her two weeks ago."

"Pleasure's all mine, Abby," said the valet jovially. "Name's Matt. Matt Behr. I hail from Benson, South Carolina."

So, he wasn't Texan, she thought, but he was definatlty Southern. "I'm from Texas," she told him. "Littleton, Texas. It's about forty miles east of Waco."

Matt seemed impressed. "That so?" he said. "We get a lot of folks from Texas workin' here. Mostly Mexicans, though."

"Oh." Abby searched for another topic of conversation. "How long you been here?"

" 'Bout five years or so," he answered with a shrug. "There's good money parking cars here."

"You ever park those fancy ones over there?" Abby pointed to the row of sports cars cordoned off from the rest of the lot.

"Oh, hell yeah!" he laughed. "Them's Criss Angel's cars."

Abby was flabbergasted. "All of them?"

"Yep, every single one. He takes 'em out every once in a while. He even uses them in his magic, like his Lamborghini over there."

"Where?" she asked, looking around. "I wouldn't know a Lam-bo-geenie if it run me over!"

"It's the low-looking black one, right there," he pointed out. "Anyway, he took it out on the highway in the desert, and he drove it hell bent for leather, then his crew sprayed it with fire extinguishers when he came up close, and poof! Gone, just like that! It was on TV--didn't you see it?"

Abby lowered her head. "No, the church I used to go to forbid it, because Brother Bob said he was the Anti-Christ."

Matt threw his head back and laughed. "Now where in the Sam Hill did he get a fool notion like that?" he asked loudly.

"Well, that's what he said," she replied meekly. "He even...well, he..."

"What?"

Abby drew a deep breath and told Matt about being ordered to kill Criss last summer, against her will. "I gave up to the police," she told him in her defense, "and Criss dropped the charges, and now they let me work here." She looked nervously at Matt. "You don't think I'm a killer, do you?"

Matt pondered Abby's story, then shook his head. "I don't think you're a killer, Abby," he said. "I am surprised you got a job here, though, especially with Big Luke in charge."

"Big Luke?"

"Big Luke Macaffey," Matt explained. "He's chief of security here, and a real hardass. Used to be a prison guard in the supermax in Central Nevada. If you wanna get along with him, stay the hell out of his way."

"I think I met him, when I got my pass" Abby told him. "Big man, burrcut."

Matt nodded. "That's him all right."

"He called Ms. Genaldi and told her not to let me work on opening night of Criss' show," she told him.

"Well, he's still (bleeped) off about the last time, when that old man shot Criss. Damn near broke his neck bringing him down."

"Brother Hiram?"

"You know him?"

"He used to go to the church I used to go. He and Brother Bob were two of a kind; they both hated Criss Angel, thinking him he was the devil and all. I don't know who I was scared of most--Brother Bob and Brother Hiram, or Criss Angel."

"Lemme tell you about Criss Angel, here," Matt said, stepping down from his booth. "First of all, Criss ain't the devil or the Anti-Christ, or nothin' like that. He's really a regular guy. A guy who can magic his way up and down and everywhere in between, but still a regular guy. Now, you'd think he'd be puttin' on airs because he's famous and all, but he's done a great deal of charity work, especially for kids. Always goin' off to see some sick kid because it's their last wish or somethin'. And he's always raisin' money for charity, too. Hell, he sold two of his cars over there to raise money for the homeless. And he's real good to his maw, you know? Always buyin' her presents and takin' her out and all. And his maw's a real nice lady--you'd like her. Real sweet and kind and all. Hell, his fans, the Loyals he calls them, they done took her to heart as well. Mama Angel they call her. Fittin' name if there ever was one, you know? Why, when she took sick with a heart ailment, Criss dropped everything and flew home to be with her in the hospital. He did!"

Abby stood in wonder as she heard this side of Criss Angel that she never knew. Charity work? Sick kids? Raising money for the homeless? Good to his mother? From what Matt told her, he lived up more to the Angel side of his name than the Devil one Brother Bob had pinned on him. And to think he ordered her to kill him! Well, not only did she fail, praise God, but Criss had shown Christian charity to her by forgiving her and dropping the charges. The thought moved her to tears.

Dear Jesus, she prayed silently, forgive me my sin of trying to kill Criss Angel, because he's really an angel after all. I know that Brother Bob wanted me to kill him, but I should have said no. I was weak and backsliding. Thank You for sending those police officers to arrest me, because if it weren't for them, Criss would be dead, and I'd be in prison, maybe been executed.

Matt saw her crying. "You okay, Abby?" he asked.

Abby wiped her face. "I'm fine," she said. "It's just that I should have said no to Brother Bob when he ordered me to kill Criss."

"Say, why did he tell you to do that in the first place?" Matt asked.

"Well, someone caught me watching him do magic, and so I was told to kill him to redeem my soul."

Matt gave a long, low whistle. "Honey, you'd better find yourself another church to go to," he told her. "That Brother Bob is a pack of poison for sure!"

"No, I don't go there anymore," she said.

"Good."

Abby checked her watch. "Land's sake!" she exclaimed, "I gotta catch my bus! Well, nice talking to you, Matt!"

"Same here, Abby." He waved good bye as she ran off to catch the bus pulling up to the stop. Matt returned to his booth. He thought about what Abby told him, about her church and that nut case Brother Bob--and to think that other nut case, Hiram Block, went to the same church as she did! Coincidence? No way. More of a conspiracy was more like it, he thought. Well, Block was in jail, so he was no problem, and the charges against Abby were dropped; besides, she looked like she couldn't hurt a fly.

But what about that Brother Bob? Where was he? If he had ordered Abby to kill Criss because he believed he was the Anti-Christ, what was to stop him from ordering another killing? Or doing it himself? Who the hell was this Brother Bob, anyway? What did he look like? Where did he live? And just how crazy was he? Would he give killing Criss another shot?

The premiere was just around the corner. Would he, or one of his hitmen, be there? If he had a picture of this Brother Bob character, then he'd be able to spot him right off. He made a mental note to ask Abby for one--she must have one somewhere, he figured. Yeah, he thought, good idea. Get a picture of him, and pass it around to the rest of the staff. He was sure that Big Luke would appreciate it as well. Assuming, of course, Brother Bob dared to show his face. One thing was for sure: He was double damned if he was going to let another Hiram Block-type go near Criss Angel.

[RACHEL02189]

I think Matt should do that. BTW I sense a love connection between Abby and Matt

[Smurf]

^ i sense that too ^ . great chapters i hope the premiere goes off with out any drama cant wait to read more