[RACHEL02189]

Yikes

[Veritas]

Carey stood dazed and confused on the rubble-strewn pavement before the demolished Magic Castle. The smoke and dust from the blast was like a heavy blanket thrown over her, imparing her sense of direction and suffocating her at the same time. My car, she thought wildly. I gotta find my car!

She stumbled blindly through the smoke billowing out of the building she had just left a few minutes ago, coughing and choking as she groped for some tangible object to tell her where she was. Her hands grasped fabric of some sort. It was a person, a man, who grasped her in return. "You all right, ma'am?" the man spoke through the haze.

Carey could only cough in reply. Of course I'm not "all right," dipwad! I was damn near killed coming out of the Magic Castle! do I look "all right" to you? "Please, get me to my car," she pleaded. I'm at the Luxor."

Her new companion, who it turned out was a police officer, guided her into a nearby dance club, conscripted into service by the LVFD for sheltering the victims. It was not due to open until eight o'clock that evening, but the management made an exception, bringing out ice and bottled water for he victims and the firefighters.

"Jeesuz Christ!" the owner sighed in disbelief. "It's like Nine-Eleven all over again!"

"Oh, God!" a woman wailed. "First the Luxor, now this! What the hell is going on?"

"It's gotta be the same guy!" someone behind her said. "It's gotta be! This is the second time he struck!"

"Well, you know what they say," a young man sitting next to her spoke up. "Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a conspiracy."

Carey turned to them. "Dude, I was at the Luxor when it was blown up, and believe me, that was no accident! And this is no coincidence! We've got a mad bomber on the loose here in Vegas, and if they don't catch him, God knows where he'll strike next!" She took a sip of bottled water to clear the dust in her throat. "He's either terrorizing everybody, or making some sort of statement."

"Could be a Mob hit," the young man suggested.

"Could be anything," Carey shrugged. "but let's allow the police to handle it, okay. I've seen enough CourtTV to know that no matter how meticulous a criminal may be in executing a crime, there is always that one little piece of evidence he overlooked, one tiny factor he did not figure into his plan, then bang! He gets nailed. It may take days, weeks, months, even years, but forensic science can solve crimes that have gone cold for longer than that."

"We don't have days, weeks, or months," the woman said. "We gotta find this guy now!




Every police officer from the Chief to the greenest rookie cop on the beat shared the same sentiment. They had to find this guy and they had to find him now, before any more innocent people were killed.

No deaths were recorded at the Magic Club, but twelve were seriously injured, many more with minor injuries. EMS ambulances as far as North Las Vegas arrived to aid the victims and transport them to the hospital. The street was barricaded around the ruins of the Club, yellow CRIME SCENE tape warning away trespassers and souvinier hunters from interfering with the investigation.

Channel Three Las Vegas was on the scene, reporting the bombing live on the spot. All regularly scheduled programming was interrupted to broadcast the tragedy unfolding on the Strip. They showed scenes of bleeding victims in agony, interviewed terrified passersby who babbled incoherantly in front of the news cameras about what they saw, and kept up a running commentary of events as they unfolded, though not much was unfolding at that moment.

Ordinary citizens recorded it all with camcorders and camera phones, either to blog it or to send home to friends and relatives; they called them on their cellphones, shouting over the sirens and choking on the smoke and dust still hanging in the air around them. Police tried to clear the area, getting everyone behind the barricades and telling them to go home but were largely unsuccessful, human curiosity being what it is. There were always a few rubberneckers who didn't want to miss a thing. The LVMPD had to call in the Nevada State Police for reinforcement in crowd control.

Carey, meanwhile, had slipped out of the dance club shelter and tried to make her way back to the parking garage where her car was. She stepped gingerly along the Strip, avoiding the barricades of police cruisers like an escaped convict. She wove her way through the onlookers still congregated around the Magic Club. Her destination was close at hand. All she had to do was cross the street to the garage.

She was startled by a loud yet strangely familiar voice coming from behind her. She whirled around and saw that same religious zealot from the Luxor who had smashed that old woman's rosary. He stood there, Bible in hand, giving the same speech about God's wrath and Sodom and Gomorrah and repentance and all that other stuff fundamentalists were so fond of.

Geez! Carey thought. Doesn't this guy have a regular job or something? Self-righteous (bleep)! I wish he'd take that holy Joe routine and shove it up his ass! Probably goes around blowing up abortion clinics or something!

Carey stopped short at that thought. Could it be..? The possibility was not that far-fetched, she believed. Fundamentalists had always resorted to scare tactics to get their point across, even going so far as to resort to terrorism, blowing up abortion clinics, killing the doctors whom they believed performed them, or even hijacking airplanes and flying them into buildings like Japanese Kamikaze pilots.

Could this man be the Bomber? she wondered. He was there at the Luxor when it was attacked, and he walked out of it unscathed. Now he was there after the attack on the Magic Castle, still unharmed, still preaching his Gospel as he did before. Either he blew up those buildings to preach his poisonous brand of Christianity, or he just took advantage of the situation.

Carey shook her head. No, she thought firmly, it would not do to make any snap judgements. A person was innocent until proven guilty. There was no evidence that supported that street preacher's guilt. Until hard evidence was uncovered, and it would, she knew with confidence, it was best not to point any fingers at anyone. That was for the professionals to do.

[Veritas]

Eighty-nine year old Rosemary Thorton heard a knock at the door of her hotel room that morning after the car bomb explosion the previous day. She got up and shuffled to answer it, feeling a bit apprehensive. Having lived alone since the death of her husband, Frank, forty years ago, she could never be comfortable answering the door without looking out the window first, but there was no window from which to look out here at the Luxor, only a tiny peephole which was no help to her with her bad eyesight.

Meanwhile, seven-year-old Bethany Silverman sat on the floor, playing with the brown plush toy rabbit she had named MagicBunny. Her father had bought it for her at FAO Schwartz after they had been to the Magic Castle, and a funny magician made all those bunny rabbits appear. She got to pet one of them, and when Daddy took her to the toy store, he had let her pick out one toy, just one, he had insisted, and so that was how MagicBunny was adopted. The next day, both Mommy and Daddy were blown up downstairs, and so she had to stay with Mrs. Thorton, who was really nice, almost a second grandma to her, until the social service people could send her back home to Maryland.

Mrs. Thorton stood close to the door. "Who is it?" she asked the person or persons outside, with a touch of anxiety.

"Hi, it's me, Criss Angel," she heard a seemingly friendly voice on the other side. "Can I come in?"

Mrs. Thorton cracked open the door as far as the security chain would allow, peering out of the room. She saw a man's face smiling at her; he looked familiar, so she undid the chain and allowed him to enter. "Come in," she said. Criss entered the suite, two cameramen in tow, taping everything around them.

"Thank you," Criss said with a little bow. "I'm told that Bethany is here. She doing all right?"

"She's holding up remarkably well, considering." Mrs. Thorton said. "Children are remarkably resilient."

"It's good of you to take her in like you did. They have any luck finding her relatives?"

"I haven't received word about anything, but some of the guests have given money and things for her while she's here," Mrs. Thorton replied. "She's safe here if she is safe anywhere."

The doubt in Mrs. Thorton's voice belied that claim, and Criss sensed it. Since the car bomb attack, many of the Luxor's guests had checked out and left either for other hotels or for home. Only a handful of gamblers played in the Luxor casino, with just a skeleton staff on duty to serve them. It was Nine-Eleven all over again, it seemed. People were simply afraid to stay at the Luxor.

"Bethany, dear," Mrs. Thorton called out to her, "someone is here to see you."

The little girl looked up at her visitor with big brown eyes set in a small round face, framed with thick coils of dark brown hair secured with pink plastic hair clips. Criss bent down to greet her. "Hey, Bethany," he smiled at her reassuringly. "How ya doin', huh? You okay?"

"Uh-huh," Bethany nodded.

"Well that's good." Criss sat down on the floor with her. He tickled her toy rabbit. "Who's your little friend, huh?"

"This is MagicBunny," she answered. "Daddy got him for me when we went to the Magic Club before he..." Her voice trailed off. She didn't burst into sobs, but she bit her lip and lowered her head.

Criss put his arm around her. "Hey, it's okay, sweetheart. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." He suddenly brightened. "Wanna see some magic?"

Bethany nodded a bit hesitantly. She had seen a magic show the day before her parents died, and in one of those random connections children often make, associated magic shows with that tragedy. But the man sitting next to her seemed nice, so she agreed.

Criss held up the palm of his hand to show that it was empty. A few dextrous moves of the fingers, and a cherry lollypop, her favorite, materialized. Bethany smiled a little, taking the candy from Criss. Nothing bad happened, she realized. Maybe she could trust this man after all.

"What do you say, Bethany?" Mrs. Thorton prompted.

"Thank you," she uttered shyly, barely above a whisper.

Criss smiled in reply. He got up and sat on the sofa across from Mrs. Thorton. Bethany unwrapped her lollypop, put it in her mouth and continued playing with MagicBunny.

"You know," Mrs. Thorton said after a brief silence. "I've been coming to Las Vegas for years--this is my fifth visit here--and never in all that time had there been any trouble like yesterday, even when the Mob ran the city back in the Forties and Fifties."

"You've seen a lot of changes since then," Criss said for lack of anything else to say.

"Indeed, I have. Las Vegas used to mean girls in skimpy costumes and gambling in the Fifties, cheesy nightclub acts and gambling in the Sixties and Seventies, now big splashy shows and special effects--"

"And gambling," Criss finished for her, laughing. "The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess. You see any of the magic shows here?"

"I've loved magic and magicians ever since I saw Houdini at our hometown theater when I was Bethany's age." the old woman replied.

Criss sat up eagerly. "You saw Harry Houdini?"

"Yes, I did," Mrs Thorton said, nodding. "I was seven years old back in Nineteen Twenty-Six. He did this trick where he was locked in a trunk, then his assistant got up onto it and held up this blanket, and poof! There he was."

"Metamorphosis," said Criss.

"Then he got into this big milk can full of water, all chained up" Mrs. Thorton went on . "I was so scared, I was watching through my fingers all the while." Here she fanned out her fingers in front of her eyes, to Criss' amusement. "Then, all of a sudden, he was out of the can, free as a bird. Of course, I had to go and meet him, so I slipped out the back to where the backstage door was, and I saw the door open, and there he was. He didn't look so tall as he did onstage, and he had this lovely woman with him--I think it was his wife."

"Yeah, it was probably Bess." Criss concurred.

"Anyway, he came up to me, held up his hand, and pulled out a shiny new penny out of my ear! I was surprised, to say the least! He pressed it in my palm, patted my head, and left." Her voice grew sorrowful. "Three months later, he was dead."

Criss did some quick calculating. "So you saw him in July of Nineteen Twenty-Six," he told her. "So what happened to the penny he gave you?"

"I kept it right here, in this locket, ever since." Mrs Thorton held up a silver locket she wore around her withered neck. "I call it my Houdini penny."

"Can I see it?" Criss asked eagerly. "Please?"

Mrs. Thorton removed the locket and handed it to Criss. He pushed the miniscule latch with his thumbnail and opened it.

A single penny lay inside the heart-shaped locket, a bit tarnished but its engraving still legible. Criss could see the year 1926 clearly on the face of the coin. To hold something which had been touched by Harry Houdini in his lifetime gave Criss a surge of psychic energy, cementing the bond between himself and the Master.

With great reluctance, Criss handed the locket back to Mrs. Thorton. As he did so, he noticed something in an ashtray on the side table, something silver and white. Upon closer inspection, he saw what looked like part of a crucifix.

"What's this?" he asked. "If you don't mind my asking."

"Oh, that." Mrs. Thorton sighed. "I was saying the rosary when the bomb went off and we were outside, when some man came along and took it away from me, and smashed it under his boot."

Criss refrained from saying "that sucks", in front of Mrs. Thorton so as not to cause offense. Instead, he scooped up the broken rosary in his hand, knelt down before her, concentrated all his energy upon the beads in his hands, then opened them to reveal the rosary, completely restored.

Mrs. Thorton was amazed at this seeming miracle. Tears of gratitiude fell down her cheeks as she kissed Criss on the brow. "May the Holy Mother intercede for you in your darkest hour," she said.

Criss got up to leave, but he stopped short, went over to Bethany, who was still sitting on the floor, and held up his hand in front of her face. Reaching behind her head, Criss pulled out a quarter, pressed it in the little girl's hand, and gave her a kiss.

"Mrs. Thorton has her Houdini penny," he said to her, "now you have your Criss Angel quarter!"

Good-byes were said, and Criss left the suite with the two cameramen who had remained quietly in the background, yet didn't miss a thing.

As Criss made his way back to the production office, he saw the newscast on the giant screen in the lounge. Johnny Thompson* ran up to him.

"Criss!" he gasped in horror. "You gotta see this! Someone just blew up the Magic Castle!"

Criss' jaw dropped three inches. "What?!" he cried.

He dashed into the lounge. Sure enough, the Magic Castle, the very one he had performed in since his early days in Vegas, was a burning, smoking ruin, portrayed in High-Def on the plasma screen before him. Bleeding, shaking people sat on the curb, traumatized by the horror they had just experienced. Firefighters valiently battled the flames, as smoke billowed through the broken windows, filling the Las Vegas Strip.

Criss sank down onto the nearest chair he could find. My God! he gasped, stunned beyond belief, What the hell is happening here? First the Luxor, now the Magic Castle!

His thoughts turned to his brother, Costa, with half his backside scarred from the broken glass his flesh had caught in the explosion while shielding their mother from the force of the blast and the flying debris it caused. Costa had been walking around the atrium with their mother when the he saw the car charging toward the entrance. He had shouted Ma!! Get down!! GET DOWN!! and leapt in front of her as the car crashed though the main entrance. Glass flew in all directions, jagged pieces tearing into him from neck to shoulders.

He was transferred to the Grand Ballroom, which had been converted into a sort of emergency ward. Mercifully, he had only been lacerated by broken glass, but had been transported to the hospital just in case after the more seriously injured were taken away. Criss remembered the groans, the cries, the wails of agony in the ballroom, both from the victims and their loved ones. Now, the scene was replaying again, this time at the Magic Castle. More injured, more dying, more grieving loved ones, more casualties taken to the hospital, more children left without parents like little Bethany Silverman. How many more did this maniac have to kill before he was satisfied?

Suddenly, it seemed to Criss that fifty-thousand dollars wasn't enough.





In the executive conference room at the Luxor Hotel, Criss Angel sat with some of the biggest names in showbusiness ever assembled under one roof. It was not for entertainment purposes, but for the founding of the Vegas Victims' Fund, specially created to aid the bombing victims and their families with financial assistance with medical and other expenses.

It was not Criss' own idea, but something that arose from the collective desire for these celebrities to do something in the wake of the two bombings. The medical bills would be beyond what many of these people could afford. Many were from out of state, and the vast majority had little if any health insurance. Criss had already posted the reward money, but he still insisted on pitching in by signing the charter for the Fund and making a contribution, the amounts of which were to be kept secret, the donors anonymous. It would be a fund to which anyone could donate any amount, and all donations were tax deductable.

As Criss signed the charter, his thoughts kept going back to little Bethany. She was too young to be fully aware of the horror that had taken place. He hoped that she did not hear of the Magic Castle bombing. She had suffered enough as it was.

Criss raised his pen after he finished signing. This is for you, Bethany. You, and your parents. And I swear to God and all the saints in Heaven, your parents will be avenged!



*This was written in 2007, when Johnny Thompson was still with Criss.

[Smurf]

I hope they catch this guy soon , can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

The infamous magic-and-comedy duo, Penn and Teller, gazed in shock upon the ruins of the Magic Castle, the giant Penn Jilette standing as silent as his diminutive partner beside him. One by one, bits and pieces of the Castle's memorabilia, some still intact, some burned, some damaged by smoke and water from the firemen's hoses, were carried out and loaded into rental trucks to be transferred to storage facilites until the Castle could be rebuilt.

When he had received the news of the disaster, Penn Jillette had risen heroically to the occasion and had contacted the club's owner to transport and store anything valuable that had survived the blast or could be restored in time when the Castle would reopen. Penn would supervise the transfer with the help of his longtime partner, and find anyone who could restore the damaged items. Only when they arrived and saw the full extent of the damage for themselves did the enormity of the task strike home to them.

Penn shook his head sadly. So many memories he had in the Magic Castle, performing their outrageous brand of magic with his silent partner, Teller. So many priceless items accumulated over the years--theater posters, handbills, props from the famous magicians of the past--gone in one horrific flash. Could they ever be restored? Penn wondered sadly. Could they ever be replaced?

Teller pulled out a plain white handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes. His characteristic silence was even deeper and more profound in the wake of this recent disaster. Penn laid a giant, comforting hand on his partner's shoulder, as speechless as Teller himself.

"Mr. Penn?" a woman's voice spoke behind him. "Mr. Teller?"

The duo turned around. "I'm Darlene Packard from Channel Three news. Can you tell us what you know about this recent bombing?" The slim, blond news reporter held up the microphone before the giant Penn.

"What the (bleep) can I tell you?" Penn spat out. "I don't know a (bleeping) thing about it! All I know is, some (bleeping) maniac is out there trying to kill us!"

"You offered to store the Magic Club's memorabilia. Is that true?"

"Yes," Penn replied, "I am storing them in an undisclosed location, to prevent any theft or bombings." Teller nodded in agreement and confirmation.

"You know, Criss Angel offered a fifty thousand dollar reward for the Bomber's capture. Do you have any comments or opinions about that? I mean, are you going to offer your own reward as well?"

"Criss offered that reward because his brother was hurt in the explosion," Penn pointed out emphatically. "Personally, I don't blame him. I don't plan to offer any type of reward myself, but I support his decision. All I want is for this (bleeper) to get caught and put in prison where he belongs!" Again, Teller nodded in agreement. Then the duo abruptly turned away, signalling the end of the interview.

Darlene turned to face the camera. "So, the work on the Magic Castle continues, and Channel Three will be covering this and any future developments on this story. This is Darlene Packard, Channel Three News."





"Cancel?" Criss exclaimed. "Whaddya mean 'cancel'? I can't back out now, it's tomorrow, for chrissakes!"

"Criss, there's a maniac going aorund blowing up the Strip, and everyone's scared!" JD argued. "Who knows where this (bleeper's) gonna strike next?"

"First of all, I'm not going to be on the Strip," Criss argued back. "I'm gonna be in the desert--you know, wide open spaces. Anyone who tried to throw a bomb is gonna get nailed for sure, right then and there. And we got the camera crew all over the place--they'd tape anyone doing anything out of the ordinary."

"All the cameras are going to be trained on you, and there's gonna be a crowd of people there as well." JD pointed out. "That guy could be hiding among them and no one would know it, because they'd be too busy watching you."

"We got security, don't we?"

"What little we got to spare. Every security guard here at the Luxor is on red alert, and everywhere else for that matter. We'll be short-handed."

Criss sighed. JD took a calmer approach. "Look, Criss, we'll just postpone it until this whole bomb scare blows over, okay?"

Criss turned his face to his eldest brother. "And when the hell will that be? Huh? If I don't go out there tomorrow and do that demonstration, everyone's gonna think I'm scared. And I am not scared, you understand?"

"If you do go out there and do that demonstration, everyone's gonna think you are tempting fate."

Criss shrugged. "So? I do it all the time. Tell everyone the demo is on for tomorrow, Bomber or no Bomber." He clapped a confident hand on his brother's shoulder. "We are going to show the world we are not afraid. We are not going to live in fear of this psycho like everybody else. Everything is going to be okay, JD. Nothing's gonna happen."

JD shook his head in disbelief. "You are too (bleeping) nuts, you know that? You are just too (bleeping) nuts!"




The release of Costa Sarantakos from the hospital that afternoon gave bomb-weary Loyals reason to cheer. They congregated at the Luxor's only side entrance open to the public, as the main entrance was still closed for construction, carrying welcome signs made of posterboard and glitter. They had posted "shout-outs" and get well wishes for Costa on fan boards and Websites mere moments after news of his injury--and heroism--was made public. Grief-filled letters and heartfelt prayers for his recovery, punctuated with appropriatly weepy emoticons, zipped through cyberspace and were read by fellow Loyals, who added their own wishes and shout-outs. Their shock and sorrow were rivaled by their outrage over the cause of Costa's injuries, many venting their spleen on the Internet. Many of these poison posts were so venemous in their content, they had to be deleted by the Moderators who supervised the sites on which they appeared.

Now, Costa was coming home. Everyone waited eagerly for the wounded hero's arrival. Would he come in a limo? Or one of Criss' own cars? The Lambo? The Viper? Who knew? Only when the sight of a black limosine cruising up to the curb was everyone's curiosity satisfied, the tension of waiting released with cheers and whistles of jubilation.



Costa sat on the long side seat of the stretch Mercedes on his side. His brother, Criss, sat adjacient to him in the back of the car with JD beside him. "Doin' okay, there, bro?" Criss asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay," Costa replied. "For someone who had half a ton of glass pulled out of his ass, I'm doin' fine."

"Half a ton, my ass," Criss sneered. "You just got scratched up, that's all. They just sent you to the ER to check for any infection or whatever."

"I caught a bit of shrapnel here and there," Costa told him. He pointed to his left buttock. "Mostly there."

"We're almost at the Luxor," Criss reassured him. "Won't be long now. You just take it easy, okay?"

"Yeah, like I got anything planned for tonight," Costa retorted with a humorless smile.

JD looked out the window of the limo. "Oh, God," he moaned. "There's a crowd out there."

Criss turned to look for himself. Sure enough, the Loyals had turned up to welcome Costa home from the hospital. To make matters worse, the media were also present.

"Look, I'll handle the cameras," he told JD. "You get Costa inside, okay?"

JD nodded. The Mercedes pulled up to the curb and stopped. Cheers erupted from the crowd, flashbulbs popped. The security detail pushed back the surge of bodies eager to touch their idols.

Criss emerged from the limo to screams and howls of love and devotion, mingled with demands of "Where's Costa?" Microphones were thrust into his face as reporters bombarded him with questions:

"How is your brother, Costa?" demanded one.

"Fine," Criss answered.

"How serious were his injuries?" inquired another.

"He was just lacerated, that's all; he's gonna be okay."

"Is there any long-term disability?"

"No, he's fine, really."

"What about the desert demonstration? Has that been cancelled?"

"The demonstration has not been cancelled. It's still on."

As Criss fended off the press, Costa emerged from the limo onto the curb. The fans cheered at the sight of him, walking briskly toward the entrance, a few hints of scar tissue visible on his neck and arms. He wore shades over his eyes to protect them from the sun and the glare of the camera flashbulbs.

JD and the limo driver waved off the reporters straining to get a statement from Costa about his ordeal. He just kept repeating "I'm okay, I'm okay," while smiling and waving as he made his way into the hotel.

Inside, Costa was greeted with applause from the staff and management of both the Luxor and MindFreak Productions. All Costa saw, however, was his mother, who had waited patiently for her son to return from the hospital. She stepped forward and lovingly embraced him, still worried about the extent of his injuries. He had sacrificed his own safety to protect her from the Bomber, a fact which both grieved and filled her with pride. He was her hero, her guardian angel--he deserved the welcome he had received outside. Now he was home, and she would tend to his injuries as a mother should. God had delivered them both from a horrible death, and she thanked Him for it.



By nightfall, Las Vegas was a city on the edge. The garishly lit Las Vegas Strip was all but deserted, the dance clubs and bars nearly empty of patrons. Many dancers who performed at the strip clubs called in sick or whatever reason they could think of to avoid going to work that night. Celebrities cancelled performances, costing theaters and clubs thousands of dollars in lost profits. Even casinos lost customers; all but the hopelessly obsessive gamblers fled the city in the wake of the bombings. Police patrolled the entire city of Las Vegas more than usual, keeping a sharp eye out for any suspicious activity. At times, a few paranoid types would flag them down and ask them to inspect their cars for any bombs. They would comply, but they usually turned up nothing out of the ordinary.

All employees in every major hotel and casino were briefed on handling bomb threats or sightings. Under no circumstances were they to try and defuse the bomb themselves, they were told emphatically. They were to clear the area and contact the Bomb Squad immediatly. If they did receive a bomb threat over the phone, they were to follow a set of pre-printed questions in a special emergency notebook given to all receptionists and front desk personnel. If they could hold the caller on the line long enough, they should try to trace the call through the call-back system and report it to the police.

Criss Angel's fifty-thousand dollar reward offer was widely publicized through every form of media Las Vegas had at its disposal, along with a special one-eight-hundred hotline for any information about the Las Vegas Bomber, as the media called him. Electronic billborads, Internet pop-ups, television ads during the news, even the humble printed word did their part to bring the Bomber to justice, from newspapers to crudely Xeroxed flyers taped to store windows. But for all the efforts of the citizenry and police to find whoever was responsible for the Luxor and Magic Castle disasters, no suspects were found. There had been a few leads, but they always dead-ended somewhere. Two bombings in two days--would Wednesday make it three?

[Smurf]

great chapter , i'm glad costa is ok i hope they catch the guy soon , can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

Amber Woods, also known as "angelkiss23", scrolled down the list of posts on her computer screen. A long time member of the Loyal Community, she knew many of the members as personally as the anonyminity of their domain names would allow. She had chatted with them, read their fan fictions until the Moderators closed it for "violation of content rules", and shared what personal details they chose to post.

The bombings of the Magic Club and the Luxor, especially Costa Sarantakos's subsequent injuries from the latter, was the major topic for the past three days. Costa had an entire thread dedicated to him, filled with prayers and get well wishes from his brother's fans. When he was released from the hospital, many Loyals who witnessed his return to the Luxor shared what few photographs they took of him online, cheerfully relating the good news to one and all of Costa's recovery.

One Loyal tried to start a thread for the purpose of relaying any information about the Vegas Bomber to the authorities, but it grew so filled with rants and rages that the "Mods" had to lock it.

Amber grew weary of the repetitive posts of cheers and tears and logged off. There was nothing new, nothing to identify the Bomber. She had figured, or at least hoped, that someone had seen something important enough to find this psycho. This afternoon was the Criss Angel demonstration in the desert valley. She had looked forward to it for days before all the terror; now she was worried. There were no leads, no clues, nothing. He was still out there. Should she still go? Or would she be safer at home?

Criss had not cancelled the demonstration despite the Bomber. He openly defied the maniac who almost killed his brother, Costa. Well, if Criss wasn't afraid, she thought, she wouldn't be, either. She was going to that demonstration, Bomber be damned!

But she was going to be prepared. She had packed her camera with plenty of film. If the Bomber was there, she was going to shoot him, and she wasn't going to miss.




Carey drove down the seemingly endless desert highway to the Criss Angel demonstration. She was thankful she was driving a rented Lexus instead of her old Grand Prix. The latter would not have lasted ten miles in this Godforsaken wasteland in the middle of the Nevada nowhere. They had told her it was due west on that particular highway--how far due west they never said. It seemed she had been driving forever, the barren landscape before her gave the illusion of riding on a treadmill, going forward yet going nowhere.

She finally spotted signs of life to the left of her. That had to be it, she thought. There were eighteen-wheelers and RVs parked to the side of the road, with MindFreak murals displayed on their sides. She pulled over to the nearest available space, farther down the road, and parked, cracking the windows and positioning a sunshield provided by the rental company in the windshield to keep the car from turning into an oven from the desert sun.

Sunhat in place, handbag with bottled water and field glasses strapped to her side, she trudged up the shimmering pavement to the crowd gathered at the edge of a deep desert valley. She succeeded in scoring a spot by the safety rail along the edge of the cliff, scanning the valley below with her field glasses.

A bleach-blond woman in a MindFreak t-shirt turned to her. "That sunhat is a good idea," she commented.

Carey turned to her. "Thank you," she said in return. "I'm from Michigan, and I burn easily."

The bleach blond nodded and didn't say anything more. Carey turned her attention back to the valley. She could see the crew doing the final checks around a large, Evel Knevel type ramp set up in the middle of the valley. No sign of Criss, but she guessed what RV he would be in--the large, late model one in the back, twice the size of her old mobile home in Southfield.

"Hey! I remember you!" she heard a girl's voice call out from behind.

Carey turned to see--what was her name again? Ashley? No, Amber--to see Amber, the girl who held vigil for Costa after the attack in the Luxor. "Well, hello, there!" Carey greeted her. "Nice to see you again."

"Yeah," Amber replied. "I saw that big hat of yours, and I was, like, I saw her before, at the Luxor. But, oh, God! I forgot your name! Was it Karen or something?"

"Carey," she reminded her. "Carey Connor."

Amber brightened. "Carey! That was it! Uh, say, can I borrow those binoculars for a minute?"

Carey handed over the field glasses to Amber. They were small, a freebie from a golfing tournament from a law firm where she had worked before becoming a successful author, but they were quite powerful. Amber peered through them, scanning the valley below carefully. Suddenly, she became all excited, pointing down toward the row of RVs. "There he is! There's Criss! And, ohmygod! There's Costa! He's here! Oh, thank God he's okay!"

Amber handed the glasses back to Carey, pointing at the spot where she saw Criss and his brother. Carey found the two men standing by the RV (the very one she had guessed was his). They seemed to be talking to each other, but, of course, from that distance, Carey could not hear what they were saying. It didn't matter, she told herself, eavesdropping was rude.

Costa went back into the air-conditioned shelter of the RV while Criss began to suit up for the demonstration with the help of two crew members. The plan was for Criss to do an introductory lap around the valley for the crowd to see and cheer him on, no helmet needed, then to strap on the safety gear and do the demonstration. Spotters took their positions along the route, headphones and mikes activated to report anything wrong; they had been briefed about the Bomber, and ordered to keep a sharp eye out for pipe bombs or any other incendiary devices.

Criss kickstarted his racing motorcycle and charged into the demonstration area, to the cheers of the crowd above.

"Ladies and gentlemen! CRISS ANGEL!!"the staticky voice from a bullhorn announced.

Criss waved to his adoring public as he completed the first stretch of his opening lap. Carey followed him closely with her field glasses. She lost sight of him at the turn, so she focused on the path in front to catch up with him.

In a space of a second, she saw something land on the track, something long and metallic, cylindrical in shape. Criss raced on, unaware of what lay ahead. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash accompanied by a deafening explosion. Motorcycle and rider were thrown in the air like toys, crashing down to earth with a sickening thud. Criss rolled like a log on the valley floor and came to a stop, lying sprawled like a rag doll in black racing gear.

Time seemed to stand still in that desert valley; it was only a heartbeat later that the screams erupted from the horrified audience. The scene turned to chaos as hysterical fans tried to force their way down into the valley, only to be turned away by the security detail, ordering them to leave the premises immediatly, that they were obstructing a rescue, and not to panic. "So rescue him already!" one panic stricken Loyal screamed hysterically.

A rescue helicopter hovered overhead. Police and security waved away the few fans who still remained in the valley for it to land. Paramedics, already at the site for the demonstration, tended to Criss as best they could. Weeping and wailing accompanied the steady beat of the rotors of the EMS helicopter as America's most famous illusionist was airlifted to the hospital.

Carey turned away. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a conspiracy, she recalled. She was there when the Luxor was carbombed. She was there when the Magic Club was bombed. Now she had just witnessed a third. Am I bad luck or something? she wondered.

There was nothing for her to do except go back to the hotel. The media were going to have a field day over this one, she thought. She made her way back to her car, weeping and wailing echoing in her wake. She scanned the side of the highway for her car. her ears picked up footsteps crunching the gravel behind her, and a joyful shout of victory, it seemed to her. She turned instinctivly behind her; she could not see anyone, but the runner's voice could still be heard: "I did it! I did it! No more Criss (bleeping) Angel! Yeaaahhh!"

Carey looked around wildly for the owner of that voice, but only spotted a large Lincoln towncar with a hood the size of an aircraft carrier speeding off in a spray of sand and gravel. Carey picked up her field glasses and stared at the car in the distance. All she could catch was a large diagonal dent in the rear fender and the letters BAC on what looked like a Nevada State license plate. All else was blurred in the dust. She could not make out the driver or the model of the car though she had lived in Detroit long enough to tell one from another.

Carey dashed for her car. She had to inform the police. She had only a vague description and a partial license plate number, but she knew she was the only person closest to identifying the Vegas Bomber. It wasn't much to go on, granted, but it was better than nothing.





Las Vegas seemed to drop everything when the news bulletin of the desert valley bombing hit the airwaves. Slot machines were idled for the first time since they first started operating, roulette wheels were stilled as people gathered around giant plasma screens in casinos, bars, clubs, hotel lobbies, and electronics stores. Word spread fast that the Vegas Bomber had struck again, this time claiming only one victim. But that victim was famous illusionist Criss Angel, and he was listed in critical condition.

The entire city reeled in shock. The biggest star in Las Vegas, and he had been blown up by the Bomber! My God! they thought, who was next? When was this nightmare going to end?

[Smurf]

Poor Criss i hope he get better soon , and they catch the bomber , can't wait to read more

[RACHEL02189]

Nooooooooooooo!

[Veritas]

As soon as the attack on Criss Angel was made public, the celebrity rumor mill shifted into overdrive, fueled by the fear already gripping a terrorized Las Vegas. Criss was dead, someone said. Criss was paralyzed for life and his career was over, said another. Criss was reported DOA as soon as he arrived at the hospital, yet another reported. Criss was alive but not for long because his injuries were too severe, went still another rumor.

Whatever Criss' condition, official or not, everyone knew who was responsible for this crime yet did not know the identity of the criminal. The mysterious Bomber who had been terrorizing Las Vegas had been among them, biding his time before striking, and they never knew. They had been so focused on Criss Angel they had failed to see the bomb thrown in his path, or who had thrown it. The Loyals who had witnessed the attack seethed with wrath. The Las Vegas Bomber had struck again, and this time it was personal.

In the space of an hour the scene had shifted from Criss Angel MindFreak to CSI: Las Vegas. The scene of the attack was cordoned off with yellow CRIME SCENE tape. Forensics experts combed the valley for clues, sifting through the rocky desert soil for bits and pieces of the bomb. Police investigators listened patiently as hysterically weeping fans blubbered their side of what they had just seen. The LVPD K-9 unit sent their best tracking dogs to sniff out any bomb residue around the perimeter of the demonstration site.

Investgating Officer James Lettrille knelt over the charred soil where the bomb had exploded. From the direction of the shallow crater it left, it had to have come from those rocky cliffs west from where he was right at that moment. Whoever threw it must have had one helluva outfielder's arm, he thought.

He stood upright, stretching his legs. The LVPD had put him in charge of this case as soon as the call was received. Lettrille had a suspect before he started investigating--that psycho Bomber going around Vegas and blowing the hell out of the Strip. Problem was, he didn't know who was the Bomber. Was it one person or more than one? Was it a private hit? Was it even the Bomber, for that matter? It could have been a copycat crime caused by a deranged fan; it was possible, considering Criss' fame. Still, the evidence led to the Bomber. The few fragments found were definatly a pipe bomb, fitting with his MO. He hoped the K-9 unit went up by those rocks and found something.

Lettrille made his way up the rocky incline from the valley. As he approached the CSI lab van, he noticed a middle-aged woman wearing a big straw sunhat standing beside it, looking around anxiously. As soon as she spotted him, she trotted forward. "Are you a police officer?" she asked him eagerly.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered. "Officer Jim Lettrille, LVPD. What can I do for you?" he extended his hand in greeting.

"Carey Conner. It's rather what I can hopefully do for you, Officer," she said, returning the handshake. "I think I have some clue as to whom the Bomber is. It's not much to go on, but..."

Officer Lettrille opened the door of the van. "Step inside, please," he requested.

Carey climbed inside, gingerly tiptoeing around the crime lab equipment for fear of damaging anything. She found a seat at the front of the van and sat down. Lettrille sat beside her in the driver's seat. "So, what information do you have?" Lettrille asked.

Carey drew a deep breath, collecting her thoughts. "I was on my way after the explosion when I heard someone running behind me; he was actually cheering like a fan at a football game!"

"You sure it was a man?"

"Yes, definatly. I heard him say, 'I did it! I did it! No more Criss effing Angel!' It was a younger man's voice--not a teenager, but someone maybe twentysomething or early thirty, somewhere around there. I looked around to see who it was, but I could not find him. I did see a huge Lincoln towncar, those big jobs from back in the Seventies. He peeled out of there so fast, all I could see was a big diagonal dent in the fender and the letters BAC on the license plate."

"Do you know what state?"

"I think it was Nevada, I'm not sure. It had to be. I've seen Arizona license plates, and it definatly wasn't it. It wasn't as colorful as that."

"Can you tell me anything else? Did you get a glimpse of the driver in the car as he drove off?"

"No, he kicked up too much dust to see anything. As I said, he peeled out of there so fast I was lucky to have seen what little I saw. I know it's not much to go on, but--"

"It's all right, Ms. Connor. It's the best lead we got so far. It's gonna take a lot of wading through the DMV lists, but we'll find him. We've busted a lot of criminals with less than that." Lettrille took out his note pad. "I want you to write down your address and phone number where we can contact you. I'll give you my extension number should you remember anything else."

"I'm from Michigan, and I'm staying at the Luxor," she informed him. "I was there when the Bomber struck the first time. It was barely an hour after I arrived. And I was leaving the Magic Club when it blew. I'm beginning to wonder if this guy is after me or something."

"Where were you when the car bomb went off in the Luxor?"

"In my room. We were forced to evacuate down the stairs."

"And you were outside the Magic Castle when it went off?"

"Yes. I was leaving to do some more shopping."

"Do you know of anyone who has anything against you?"

"To the best of my knowledge, no."

"It could be just a coincidence," Letrille said, "but all the same, I'd like to be able to contact you, just in case."

He pushed his notepad to Carey. She scribbled down her cell phone number and hotel room. "That's where you can reach me."

"Anything else you can tell us?" Lettrille prompted. "Any questions?"

"Just one," she replied. "Who the hell is doing this?"



Huge Klieg lights illuminated the crime scene as night fell, allowing the CSI investigators more time to work. Beyond the yellow tape, grieving Loyals huddled in the dimly lit valley, with only candles for light. They were holding vigil for their fallen idol, embracing, weeping upon each other's shoulders, uttering prayers, individually and in groups, asking each other why? Why did he do it? Why did this maniac injure Criss, their beloved Angel, who had harmed no one?

Some watched the CSI team as they hunched over the site where Criss had fallen, straining to hear of any new discovery, any new piece of evidence that would bring the killer to justice. Others grouped around radios tuned to news stations for the latest word on Criss' condition like underground freedom fighters listening to Radio Free Europe. The very mention of Criss' name sent everyone shushing everyone else so they could hear the newscast. No one moved, no one even dared breathe for fear of missing out on the smallest detail.

Our top story: Famous illusionist Criss Angel is reported to be in critical condition in L--- Hospital after a pipe bomb attack during taping of his series. Criss is reported to be in a coma since the attack, and has suffered flash burns on parts of his face and hands, as well as severe eye injuries. The attack is reputed to be caused by the so-called Las Vegas Bomber who has been terrorizing the city this past week. A press conference is scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten AM at the Luxor Hotel and Casino concerning Criss Angel and the investgation of the attack. Anyone with any information regarding the attack is encouraged to contact the police as soon as possible.

"In a coma?" a fan cried. "That means he's still alive!"

"How long was he in a coma? The longer he's out, the more likely he'll suffer brain damage."

"Oh, God! Please don't let Criss die!"

"God damn the mother(bleeper) who did this! I hope he rots in the lowest, foulest, most fetid depths of Hell for this!"

Thousands of Loyals shared those very sentiments around the world, on line, in text, and in person, in private homes, in parks, in the Nevada desert, or wherever they could congregate, the Loyals banded together in sorrowing solidarity. Fans of all faiths stormed Heaven for Criss' miraculous recovery: rosaries, litanies, prayer chains, shimas (the Jewish prayer for those facing death), and simple pleas for deliverance from the jaws of death rose from grieving hearts to whatever Deity they believed in. Thousands more encircled the Luxor, waiting for word of Criss' condition, and to share their sorrow with his family, who were now at the hospital, keeping a tearful vigil of their own by Criss' bedside, with only their faith in God to sustain them.





Dimitra Sarantakos, beloved mother of Criss Angel, endeared to his fans as Mother Angel, sat numbly next to her comatose son, his head swathed in gauze with only his nose and mouth visible, blinded and maimed from the flash and flames of the pipe bomb thrown at him. How many times, she wondered, how many times had she worried about him when he did such dangerous stunts, that it would be his last, only to see him walk away unscathed? True, he did end up in the emergency room at times, but he always walked out the next day at the latest. Now, her worst nightmare had come true, only this time it wasn't even his fault. Someone else had caused this. But who? And why?

Dear Lord, she prayed silently, be with my Christopher tonight. Bless him and heal him of his injuries. Restore his sight to him, that he may look upon Your world again. Take my life, not his, dear Lord! A mother should not have to outlive her children! Take my life for his, dear God! Take me, and spare my son, Christopher!