[Veritas]

The MindFreak crew gathered around Criss, congratulating him on his successful demonstration. Criss smiled and high-fived his crew despite his near exhaustion. Everything had gone exactly as planned, just like clockwork. He could not remember the last time he had heard such enthusiastic cheering. The crowd practically screamed when he emerged from his motorcycle disappearing act. If security had not been as diligent as it had been, there would have been a stampede into the valley. As for Criss himself, he was glad he made it out in one piece this time. There had been no pipe bombs, no attacks, no trouble of any kind. He had finally driven the ghost of the Vegas Bomber out of his psyche for good and always. What lingering fear had remained had been overcome. He was fully healed.

To the multitude of Loyals outside, it was more than a MindFreak demonstration, it was a triumph over death itself. The horror they had witnessed barely four months ago was all but forgotten. Criss' triumphant return after so much personal and professional tragedy was like experiencing a resurrection from the dead. Criss would rule forever! they believed. He was the MindFreak! He was invincible! He was immortal!

Meanwhile, the invincible, immortal Criss Angel sat in the RV, his head slumped to his knees, breathing hard and perspiring heavily. The rush of adrenalin was receding, leaving him drained of all energy. George, his cousin, handed him a bottle of spring water. Criss accepted it with a grateful nod, sipping carefully. He knew from experience that chugging cold water after heavy exertion led to severe cramping of the stomach muscles. He savored each sip, letting the water douse his thrist like a flame.

"You gonna be okay?" George asked.

Criss nodded, still taking his time with the water.

"You'd better be okay," George chided him good-naturedly. "After all, you're one of my groomsmen, right?"

Criss smiled. He had been honored to be asked to be George's best man at his wedding. After all, George had explained to him, he was the one who bought Angie and him together in the first place. However, that honor had been rescinded by his Aunt Molina and the Church due to his divorce. A compromise had been struck by allowing him to be a groomsman; JD would serve as best man, instead. Bowing to pressure, Criss acquiesd. Still, it was a pleasure to be a member of George's wedding party, in whatever capacity he served.

Through his exhaustion, Criss felt a glow of pride, a sense of accomplishment, and not from the successful completion of the demonstration. He had bought two lonely people together, they had fallen in love and were getting married. That, in his mind, was true magic.

He was bought up short by a thought. "Hey, when is Mom coming in?"

"She said she'd be here a couple of days before the wedding," JD informed him. "Then she's gotta leave right after."

"What's the deal?" Criss was puzzled. "Didn't she want to stay a little longer?"

"She says she's gotta go back to the foster home and the kids. It was all she could do to get time off for the wedding."

Criss thought about that. He was proud of his mother taking on such a challenge of caring for these poor kids, but he was also worried that she was spreading herself too thin. Costa said she spent her own money on them because the welfare office sent only sixteen hundred a month for all of them. She was working herself to a frazzle, cooking, cleaning, sewing, and caring for fourteen kids, each with special needs of their own. She already had one heart scare, and at her age the stress would do her in.

Criss vowed to make absolutely sure his mother got the rest she needed while she was here in Vegas. No work, no worries, just pure relaxation. She would have a good time at the wedding. He'd make sure of that.




The sisters from the convent arrived just as Dimitra was giving her final instructions to the children. "Now, I want all of you to be on your best behavior while I am gone," she told them firmly. "Mind the sisters, do your schoolwork and your chores as you were assigned, and keep your regular bedtime. I'll be back in a few days. If you are good, I'll bring you all a treat. Understand?"

The children nodded assent. There was a knock at the door. Dimitra went to answer it. Two middle aged women in grey veils and simple grey dresses stood on the stoop.

"Come in, sisters!" Dimitra welcomed them warmly. "All right, everyone, this is Sister Eleanor and Sister Dorothy. They will be your caregivers while I am gone."

"Hello, children," Sister Eleanor smiled at them. The children merely stared at the strangely dressed women before them. They had never seen nuns before, and wern't sure what to make of them.

"Well, I'm off now," Dimitra said, picking up her suitcase. "I'm sure everything will be all right."

"Don't worry about a thing, dear," Sister Dorothy assured her. "We will make sure these children will be properly cared for. You go and enjoy yourself at the wedding."

"Thank you, Sister." Dimitra made for the front door, but felt herself being anchored down by a howling Kira clinging to her leg.

"NOOOOOOOO!" Kira wailed, clutching Dimitra for dear life. "NOOOOOOOOO!"

Dimitra set down her luggage and pried Kira from her leg. "Now, Kira," she spoke firmly to the hysterical child. "You stop that crying this instant! I'll only be gone for a short while. If you are a good girl, I'll bring you a treat. All right?"

Kira flung her little arms around Dimitra's neck. "Kira, I can't take you with me," Dimitra said. "Now, be a good girl and let go."

Heather stepped forward and relieved her of Kira. The tiny girl wailed piteously, stretching out her tiny arms to Dimitra.

"Maaaaamaaaaaaaaa!" Kira cried. "Maaaaamaaaaaa!"

"Just go," Sister Dorothy told Dimitra. "We'll handle Kira and the rest."

Dimitra was all but pushed out the door by the nuns. She felt guilty as she rode away in the cab to the airport. It was like being a new mother all over again. When JD was born, she could not bear to leave him behind, even with a relative to watch him. She had been so full of anxiety and guilt, it was a wonder she had any type of social life at all. When Costa and Christopher arrived, the anxiety was there, but less of it as she became more experienced. Now, as she sat in the back of the cab, she felt the same way with Kira. She was not even her own child, but the guilt feeling of abandonment was the same.




Artie Creed walked into the manager's office after his show was completed for the day. He had received a message marked "urgent!!" and to see Morty Bernhard ASAP. What the hell did Morty want now? Artie thought irritably.

Morty Bernhard, the station's manager, sat at his desk with a grim expression on his face. "Sit down, Artie," he ordered.

Artie sat down in one of the vinyl chairs across from Morty's desk, aloof and unconcerned. "Okay, Morty, what's the deal?"

Morty held up a sheaf of papers aloft, then threw them down in front of Artie. "This is the deal," he replied. "These are complaints from listeners about your show, Artie. Your last crack about Criss Angel really set people off."

"Hey, you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen," Artie shrugged. "It's not my fault the guy's thin-skinned."

Morty picked up a page from the desk. "Yesterday morning, you said, and I quote, 'When is Criss Angel going to get his mommy's you-know-what out of his mouth and become a man instead of an overgrown mama's boy?' " Morty flung the page away. "Do you know how many angry calls we got over that one? We lost our account with the Luxor because of it! You're costing us money, Creed! I should fire you right now."

"You do that," Creed countered, "and I'll sue you for the remainder of my contract! I'm the only deejay keeping this podunk station on the air! Without me, KLOL would be under in a minute!"

"You got a lot of chutzpah, Creed." Morty growled. "Just keep in mind, I pay your salary. I'm giving you one more chance to clean up your act, against my better judgement, I'll admit. Just play the music on the list and keep your opinions to yourself from now on, and maybe you'll keep your job. But," Morty leaned forward, glaring at Artie straight in his bespectacled face. "Screw up one more time, if I get one more complaint like this about you, you are out on your ass! And I'll have the FCC revoke your license! You got that?"

Artie stormed out of the manager's office in a rage, slamming the door behind him. Morty woudn't have the wontons to fire him, he knew. He was the one who gave KLOL its personality. So what if a few empty-headed Criss Angel fans got their panties in a twist over what he said! He saw Criss for what he was--a fraud and a show-off who still ran to his mommy to change his diaper. No one--not Morty, not the FCC, not the so-called Loyals, no one!--told Artie Creed what to do or say on the air! He had the power of the airwaves, and the backing of the First Amendment to do as he pleased.

[RACHEL02189]

'When is Criss Angel going to get his mommy's you-know-what out of his mouth and become a man instead of an overgrown mama's boy?'

If that was a real can we say lawsuit for demantion of character

[Veritas]

I think you mean "defamation". And a lawsuit would only make things worse.

[Veritas]

"Good morning, Mrs. D." Matt Behr, the parking attendant, drawled with his characteristic Southern charm. "Good to see you back again."

"Thank you," Dimitra replied. Two other attendants pulled out her suitcase and set it on the trolley. The automatic doors slid noiselessly open for her as she entered the atrium. It amazed her to see the Luxor so perfectly restored. She clearly remembered the damage from the car bomb four months ago--shattered glass, charred plants, total chaos. But she resolved to put all that behind her. Her nephew was getting married and she would allow no bad memories to spoil the occasion.

She checked into her room and settled down for a nap. Strange that no one was in the atrium to greet her. Christopher was always there whenever she arrived in Las Vegas. Today there was no sign of him. Oh, well, he was probably busy with other things, like his show. He would turn up eventually. As she lay on the bed, she was startled by some movement beside her. The bed had been perfectly flat when she first entered, but now there was a huge lump forming under the coverlet. She pulled it away, revealing her famous son.

"Hi, Mom!" Criss smiled mischieviously.

"Oh, you...!" She reached out to embrace him, and he to her. Dimitra loved her son dearly, no question about it, but there were times when he could be so exasperating, she wanted to throttle him. Jumping off the roof of the house when he was a boy, setting the brand new carpeting on fire while she and her husband were in Greece, his menagerie of pets, his death-defying demonstrations--it was not easy being the mother of a magician, especially one as extraordinarily talented and insanly daring as her Christopher.

"How was the trip?" Criss asked, rising from the bed.

"Fine," she replied. "But I am so tired, I need a nap."

"Sure," Criss smiled understandingly. "You get some rest. Those foster kids must have really worn you out."

His mother nodded, kicking off her shoes and lying down on the king-sized bed. "They need so much, yet there is so little I can do." she sighed.

Criss sat beside her, lowering his face towards hers. "You've done more for those kids than anyone else." he said. "You knocked yourself out for them. You're the best mom any kid could wish for." He gave her a kiss on the forehead. "Now, you get some rest. I don't want you falling asleep during the wedding."

Dimitra laughed a little. "Good night, darling. I love you." She gave him a final hug.

Criss hugged her back. "I love you more," he said.

Dimitra drifted off to sleep as Criss exited the room, carefully closing the door behind him. Poor Mom, she's really exhausted. All those kids! he thought. At least Aunt Stella and Aunt Popi were there to help. Costa, too. No way could she have done it alone.


Criss made his way to the MindFreak office, to meet up with his brothers. Costa had arrived a week earlier from New York to help out with the demonstration. Criss was thankful his brother had gone home to be with Mom during that difficult period of recovery from the kidnapping trauma. Thanks to him, their mother had made tremendous progress in overcoming her PSTD.

When he stepped into the office, however, he found both brothers in front of a computer monitor, looking angry at something.

"Hey, guys," he greeted them cautiously. "What's going on?"

"You heard Artie Creed lately?" JD looked up from the monitor. "He's really hitting below the belt this time!"

"Artie Creed can go to Hell!" Criss said dismissivly. "Everyone knows what a dipwad he is!"

"Yeah? Well, this time he's dissing Mom!" JD turned on the monitor.

Mom?! Criss stared at the monitor with the KLOL website on it. He didn't catch the whole broadcast, but the words "...needs to get his mommy's (thing) out of his mouth and become a man," incensed him. He had put up with Artie's ragging for years now, ignoring it, brushing it off, even laughing about how it boosted his ratings. But now Creed had crossed a line. No one, but no one, dissed his mother! For the first time, he wanted to kick Artie Creed's ass.

He planted himself into a desk chair, fuming. "When was this made?" he demanded.

"Yesterday morning," Costa answered. "It's all over the Internet. In fact, I got word from Felix that he's withdrawn advertising from the station in protest."

Criss smiled. Good old Felix Rappaport! The CEO of the Luxor Hotel and Casino had risen to his star client's defense by striking them where they lived, in the pocketbook. No where else on this Earth did money speak louder than in Las Vegas. Still, Criss felt a need for some personal payback, for his mother's sake.

He logged onto the 'Net himself on the nearest terminal. He was going to find Artie Creed and tell him just exactly what he thought of his broadcast, and he was going to do it in person. If he called the station, he'd be cut off, and any e-mail would be deleted. No, this was going to be person-to-person, one-on-one, mano-a-mano. He found the information he was looking for, printed it out, and snatched the sheet of paper from the printer.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm going to pay a little visit to a certain radio personality."




Brenda Creed struggled through a particularly difficult piece. Lots of sixteenth-notes, virtually no rests in between. She focused all her attention on the score in front of her, not noticing that Artie had just entered the room.

Artie was ticked off big time. He'd just been chewed out by his boss and now there was Brenda, sawing away on that stupid violin! Like she cared at all about him! Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle! That was all she did anymore! No cooking, no cleaning, nothing!

He seized the instrument by the fret out of Brenda's hands and smashed it aganst the brick hearth, splintering it into pieces.

"Artieeeee!" Brenda shrieked at him. "You stupid idiot! What have you done?!"

Brenda collapsed to the floor, sobbing over her lost instument. "I hate you!!" she screamed through her tears. "I had that violin ever since I was a kid!"

"It's time to grow up, Brenda." Artie sneered. "And put away childish things. Look at it this way--you and I can make beautiful music together in the bedroom, like a wife should do for her husband."

Brenda ran sobbing into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Artie could still hear her loud wails from the hallway. "It's just a freaking violin, for chrissake!" Artie protested, pounding on the door. He tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge. She must have wedged a chair under the knob. "Fine!" he shouted. "Be a crybaby if you want! I'm out of here!"

Artie stormed out of the house and sped off in his car. He knew where he could find a real woman to tend to his needs.

No sooner did Artie leave than Criss arrived at the Creed residence. He strode up to the front door as angrily as Artie had left it.

"Open up, Creed!" Criss hammered on the door and rang the bell at the same time. "I know you're in there!"

Brenda recovered from her rage and grief long enough to look out the window to see who was at the door. She was surprised to see Criss Angel, of all people, standing there. She pulled herself together and went to answer the door.

Criss almost lunged through the entrance in his fury, but was stopped short of the sight of a rather attractive woman in the way.

"Where's Creed?" he demanded. "I want to talk to him."

"You're the only one who does," she replied bitterly, "because I'm not speaking to him! He just left."

"Who are you, anyway?" Criss inquired.

"I'm his wife, Brenda." she admitted almost ashamedly.

Artie has a wife?! Criss was incredulous. Geez, the poor girl! He could tell she had been crying. That shouldn't be a surprise, considering.

"Would you like to come in?" Brenda opened the door wider.

Criss stepped inside, thanking her. He looked around the spacious living room. The decor was tasteful but expensive, a sort of if-you-got-it-flaunt-it kind of style. He did notice the overturned music stand, and the ruins of a violin by the hearth. "Whose is that" he asked.

"Mine," Brenda replied, choking back tears. "It was my only pleasure in life to play, and today...Artie smashed it!"

Pity welled up in Criss' heart. It was bad enough to be married to that jerk, but to destroy her greatest pleasure was downright criminal. To have one's dreams crushed was unbearable to him. He put a comforting arm around Brenda.

Brenda was startled. For the first time in the five years she had been married to Artie, she felt a tender, caring touch. Her husband had used her as a verbal punching bag, a sounding board for his latest insults. Now, here was a man who actually cared about her, cared enough to comfort her in her grief. His touch was, to use such a hackneyed phrase, magical.

Impulsively, she threw her arms around him. She wanted more and more of that magical feeling of tenderness. She was starved for affection, no matter who it was. Five years of her life was wasted on Artie and his needs. She gave up a promising career in the Symphony for that ungrateful wretch! And all she had to show for it was a violin as shattered as her dreams.

Criss did his best to console her. He wondered how this beautiful, talented woman could marry such a worthless so-and-so like Artie Creed. She deserved better. He stroked her hair, caressed her shoulders, even kissed her neck. Artie wasn't worthy of this woman.

They disengaged and sat down on the sofa. Brenda launched into her story of their meeting, their courtship, her sacrificing of her chance to play for the Seattle Symphony to marry him, and her misery following it. Criss told her of the crack Artie had made about his mother, and how she already had suffered so much in the past.

Brenda sighed. It was so like Artie to go for the jugular like that. He was always getting on Criss' case for some reason or another. She had no idea why. The man sitting before her was nothing like Artie said. He was no mama's boy, no egotisitcal showoff, no fraud. Indeed, she could sense his feelings were genuine.

"I'm sorry about that," she said. "Artie can be so...so..."

"Asinine?" Criss prompted. "You don't need to apologize, Brenda. He does."

"He won't," she sighed, "He never does. He's the kind of man who'd rather be right than sorry."

"You know when he'll be home?"

"I don't know," Brenda shrugged, "and personally, I don't care! He can go to Hell as far as I'm concerned."

"You thinking about leaving him?"

"I've thought about it for a long time now," she confessed. "But I have nowhere to go." She looked up at him. "You're a magician, right?"

"Well, yeah, it's in my job description," Criss replied with a smile.

"Then, make me disappear!" she pleaded. "Send me back in time when Artie proposed so I can say no, and go on to play for the Symphony, no matter what my mother said. Then, I'll be happy again. Transport me by magic to some place far away so I can reclaim my life. Take me with you! Please, Criss, take me with you!"

She clung to him in desperation. Attractive as she was to him, he still had reservatons about having an affair with another man's wife, even if it was Artie Creed's. His strict religious upbringing prohibited it. But then, he'd done a lot of things that his strict religious upbringing prohibited anyway. And she was pretty hot.

He gazed into Brenda's big sky-blue eyes. It was as if he could dive into them like pristine pools of water. Artie did not deserve this treasure of a woman, he thought. She had given up her own dreams for that dipwad. Well, we all make bad choices in life, he reflected. God knew he made a lot of them himself, too numerous to mention. Maybe he could help salvage hers.

Brenda, in turn, lost herself in Criss' eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes which, she recalled, had been nearly destroyed by that maniac who blew up the Luxor and the Magic Castle. To see them, and for them to see her, was proof that there really was a God. She wanted him like she wanted no other man in her life. To hell with Artie! She wanted Criss.





The wedding was beautiful. Dimitra watched, misty-eyed as her sons walked down the aisle in their black tuxedos with the bridesmaids, JD escorting the maid of honor, Costa and Christopher as groomsmen with the bridesmaids. Angela was a vision of lovliness in her Vera Wang gown, escorted by one of the senior teachers from the school where she taught, her father having died long ago. She could see George beaming with pride at the sight of his bride approaching. Dimitra recalled her first meeting with Angela: she had seemed so plain, so thin when she first met her nephew's intended. Now she was a princess, a very princess, walking up the nave of the church to meet her prince.

Molina could not stop blubbering throughout the service. She went through nearly an entire packet of tissues, and ruined her makeup in the bargain. As the priest gave the couple his final blessing, Molina broke down completely. It was usually the mother of the bride who was traditionally the most tearful. but Molina was entitled to a few tears as mother of the groom.

The reception was as lavish as Las Vegas could make it. The wedding cake itself nearly reached the ceiling. The dinner, five courses in all, was so sumptuous Dimitra despaired fitting into her clothes ever again. And, of course, Christopher could not resist doing a little magic on the side. It was George and Angela's wedding, but Christopher always had to be the center of attention.

It had been a fairy-tale ending to a year of tragedy. The horrors of the past were just that--past. For the first time in months, Dimitra could relax and enjoy herself. It was a pity she could not stay longer, but she had a responsibility to the foster children back at the home.

Criss watched curiously as his mother packed away a dozen pieces of boxed wedding cake. "Mom," he asked, "what're you doing?"

"I'm taking some cake home for the children at the foster home," she answered simply. "I told them if they behaved, I would bring them a treat."

Well, that made sense. Criss just hoped she'd be able to get all that cake through airport security. There were rules about transporting food on commercial airlines. It was nice of her, though, to bring those kids something special, even if it was leftover wedding cake. It just went to prove what a wonderful woman his mother was.




Artie Creed came home in the wee hours of the morning, mellowed out from his "date" with a couple of Vegas hookers. He had just enough time to grab a few hours sleep, shower, and head to the station for the morning show. He may have stirred up a few hornet's nests in his time, but he had never been late. He owed his listeners that much, at least.

The house was pitch black when he pulled up in the driveway; not even the porch light was on. He stumbled to the front door, and noticed a white rectangle taped to it. He pulled it off and saw his name on it, in what looked like Brenda's handwriting. He fumbled for his housekey and went into the house. Switching on the light, he unfolded the note and read the contents:

Dear Artie: I don't know why I am calling you "dear", because there is nothing endearing about you. I wasted five years of my life, sacrificing my hopes and dreams for you, you ungrateful a**hole! You trashed them like you trashed my violin, my only pleasure in life. When you talked me into marrying you, you said no one could love me more than you. If you call your abuse of me "love", then I don't want it. I deserve better.

I am filing for divorce and going back to Seattle to reclaim my life. If you want to contact me, you can call my lawyer. Her number is at the bottom. I do have talent, Artie. I have more talent than you will ever have.

Good-bye and go to Hell!

Brenda

Artie crumpled the note and threw it on the floor. Ungrateful b***h! he thought. He strode to the mini-bar and poured himself a strong one. After all I did for her! I gave her a nice home, nice clothes, great sex, and the b***h dumps me! He downed his drink in one manly gulp. Where'd she be without me? Ah, who needs her anyway?

Deep down inside, Artie knew he did.





It was Dimitra's first day back at the home from her Vegas trip. She walked up to the front door of Mr. Webber's house, clutching the plastic bag full of boxed wedding cake for the children. She hoped they had minded the sisters and kept a reasonable degree of order.

Well, the house was still standing, she joked to herself. It was the same quip her husband used when they left the boys alone for an evening. Well, the house is still standing, I guess they went to bed! She could not help but recall the time Christopher had set the new carpet on fire while they were in Greece. It was a wonder he didn't burn the house down! She devoutly hoped there were no similar catastrophes in the home.

Buck was looking out the window when he saw Dimitra coming. "She's here!" he announced. "Mrs. S. is back!"

He ran to tell the others the good news. They all ran downstairs to greet her, remembering her promise for a treat. It was all the nuns could do to restore order. "All right! Settle down!" Sister Dorothy commanded them, clapping her hands for attention. I know your are happy to see Mrs. Sarantakos again, but there is no need to act like a bunch of wild animals."

Dimitra entered the large foyer to a tumultuous welcome. She was almost smothered by all the hugs and kisses. Not even the Loyals, Criss' fans, showed such devotion to her. Not even her own sons, for that matter.

"All right, everyone!" she gasped. "Let an old lady get her breath! Dear me! You think I'd been gone for years!"

Most of them backed off, allowing her to go over to the nuns. "How was everything?" she asked.

"Well," Sister Eleanor began hesitantly. "We had a little trouble at first, but then things started to go a bit more smoothly."

"We received a call from Islamic Social Services," Sister Dorothy informed her, "regarding one of the children."

"Ah, yes," Dimitra suddenly remembered. "I had spoken to a couple who offered to call them to help find a family for Tanvi."

"They said they'd be here tomorrow." Sister Dorothy said, though she seemed less than enthusiastic than Dimitra was.

"That is wonderful! I'll make sure Tanvi is ready for them." Dimitra smiled.

"But, Dimitra, why an Islamic organization?" Sister Dorothy inquired suspiciously.

"Because Tanvi was raised in a Muslim home, and she speaks Arabic. She belongs with her own kind."

"But, wouldn't Tanvi be better off in a more...Christian environment?" Sister Eleanor spoke up.

"Sisters," Dimitra replied patiently. "We all want what is best for these children. And I do not want to rob Tanvi of her heritage. No, Sister, Tanvi would be worse off if she was denied the right to learn the religion of her family. The Musavis were very generous to offer to help her. If leaving foster care to live with a real family means being raised Muslim, then so be it. Tanvi is very fortuante to receive this assistance. I just wish the others would be so lucky as well. Now, is there anything else I should be aware of?"

"Well, the baby is sick." Sister Dorothy told her.

"Sick!" Dimitra was alarmed. "How badly?"

"She was running a temperature, so we took her to the doctor." Sister Dorothy replied. "She had developed some sort of infection, so she is in the children's hospital."

A wave of guilt swept over Dimitra. "Now, dear," Sister Eleanor consoled her. "Don't blame yourself. No one saw this coming. It happened yesterday. We took care of it. Everything's under control. I'm sure it's minor. Children come down with all sorts of diseases. She's in our prayers."

"Thank you, Sisters," Dimitra said. "Still, I can't help but feel a bit guilty about leaving for Las Vegas and--"

"Don't," Sister Dorothy ordered her. "As Sister Eleanor said, no one saw this coming. These things happen. She's in God's hands now. We'll pray for you and these children."

They bid her good-bye and left. Dimitra sighed. Poor little Mia. She suffered so much in her very short life, and now this. She hoped it was minor, as Sister Eleanor said.

She felt a tug on her jacket. "Did you bring us a treat like you said?" Buck asked. "We were good."

Dimitra smiled. "Yes, I bought you all a treat. You shall have it after dinner. Now, everyone, let's see how well you did while I was gone."

[Veritas]

Brenda sat in the airport terminal, waiting for her flight back to Seattle. Her thoughts kept turning back to Criss Angel, and her conversation with him at home. Correction: Artie's home. It was no longer hers. Home was Seattle, Washington, where her family was.

She remembered how she felt when Criss was near her. He made her feel so alive within, stirring desires that had lain dormant since her marriage to Artie deteriorated. If she had married Criss instead of that jerk Artie, it would have been paradise.

Or would it? Criss was always in demand in Las Vegas. He had thousands of female fans who would have sold their souls to be where she was at that moment. He probably wouldn't have time for her. As much as she loved him, it still meant not living her own life. She never knew what it was like to be truly independent. She never earned her own income, or had her own home. She had dreamed of playing in a symphony orchestra, but that was dashed by her mistake with Artie. She needed to find out what she wanted in life, on her own.

"You really have to go back to Seattle?" Criss had asked her before she left.

"Yes," Brenda replied as confidently as she could. "I need to reclaim my life. I need to sort out my own priorities, and be my own person. I'm through sacrificing my dreams for someone else's. I need to practice solo before I play a duet."

Criss laughed a little at the metaphor. "Okay, I understand." He gave her a kiss on her neck. "I've always said if you have a dream, and your actions speak louder than words, your dreams will come true. My dad taught me that."

"Your dad sounds like a wonderful man," Brenda said. "I'd like to meet him sometime."

Criss sighed mournfully. "My dad died almost ten years ago."

"Oh, I am so sorry," Brenda said. "I didn't know."

"It's okay," Criss replied. "Good luck in realizing your dreams," he smiled back. They embraced each other for one final time. She wanted to make love to him, but realized it was not to be. He had his life, and she needed to find hers.



Dimitra spent the better part of the morning sifting through Mr.Webber's paperwork, trying to find information about Tanvi for the ISS worker. Mr. Webber was away at work. The number of files were staggering. It was like moving a mountain with her bare hands. Medical records, school records, his personal business records, tax forms, vouchers she had used to purchase necessities, all had to be sorted out. Didn't this man ever think of using a filing cabinet? she thought.

She located the social service records of all the children here and there in the piles of folders and papers; she assembled them in one stack to be read later. Vouchers went into another stack, the check stubs from the monthly stipends went into yet another. Little by little, order was emerging from chaos. Mr. Webber would be so pleased, or at least relieved. She still wondered how he ever got any work done with his desk buried in all that paper.

The children's records were sorted and filed, the vouchers were stored in file boxes; she left his personal records for him to handle, not wanting to pry into his business. Now she picked up the stipend check stubs to file away. As she tapped them on the top of the desk to settle them neatly, her eye caught the amount of one of the checks printed on the stub. She looked closer, her eyes widening in surprise.

She had been struggling with sixteen hundred dollars a month, but the check stub stated three times that amount, forty-eight hundred dollars in fact. What happened to the remaining thirty-two hundred? she wondered. This wasn't right. She pulled out the ledger Mr. Webber used to keep track of the children's expenses and scanned the columns. She had done enough bookeeping for her husband's cafe' to decipher credits and debits. She took up the voucher box and sifted through them, trying to match the figures. They had been recorded meticulously, of course, but only added up to sixteen hundred dollars. No mention of the remainder was given. Where was the rest of the money?

Dimitra sat back, her anger rising within her. It dawned on her that Mr. Webber was extorting that money, stealing it from the children. And they were suffering for it--Baby Mia was in serious condition in the hospital with some sort of infection, fighting for her tiny life, and this man, this monster, was robbing her of badly needed medical care. She recalled the filthy conditions she first found this house in. She remembered the shabby clothes the children had on. The image of Mia's big, dark eyes staring incomprehensivly at her floated before her. She had spent a near fortune of her own money, and that of her son, Christopher's, bless him, to save these poor children, while that greedy Mr. Webber robbed the state, the county and his charges for his own selfish ends.

Outraged, Dimitra picked up the phone, and called the Child Welfare department of Social Services to report her discovery. The ISS, thankfully, would soon be here to rescue Tanvi. At least one child would be saved from this hellhole.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Dimitra rushed to answer it. It was the worker from the Islamic Social Services, a middle-aged woman in a white hijab. And not a moment too soon, Dimitra thought. She welcomed the case worker, Mrs. Hassan, into the house, and excused herself to fetch Tanvi. Meanwhile, the other twelve foster children crouched behind the railing on the second floor, wondering who this new stranger was. Was she another nun?

Tanvi came down the stairs, pretty as a picture in a white dress (washed and ironed by Dimitra for the occasion), and her jet black hair tied up in two pink ribbons that had been saved from the wedding cake boxes Dimitra bought with her. It had amused her to see the girls more interested in the ribbons than the cake they had bound. She had carefully ironed them flat, and gave two to each girl, the boys openly disdaining the "girly" pink ribbons, preferring to devour the cake instead. Boys would be boys, she well knew, having raised three of them herself.

Tanvi looked up at Mrs. Hassan. "Mama?" she said.

It seemed to Dimitra that Tanvi associated any woman in Muslim dress with her mother. She probably remembered her mother's veil better than her face. Poor child, she thought. At least she had some memory of her mama.

"No, Tanvi, I'm Mrs. Hassan. Here is your Mama and Papa." She guided the little girl to a couple Dimitra did not see before. The couple, a younger looking woman in a dark blue hijab and chador, and a tall, dark man in a more stylish goatee with a Muslim cap on his head looked down at Tanvi. The woman squatted down to Tanvi's level.

"Mama?" Tanvi said again.

The young woman burst into tears. "Yes, darling. I am your Mama." She eagerly embraced her.

Dimitra could not help being moved. She wiped her eyes and turned to Mrs. Hassan. "Thank you so much for your help."

"Thank you for finding Tanvi," Mrs. Hassan replied. "The Abbas have two sons and wished for a third child, but God had willed they have no more births. We told them about Tanvi, and they chose to adopt her."

Mr. Abbas picked up Tanvi in his arms. He spoke a few words of Arabic, which she seemed to understand by wrapping her little arms around his neck.

Mrs. Abbas stepped forward to Dimitra. "Thank you for finding us a daughter," she said, choking back tears of joy. "Truly, this is the hand of God at work, for He has fulfilled our desires and Tanvi's. Inshallah!"

Dimitra did not know what that word meant, but she was happy that Tanvi had a family of her own now. Mrs. Abbas was right. This was the hand of God at work.

"Well, we must be leaving," Mrs. Hassan said. "Again, we thank you, Mrs. Sarantakos."

"Yes," Mr. Abbas said. "We thank you for everything."

"You are most welcome," Dimitra replied. She came over to Tanvi, still in Mr. Abbas' arms. "Good bye, darling. Be a good girl, now." She kissed Tanvi, and gave her a final hug.

" 'Bye!" Tanvi said, waving. She looked up at her foster brothers and sisters on the second floor, and waved good bye to them.

" 'Bye, Tanvi!" they shouted from above. "G' bye!"

Tanvi left with her new parents, smiles all around. Dimitra sighed heavily. There had been at least one happy ending to all this. But there was still the matter of the missing stipend money. She resolved to speak to Mr. Webber about it as soon as possible. And it was not going to be a very pleasant talk either.

[RACHEL02189]

WHAT AN TO ROB FROM THESE KIDS!

[Veritas]

Criss was so preoccupied with the new Cirque show, the taping of the new season of MindFreak, he hardly thought of his mother back in New York. Not that he forgot about her completely. She was his rock, his anchor. It was she who molded him into the man he was today. But she was busy with the foster kids in her care, and he had his career. He would find time to talk to her, if she could get a free moment from all those kids. Maybe he could send her an e-mail.

Costa had joked that she took the foster care job so she would have something else to worry about besides him. While it grieved Criss to cause his dear mother so much worry when he did his demonstrations, it was the life he chose, his destiny to fulfill. He was Criss Angel, the MindFreak, the master illusionist and escape artist. He was the heir to the legacy of Houdini. He was the best in the world. Yet the image of his poor, frail mother standing behind security barricades, tissue in hand, wiping away tears as he risked his life over and over again, needled his conscience. He loved her dearly, honored her as the Bible commanded, would have laid down his life for her. When she had been kidnapped by the Vegas Bomber, it was as if his heart had been ripped out of his chest. He would have torn up the entire state of Nevada to find her. Her safe return was like recovering a part of himself. She was his greatest treasure, more valuable than gold, more precious than rubies.

The minute he got a break, he called her up on his cell phone. All he got was voicemail. Disappointed, he left her a message of love and devotion. He also asked if she needed any money for the kids. They needed her more than Criss or his brothers did. Dimitra's sons were grown men now. These foster kids were still too young to fend for themselves and needed all the help they could get, and Criss would be there to help in any way he could.
Meanwhile, he had more pressing business to attend.

Criss found the number to KLOL through the Internet directory and called the station. A sugary female voice answered, "Hello, KLOL, this is Heather, may I help you?"

In a firm but polite tone of voice, Criss replied, "Hello, this is Criss Angel. Put me through to Artie Creed, will you, please?"

There was a brief pause, followed by a hasty, "One moment, please." Staticky music played while Criss waited paitently, then a clicking noise while the call was being transferred.

"Hello, you're on the air!"

"Hey, Artie, this is Criss Angel."

Artie Creed was surprised. He had made Criss Angel a target for his criticism in the past, but this was the first time he had ever responded. This was going to be a treat! "Hey, Criss! How's it going?" Artie greeted him cheerily as he poised for the kill.

"Everything was going just fine, until you made that crack about my mother," Criss retorted. "You've dissed me a lot in the past, but you just boosted my ratings. I can ignore anything you say about me--I've heard worse. But then you go dissing my mom. You crossed a line, Artie. You really went too far this time."

"Oh, yeah," Artie challenged. "And just what are you going to do about it, mama's boy? I told the truth about you--"

"Truth?!" Criss snapped. "You wouldn't know the truth if it fell from the sky, sat on your face and wiggled!"

"Oooooooohhh!" Artie gasped. "Playing blue here, aren't we, mama's boy?"

"Listen, Creed," Criss threatened. "You go dissing my mother, or any other member of my family, and I swear to Almighty God, I will make you disappear--permanantly! It's no wonder your wife dumped you! You're the biggest slimeball on the radio! She was too good for you! She deserved better!" He hung up before Artie could respond.

Artie was stunned. How the hell did Criss know about Brenda? Unless Brenda had been sleeping around with him. That had to be it! That goddammed Criss! They'd been having an affair behind his back all this time! Well, payback is a b***h, Artie thought nastily. He'd find a way to bring this Angel down to earth, and show the world what a fraud and a cheat he really was.




Raul Alvarez was sitting on a sawhorse, splicing electrical wire, the dusty portable radio tuned to KLOL. He had been half-listening to Artie Creed, waiting for him to start playing some music. Frustrated and bored with Creed's yakking, he reached over to change the station when he heard the voice of Criss Angel on the radio. He turned up the volume to hear better over the construction noise.

"Oh, yeah, and what are you going to do about it, mama's boy? I told the truth about you..."

"Truth?! You wouldn't know the truth if it fell from the sky, sat on your face, and wiggled!"

"Whoa! Good one, Criss!" Raul cheered.

"Listen, Creed! If you go dissing my mother, or any other member of my family, I swear to Almighty God I will make you disappear--permanantly! It's no wonder your wife dumped your ass! You're the biggest slimeball on the radio! She was too good for you! She deserved better!"

Raul was astonished. He didn't know Artie had a wife, let alone that she dumped him. But, man! Did Criss kick Artie Creed's ass or what? It was time that loudmouthed son of a b***h was taken down a peg or two. The Latino community practically boycotted KLOL for Artie's remarks about them when he stated on the air that all they were good for was the grunge jobs no white person would deign to perform. Yet for all their protests, petitions and phone calls to the station, Artie Creed remained on the air. Not a single person of Mexican or South American descent would be caught dead listening to KLOL. But none stood up to him like Criss Angel--none challenged his authority, if what he had could be called "authority". And Criss was a bigger celebrity than Creed. There wasn't a thing Creed could do about it. Not a damned thing!




Dimitra waved the sheaf of check stubs in Mr. Webber's face. "You lied to me!" she accused him. "The state sent three times more money than you said they did! Where is the rest of it? What have you done with the rest of that money?"

"I...I don't know what you are talking about," Mr. Webber stammered, sweating more profusely than usual.

"I am talking about thirty two thousand dollars missing from the stipend checks!" she stormed. "I am talking about depriving these poor children the means to have basic care! I am talking about theft!"

"Are you insinuating that I have been misappropriating funds?" Mr. Webber countered.

"I am not 'insinuating' anything! I am certain you have been stealing money from the state!" Dimitra said angrily.

"And how are you going to prove that?" Mr. Webber returned the charge.

"I have already reported you to Social Services. I have proof enough of the neglect of these children and your theft!" Dimitra threw down the stubs. "They will revoke your license and send these children to proper homes! And, God willing, you will go to jail!"

She stormed out of the house, completely livid. To think she had spent a fortune of her own money, and borrowed from Christopher as well, only to find out that Mr. Webber was an embezzeler! How could she have been so blind? How could he have been so heartless? Could things get any worse than this?

[Smurf]

loving the story , those poor kids , cant wait to read more

[Veritas]

"Now, Mrs. Sarantakos," Mr. Carlyle, director of the County Social Services Child Welfare division, said as he opened the files of the foster children in Mr. Webber's custody, "You claim that Mr. Harold Webber has been misappropriating funds from the monthly stipends allocated to the fourteen foster children currently residing with him, is that true?"

"Yes, it is." Dimitra nodded. "He gave me only sixteen hundred dollars when those checks were for three times that much."

"It says here you spent nealy two thousand dollars above that amount." Mr. Carlyle pointed at the figures in the ledger. "If he had misappropriated thirty-two thousand dollars, where did the extra money come from?"

"From me," she replied. "and from my son, Christopher."

"I see." Mr. Carlyle read through the ledger. "Do you have any records of your expenditures?"

"Right here." Dimitra handed him an envelope full of cancelled personal checks, credit card statements, and receipts. Mr. Carlyle opened the envelope and compared its contents with the figures in the ledger as Dimitra waited patiently.

The director rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "From what I see here," he said finally, "these are grounds for an investigation. We'll have to contact Mr. Webber and go through his financial records. If they prove to be as you say, he will be facing extortion and child neglect charges. Speaking of which," he continued, "you reported that when you first arrived at Mr. Webber's house, you noticed unsanitary conditions in the house and the children appeared to be neglected and abused. Is that correct?"

"Neglected, yes," Dimitra replied. "I was not so sure about abuse. I did hear one of the boys say something about the last caretaker who beat them." she suddenly recalled. "That is, I assume it was the last volunteer caretaker who was there."

"Did you report these conditions to Social Services, or Child Neglect at the time?"

"No," Dimitra sighed, "I wish I had. They were in such a terrible state. But I was confident I could turn things around. I had thought the last caretaker had been responsible for all that. I am so sorry."

"I see," Mr. Carlyle nodded. "Well, we can't fault you for doing what you did for these children. You did your best. However, we will have to conduct an investigation into this matter, and you may be subpoenaed to testify. I only ask for your full cooperation."

"You have that and more, sir." Dimitra told him. "I so want to help these poor children before it is too late. The baby, Mia, is in the hospital for some sort of infection. They say she may not survive." Dimitra burst into tears. "The doctors say they are doing everything they can for her. I was away in Las Vegas for my nephew's wedding, but only for a few days, I assure you." Dimitra was suddenly on the defensive. "I called a couple of sister nuns to care for them while I was gone. I would not leave them alone."

"We'll make a note of that," Mr. Carlyle informed her. "Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Mrs. Sarantakos."

Dimitra rose from her seat. "Thank you for all your help. And for all the children as well."




Meanwhile, at KLOL, Artie Creed was in rare form that morning, trashing everyone and everything which crossed his path. To hell with Morty Bernhard! To hell with the FCC! To hell with everybody! All that mattered was Artie Creed. During the rare times when he actually played some music, he scanned the Web for something to pin on Criss Angel: a DUI, a drug bust, assault and battery, a temper tantrum in a public place--anything to get back at that b**t**d for sleeping with his wife! He was a celebrity, for chrissakes! There had to be something he could nail him with!

He Googled Criss Angel and scanned the list. A lot of it Artie had already covered; no sense broadcasting old news. There was nothing posted recently that even hinted of scandal. Not even a rumor. Geez! The guy was a saint all of a sudden! It was all charities and benefits and TV and movie promos. And Artie couldn't just make something up out of the blue. Those tightasses from the FCC would can him. There had to be something...

As if by Divine intervention, the phone rang. Artie answered it; he was not on the air as there was a song playing at the time, so he had almost complete privacy. "Hello, this is Artie Creed."

"Mr. Creed," a heavy, panting voice spoke from the other end. "I have a news tip for you."

Artie was all ears. "Yes, and who is this speaking?"

"I'd prefer to remain anonymous," the heavy voice gasped. Artie was concerned that this guy might keel over from a heart attack or something. From the deepness in his voice, he sounded overweight.

"I understand," Artie told him. "So, what's the scoop?"

"There is a home for foster children here in Long Island, New York, where a Mrs. Sarantakos has been a volunteer caretaker."

Artie was on full alert. That was Criss Angel's precious mother! Oh, God! He hoped it was something good!

"It seems there is several thousand dollars missing from the funds the county allocated for the children's care, and recently, Mrs. Sarantakos went to Las Vegas, leaving the children unattended."

Whoa! This was too good to be true! Mommy Angel an embezzeler! The Fates had smiled on Artie Creed at last! He kept his composure, trying to retain an air of professionalism. "I see," he replied seriously, concealing his elation. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"There is an investigation in process by the county. That is all I can say, as I do not want to prejudice the case."

"Oh, I understand," Artie said. "Thank you so much for the tip." He hung up and stood up, pumping air. Yes! He had Criss Angel by the short hairs now! Oooooh! This was going to be some serious payback!

The tune on the radio had ended. Artie switched on his microphone and sat down. "Good morning, Sin City! This is Artie Creed on KLOL. We have a breaking news flash!"



"Hey, Raul!" a carpenter named Craig shouted over the power saws at the job site. "Creed's trashing Criss Angel again!"

"Yeah, so?" Raul shrugged. Creed was always trashing Criss Angel. Raul wished he hadn't bragged so much about his role in the capture of the Vegas Bomber. His coworkers acted as if he had a crush on him. Craig turned the volume louder.

"Criss Angel's mother, Dimitra Sarantakos, was arrested on charges of fraud and embezzlement from the foster home where she allegedly was a volunteer. It was reported that thirty thousand dollars was missing from county funds, and that Mrs. Sarantakos had abandoned her charges to go to Las Vegas..."

"That's a lie!" Raul exploded in outrage. "That is a bald-faced lie from the depths of Hell!"

He kicked the sawhorse on which the radio rested, toppling it over. "Hey, dude!" another carpenter shouted at him. "That's my radio, there!"

Raul whipped out his cell phone. There was only one person he knew who could refute the lies Artie told.

"Hello, Amber?" Raul said. "This is an emergency. It concerns Criss and his mother."




"Guys," Costa spoke to those gathered in the MindFreak office. "I think you'd better hear this." He turned up the volume on the computer where KLOL was webcasting. Criss, JD, Johnny Thompson, Gerard, Bro, and the rest of the crew crowded around the computer terminal.

"So, Criss is going to be visiting Mommy in the slammer for depriving poor little orphans for a trip to Las Vegas, boo hoo! Guess his mother is not the saint he made her out to be! No wonder her son turned out to be such a jerkwad, having a mom like that to raise him!"

"What the hell is he talking about?" JD demanded.

"He says Mom got arrested for stealing money from the foster kids she was taking care of," Costa explained. "He says she abandoned them to go to Vegas."

"That is bull!" Criss thundered. "That is the biggest load of crap I ever heard!" He punched the desk as if to make a hole in it. "She never, ever, stole anything in her life! And she didn't abandon those kids! She called a couple of nuns to take care of them while she was gone! I gave her money to take care of those kids! She spent a fortune out of her own pocket for them!"

"I'm going to call Aunt Stella," Costa said. "Maybe she can clear things up."

"You do that!" Criss said to him, still fuming. "I'm going to call Creed and straighten him out. No! Better yet! I'm going to the radio station and face him in person!"

He bolted out of the office. "Keep me posted on what Aunt Stella says," he ordered. "She has to know the truth. If Mom has been arrested, I'll post her bail!"



"Hello! You're on the air!" Artie said cheerfully.

"Hello! You're full of it, Creed!" a youthful voice mocked him, hanging up before Artie could reply.

Artie ignored the remark. "Hello, you're on the air!"

"You are such a liar, Artie! This time you have gone too far!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Creed replied drily. He had heard that phrase so many times it had lost all meaning. He hung up. "Hello, you're on the air!"

"Artie, look out your window, if you have one," an unusually calm voice instructed him.

"And I'm looking for what?" he retorted, crossing over to the large plate-glass window and pulling up the blinds, still holding the phone to his ear. He looked out, then left, then right. Nothing so far as he could see. Then he looked down.

There was a mob under his window in front of the station. The window was tempered glass, a quarter inch thick to provide soundproofing, but he could hear the angry shouts over the receiver as well as he could see the fists in the air shaking in his general direction.

"We're coming to get you, Artie!" the caller threatened. "Do you know who we are? We are the Loyals! And we are going to stop you from spreading any more lies about Criss and Dimitra! You lied, Artie! Dimitra is innocent! She'd never steal anything from anyone! And I know for a fact that Dimitra was here for Cousin George's wedding! There was no embezzlement!"

"Well, that is where you are wrong!" Artie argued. "I received a tip from a reliable source that confirms my story. So why don't all of you little Loyals go home and get a real life! Leave the news to the professionals."

Artie hung up with a smug smile on his face. That smile, however, was wiped right off when he heard hammering on the studio door. He turned to see a bunch of angry Loyals ready to break into the studio. One held up a hangman's noose. Alarmed, Artie called security. Then he turned to his listeners. "Ladies and gentlemen," he spoke into the microphone. "We're experiencing technical difficulties, so please stay tuned."

He fumbled another CD into the player and turned it on. Turning off the mike, he faced the crowd, making hapless gestures. What? he mouthed to them. What'd I do?

The Loyals continued their siege of the studio. To Artie's relief, the police arrived to take them away. The Loyals refused to budge. There were a few who made a rude gesture or two through the window at him. The hangman's noose swung menacingly.

Then a black sports car, an expensive job from what he could see, had pulled up to the station. The police and security guards held the crowds back. The car's door spread open like a bird's wing. Artie watched as the crowd cheered when Criss Angel emerged from underneath the gull-wing door.

So, loverboy is here! Artie thought to himself. Here to defend his mommy. Well, I'm ready for him!

[RACHEL02189]

let's get reaaaaaaaaaaaaady to rummmmmmmmmmmmble!!!!!!!!