[Smurf]

poor Criss , i really hope they catch him , more please

[RACHEL02189]

'biting nail like typewriter'

[Veritas]

For the past week, Las Vegas had been afraid. Now it was outraged. By seven AM Friday morning, dozens of concerned citizens marched in protest against the reign of terror at City Hall, carrying picket signs demanding the mayor to stop the bombings and the killings. Many of the protesters were Criss Angel fans, the Loyal as they called themselves. They showed their support for the protesters and their concern for the victims, but did not stay long as they had to be back at the Luxor for the ten AM press conference.

All regularly scheduled programming on local television was preempted for the event. Every local and cable news network were present inside the Luxor's Grand Ballroom, as were the print media and infotainment networks. It was the single largest press conference outside the White House in journalism history to date.

Felix Rappaprort, CEO and President of Luxor Hotel and Casino, gave the opening statement to the press:

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, on behalf of myself and the Luxor, I'd like to welcome you all here today. As you are no doubt aware, Las Vegas has been terrorized by a series of mysterious bombings, the first of which took place in this very hotel. Three people were killed in that disaster: one of them an employee of the Luxor, and two guests. The second attack took place the very next day at the Magic Castle, where over a dozen people were badly injured. The third attack was in the desert, about fifty miles from the city, but only one victim was harmed. That victim was our own Criss Angel."

Cameras flashed as Rappaport spoke. "We have received word from the hospital that Criss Angel has emerged from his coma last night." he went on. "He is still listed in critical condition. He had received multiple minor fractures in his ribs, a fractured wrist, first and second degree flash burns around his face and neck, and sustained serious internal injuries, and injuries in both eyes. He has also suffered a concussion, but no sign of head trauma as yet."

Rappaport paused in his speech, overcome with emotion over the tragedy which befell his biggest star. He composed himself and continued: "We know that Criss has survived things that would have killed an ordinary man. He's been buried alive, run over by a steamroller, sealed in concrete, nearly run through a woodchipper, almost gored by an angry bull, and numerous other stunts, and he survived them all. This, however, was unexpected. He could not have been prepared for this. We can only pray for his recovery.

"After the first bombing, Criss Angel offered a fifty-thousand dollar reward for the capture of the Vegas Bomber. Let it be known that the reward has been officially doubled to one hundred thousand dollars as of today. Are there any questions?"

A cacophany of calls for attention from the assembled media broke out. "Mr. Rappaport! I have a question! Question! Mr. Rappaport, please answer this question!"

Rappaport singled out a reporter from CNN. "Are there any new developments in the Bomber case? Any leads at all?" the reporter asked.

"None, I'm afraid. The police, however are searching diligently for him. We have posted an emergency one-eight-hundred number to call in case someone does spot the Bomber."

"Mr. Rappaport," a reporter from E! News spoke up above the rest, "is there any hope of Criss' full recovery?"

"At this point, it is too early to tell. But Criss is a very strong man, and his will to survive is more powerful than anyone I know."

"How is his family doing in the wake of this tragedy?" inquired another reporter.

Rappaport looked behind him from the podium, made some sort of conversation with someone in the back, nodded, and turned back to the press. "We have a representative of Criss' family here to make a statement on their behalf: Criss' brother, JD Sarantakos."

JD stepped up to the podium amid a round of polite applause. He looked weary, not having slept the entire night. He drew a deep breath and launched into his prepared statement:

"First of all, I'd like to thank everyone for their love and support during this time of crisis for myself and my family. We have received many, many heartfelt good wishes and prayers from friends, fans and others.

"Last Wednesday, I insisted that Criss cancel the desert valley demonstration for his own safety and that of his fans after what happened in the Luxor and the Magic Club. Criss insisted on doing that demonstration, in spite of the recent bomb attacks. He didn't want to let down his fans, he said.

"We had taken every conceivable security measure to insure that nothing would happen to Criss or anyone else. Unfortunatly, the Vegas Bomber slipped through the cracks and got him just the same. He was airlifted to the nearest hospital. My mother, my brother, Costa, who had been injured himself in the Luxor bombing on Monday, and I kept an all night vigil at his bedside.

"Whoever this maniac is, he nearly cost me two brothers. One is scarred for life, the other near death. We have doubled the reward that Criss originally offered for his capture. I am pleading with you, the media and everyone within the sound of my voice, to find this murderer before he strikes again. I ask this as a family member of one of his victims, and for the other families of those who were injured in the previous attacks. Thank you."

JD left the podium, his eyes filled with tears. He couldn't go on. It was all he could do to get through it in the first place. He had given hundreds of interviews in the past, but they were ususally one-on-one, never in a room full of reporters. He was not going back, no matter how much they clamored for him. He was going to rejoin his family at the hospital. His youngest brother needed him.




In the quiet, secluded room at the L--- Hospital, Criss lay motionless on the bed, his head bandaged in layers of gauze. His mother, Dimitra, sat beside him, as she had since yesterday. Her older sons insisted she go back to the hotel and sleep, but she had refused. It was bad enough that she had lost her husband a decade ago; now she faced the loss of her youngest son.

The motionless figure began to stir. Dimitra leaned forward expectantly. "Christopher?" she called softly to him. "Christopher, darling, are you awake?"

"Maaa?" her son murmured weakly. "Ma? Is that you?"

Dimitra's heart leapt. Her son was alive! "Yes, darling, I'm here."

"Ma? I can't see you. It's too dark in here."

Dimitra held his hand. "I'm right here, sweetheart. Your eyes have been injured. They're covered in bandages. That's why you can't see."

Criss raised his hand to feel his head. He touched gauze over his head and eyes, under his chin, and felt something hard around his arm. He groped for his mother's hand with his free hand. "I can't see," he murmured. "Ma? What happened?"

"It was the Vegas Bomber," she answered. "He tried to kill you."

Criss gripped his mother's hand in desperation. "Ma, I'm scared. I don't want to go blind."

Dimitra shushed him. "Hush, darling. Try to go to sleep."

"Oh, God, please, don't let me go blind" Criss whimpered. "Please, God, I don't want to go blind."

His mother stroked his hand. "Now, Christopher," she said with gentle firmness, "you had one of the best eye surgeons operate on you. In a few days, they say you'll have another one. It's all in God's hands now, understand? So, don't be afraid. You are in God's hands."

In an effort to soothe her injured son, she sang a little Greek lullaby she used to sing to her sons in their infancy. Criss grasped her hand firmly, as if he refused to let her go. He could not see her face, that soft, gentle, beautiful face, a little withered with age, but the sound of her familiar Greek accented voice conjured up a mental image of her in his mind. He clung to that image as tightly as he clutched her hand. The memory of her face was a ray of light in his dark prison. He drifted off to sleep, carried away by her singing.




"Gooood morning, Sin City! This is Artie Creed on KLOL morning radio! Our topic for this Friday morning is, of course, the Las Vegas Bomber who has struck once again, this time in the desert where the MindFreak Criss Angel was doing one of his stunts. It's reported that a pipe bomb was thrown at him when he was riding his motorcycle for his fans. He is critically injured, with first and second degree flash burns on his face and neck, and he's been blinded by the explosion. It's uncertain whether the MindFreaker will resume his career if he doesn't get his sight back. The lines are now open, and we got our first caller. Hello, you're on the air."

"Did you receive any word about the Bomber? Did they catch him yet?"

"So far, we have not gotten anything from the newsroom, but we will report any late breaking developments. Hello, you're on the air."

"Do you really think Criss' career is over?"

"Do I think Criss' career is over? I'm not going to lay any bets on it, if that's what you mean. Even if it is, he's got too much money to worry about it. Hello, you're on the air."

"Yeah, like you really care about Criss Angel! You've been ragging him since he got here to Vegas!"

"Hey, dude! I'm just reporting the news. I got nothing personal against him--I just think he's an overgrown mama's boy who likes to show off, that's all. Next caller, please."

"Do you think Criss will go blind?"

"He's been blinded already! Didn't you pay attention earlier?"

"I meant permanantly!"

"Let me put it this way: If worse comes to worst, he'd better trade in his kittycat for a seeing eye dog. Next caller, you're on the air."

In the phone room of KLOL, phone operator Heather Kotlarcyzk started at the sight of the switchboard exploding into life. She sighed heavily--she knew from years of experience working the morning shift at KLOL that whenever the phones lit up all at once it meant that Artie Creed had put his foot in his mouth again, and it was up to her to defuse the situation one caller at a time. With another deep, exasperated sigh, she connected the first caller. "KLOL, may I help you?" she answered mechanically.

"You tell that (bleeper) Artie Creed he can (bleep) off! He's got no right to trash Criss Angel like that! Especially now since he's in the hospital!"

Another heavy sigh. Artie was targeting Criss Angel again. It was going to be a long morning, Heather thought as she connected caller after outraged caller.




While Las Vegas spent the better part of the day recovering from the latest attack by the Vegas Bomber, two thousand miles and two time zones away in Hawai'i, Duane Chapman, known to the public as Dog the Bounty Hunter, was just beginning his day. Beth, his wife and partner of over a decade, was already up, getting the younger Chapmans ready for school. The television was on, but in the morning rush, it was just white noise in the background.

Chapman pulled on his black leather boots over his jeans and donned a cutoff vest showing off his muscular torso developed through years of tackling fugitives. Dressed for the day, he headed for the kitchen.

In spite of the television noise, the kitchen was unusually quiet. No squabbling, no clatter of cereal bowls, no shouts of "Hurry up! You'll be late for school!" from Beth. Duane strode in to investigate.

He was met by two sobbing daughters throwing their arms around him. He looked up at Beth in bewilderment, and noticed that she was also in tears. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

Beth wiped her face with the back of her hand. "The Las Vegas Bomber almost killed Criss Angel," she said.

Chapaman stood there, clasping a small blond head in each hand, totally stunned. "Almost ki--?"

Beth turned up the volumne of the small television set in the kitchen. Chapman felt his rage beginning to boil as the newscaster described the desert valley attack on his friend, Criss Angel. He was in critical condition, he heard, seriously injured by a pipe bomb.

"Daddy?" his youngest daughter pleaded, "Are you going to catch the man who hurt Criss?"

He looked down at his child, so much like Beth in many ways: same blond hair and blue eyes. "When Daddy gets the call," he said to her, "we'll go find him. Meanwhile, we're gonna say a prayer for Criss, okay, honey?"

The little girl nodded. Duane gathered his brood around him in a prayer circle. "Lord, we pray that You bless Criss Angel and heal him of his injuries. Give him strength and give him health. We ask for Your help in finding the Vegas Bomber and bring him to justice. In Jesus' Name, Amen."

"Amen," the family echoed.

The prayer circle broke up, the children were sent to school, and Duane and Beth headed for the Da Kine Bail Bonds office. Duane's eldest boys, Duane Lee and Leland, would be waiting for them, ready to pursue the latest fugitive who had jumped bail. Normally, the Dog would be straining at the leash to begin the hunt for local drug dealers, addicts, thieves and spouse abusers, but his thoughts kept going back to the Vegas Bomber and his attack on his dear friend Criss Angel. They'll capture him, he convinced himself as he drove to the small storefront office he and Beth worked out of. Swear to God, they will capture that (bleeper) and bring him to justice! I don't care who does it--I want that (bleeper) brought down!

Deep down, however, Duane did care who bought down that (bleeper). In his heart, he wished that the honor of capturing the Vegas Bomber would be his, and his alone.

[Smurf]

Poor Criss and his family , i can't wait to read more as it is nail biting stuff

[Veritas]

Friday noon rolled around. The press conference ended. While the Loyals were relieved that Criss was still alive, they still kept vigil around the Luxor, to the frustration of the management. The crowd of fans kept the staff from doing their jobs; flowers and tributes littered the main entrance like Kensington Palace after the death of Princess Diana. They stood on the curb of the Strip, holding up HONK IF U LUV CRISS signs before passing traffic. Any attempt to clear the area met with resistance.

Carey Conner grew frustrated as well. In her mind, it was the 1997 Red Wings limo accident all over again, with legions of Wing Nuts gathered at Woodward and Quarton after the limosine carrying Vladimir Konstantinov, Sergei Mninsikonov, and Slava Fetisov of the Stanley Cup championship winning Detroit Red Wings crashed into a tree, seriously injuring all three men. The accident scene became a shrine, with teddy bears, hockey sticks and jerseys piled all around the demolished tree. There's got to be a better way! she thought as she surveyed the scene outside the hotel. They need to put their time to better use than stand around with signs and flowers.

A crazy scheme began formulating in her mind. Crazy enough to work, she thought. She dashed over to the front desk. "I need the number to the nearest Red Cross Station," she asked the desk clerk.

The clerk tapped on the computer keyboard and came up with an address not too far from the Luxor. She printed it out and handed it to her. Carey thanked her and walked to where she had just spotted Felix Rappaport with a couple of hotel security guards. "Mr. Rappaport," she called out.

The hotel CEO turned, expecting another complaining guest. "I have an idea on how we can clear out all these fans," Carey said eagerly. "It's a long shot, but I think it will work."

"I'm listening," he said.

"I'm going to need your help with this, because you're closer to Criss than I am, and they'll listen to you." And she told him her idea.

"Might work," he said. "It's a gamble, but it might work."

"Well, that's what you do in Las Vegas, isn't it?" Carey quipped. "Gamble, I mean?"




The crowd of Loyals surged forward at the sight of Felix Rappaport, CEO of the Luxor. If anyone had any news about Criss Angel, they believed, he would.

Flanked by the two guards, he took a microphone wired into the PA system outside the main entrance. "Good afternoon," he began. "I have just received word about Criss Angel that you all should know."

He had them at "Criss Angel; they gave the president their undivided attention. God, I hope this works, Felix said to himself. "Criss Angel is due for major surgery today," he announced, "and he needs blood. Unfortunatly, the blood supplies are dangerously low, practically nonexistant. If there is any among you who can donate a pint of blood, please report to the Red Cross Station on B--- Avenue. If you are clean, sober, and have not had a tattoo in the past six weeks, you are encouraged to donate. Thank you."

"Where did you say it was?" some called out.

"On B--Avenue," Rappaport repeated. "It's not too far from L--- Hospital."

The word spread like a brushfire in August. Criss' life was in danger! He needed blood! Only the Loyal could save him! To the Red Cross Station! "We're coming, Criss!" one young female Loyal cried out. "We're coming to save you!"

Rappaport stared in amazement as the crowd of fans all but stampeded away from the hotel. He turned back to Carey. "Well, I'm impressed!" he said to her, shaking his head in disbelief. "That crazy scheme of yours actually worked."

"Wonderful," she said. "Now, I think you'd better call that Red Cross station and give them a heads-up. They're gonna get a helluva lot of new donors, and they need to stock up on juice and cookies."



Meanwhile, Criss Angel lay in bed, turning his mind's eye inward to compensate for the loss of his outer ones. In the dark prison of gauze, he conjured up memories of light and color.

That's me, as a kid, riding my bike off the roof of the house. It's summer, and I'm running through the sprinklers with my brothers. I can see the green grass, feel it under my bare feet. I'm with my dad, he's watching me levitate Mom in the living room. It's Christmas, I can see the tree, all lit up. We're all together for Dad's birthday, his last. I can see his face as I kiss him. Now I'm riding my motorcycle through the desert, it's flat, it's sandy, and it's hot. I can see the cliffs in the distance.

I see the lights on the Strip, rolling and flickering. I see Vegas Vic, waving at me. I see the top of the Luxor, shining so brightly, it can be seen from space. I'm floating above it. It's so bright, even with goggles on, it's like I am in Heaven itself.

I'm with the children at a church. I'm dressed like Santa Claus, standing next to a truck filled with toys. Johnny Thompson is in a fur coat with reindeer antlers and a big red nose. The truck is empty, and I make toys appear by magic. The kids are smiling at me. I see their faces. They're so happy, it makes me want to cry.

I'm in the desert again. I'm riding my racing bike around the valley. I see the cheering crowds. There is a big white flash of light. I feel like I'm on fire.

I don't remember anything after that. I woke up in this dark prison. I heard Mom's voice, but I can't see her face. I want to see her face again! I want to see the faces of those I love! I want to see the faces of children, of friends, of the Loyal! I want to see the Vegas Strip in all its glory! I want to see again! Oh, God, why did You do this to me! Please, God, give me back my sight! I'll do anything, anything at all! I'll give You anything You want: my cars, my bling, my motorcycles--anything at all! Just don't let me go blind!




Officer Jim Lettrile strode into the CSI Crime Lab. He had just received word from the lab techs that they had examined all the evidence gathered at all three Vegas Bomber sites and ready to give their report. "Okay, what've we got?" he demanded as soon as he entered.

Dr. Mackenzie Taylor led him to a table littered with jagged metal parts. "Here are the pieces taken from the Luxor bombing," she said, pointing out the first third of metal scraps painstakingly labeled in numerical order of their constuction. "A crudely made pipe bomb, secured to the underside of the vehicle by the gas tank, using this bracket here." She directed his attention to a blackened strip of metal plumbers' tape, and two large screws. She picked up an envelope lying next to the shatered pipe bomb and removed its contents. "This came from the photo lab. The vehicle was locked in 'drive' and was allowed to crash into the hotel. We think the bomber bailed out at the last minute."

"No tire tracks, no skid marks," Lettrille observed. "Anyone see this guy bail out?"

"No one reported seeing anyone jump out of any car at the time."

"Geez!" Jim tossed the photos down in frustration. "A city this size, with this many people, and thousands of visitors, you'd think someone would have seen something!"

Dr. Taylor moved to the second third of the exam table. "This came from the Magic Castle," she told him. "Same type of materials. It went off behind one of the bars which wasn't open at the time. Again, no witnesses. But we did get a footprint from the service entrance. It looks like a boot of some sort; it didn't belong to any of the staff, and they didn't report any deliveries that day."

Lettrille looked at the footprint, heavy soled like a hiking or workboot. Now we're getting somewhere, he thought.

"Now, over here," Dr. Taylor moved to the last third of the table, "is the desert valley bombing. Same pipe bomb, same materials, same foot print above the scene. They found them behind some rocks from the west."

"That much I know," Lettrille said.

"And again, he got away scot free. No witnesses."

"We got one witness. She didn't see much, but we got a lead," Lettrille informed her. He took out his notebook. "A Carey Conner from Michigan. She heard someone yell, quote, 'I did it, I did it, no more Criss eff-word Angel', and take off in a early model Lincoln towncar with a dent in the fender and BAC on the license plate."

"Not much to go on," Dr. Taylor commented.

"No," Lettrille agreed, "but it's better than nothing."




The B--Avenue Red Cross station found itself overwhelmed that Friday afternoon. Granted, they had received a call from the Luxor Hotel, of all places, warning them of "a lot of new donors" would soon be arriving, but they weren't prepared for the hundreds jamming the tiny foyer and spilling out the door. Rochelle Slemlin, RN and station supervisor, was absolutely flabbergasted the minute she spotted that huge mob converging into her tiny station. "Good Lord, have mercy!" she exclaimed.

She pulled herself and her volunteers together after the initial shock wore off and began organizing what would become the single biggest blood drive since Nine-Eleven. Dozens of forms were collated and attached onto clipboards and equipped with attached pens. Plastic blood pouches were readied by the score. Juice boxes, bottled water and packages of cookies were set out on the recovery tables. All volunteers were to stick to their assigned posts until relieved of duty, she ordered.

Nurse Slemlin called for backup from the branch stations in the area, and for building security to keep order. She was relieved when she was informed that the Reno station would bring over its moblie blood donation unit as soon as possible. She had just hung up when she received another call. "Hello, Red Cross, supervisor speaking."

"Hi, this is Dean Sweet from KLOL Radio. We got word you got a lot of donors at your station, today."

"Yes!" Nurse Slemlin exclaimed. "We got a call from the Luxor about it, and they're all lined up outside. We had to call for help from all the other stations."

"Well, we at KLOL would like to offer any assistance. Anything we can do?"

Nurse Slemlin sighed with gratitude. "Oh, bless you! We're going to need snacks--cookies and juice, and plenty of them. We're pretty short right now. And we're going to need some help keeping this from turning into a riot."

"Okay, we're on our way." Sweet said.

"Thank you," Nurse Slemlin said. "Thank you so much. But tell me, what started all this?"

"Well, it all had to do with Criss Angel, ma'am," he answered.

Nurse Slemlin wanted to hear more, but the mob at the door was getting unruly, pounding on the galss door, demanding to be let in. "Sorry I have to cut you off, sir," she said quickly, "but I got to let these people in before they break the door down."

She hung up and rushed for the door. "All right! All right! One at time, please. Just fill out the forms and we'll get to you as soon as possible."

The clipboards were distributed, quickly filled out and passed to registration. The first five donors were escorted to the cubicles for furthur testing and questioning, while the next batch filled out their forms in turn. "To hell with the paperwork, lady!" one impatient Loyal yelled over the heads of those ahead of him. "We gotta save Criss Angel!"

"You wait your turn, like everybody else!" Nurse Slemlin snapped, as she handed yet another clipboard to another donor.

Amber Woods took her clipboard and read through the questions: Did she have any dental surgury in the past month? No. Did she have a history of a list of unpronouncible diseases printed on the form? No. Did she get a tattoo in the past six weeks? No. Was she feeling well today? Actually, she had been feeling great until Criss was almost killed by the Bomber, but she marked Yes. Jaundice, hepatitis, or HIV? No. Was she sexually active? Only in my dreams with Criss, but she put down Yes anyway. Had she come into contact with anyone with HIV? No.

She finished her form and held it up to her lips. This is for you, Criss! She kissed the paper on the board and handed it to the registration nurse, then sat down and waited.

The waiting area began to fill to overflowing. To prevent any safety violations, an empty office across from the Red Cross station was opened, stocked with chairs for the accomodation of the crowd inside the building. Amber found herself seated next to a Latino man wearing a bandana gangster style on his head. She was a bit concerned at first, but if he was here for the same reason as she, then he had to be harmless, he had to be a fellow Loyal, she reasoned.

"Amber Woods," a volunteer called out.

Amber jumped up at the sound of her name, ready to give. but she still had to go through the preliminaries in the cubicles, with the blood tests and the seemingly endless questions. She fidgeted with impatience. Criss was dying, and here she was going through all this paperwork, she thought. She was here to save him, not fill out forms!

Finally, all her information was recorded and filed to the Red Cross' satisfaction, and she was led to a table where a volunteer mechanically explained the procedure to her, to breathe normally, squeeze the rubber ball, and if she felt faint, to call out for help. "Just do it," she insisted. "Just stick the needle in and do it! You can take every drop I have, just save Criss!"

The needle slid into her arm, and rich, red blood traveled through the plastic tubing into the pouch with her name and donor number computer-printed on it. As she lay there, a spiky-haired fellow hopped onto the table next to her. He lay down, endured the same routine as she had from the volunteer assigned to that particular table, and prepped his arm for the needle. "C'mon, lady," Spiky-hair encouraged her with bravado, "hook me up and drain me dry!"

Amber could not sit up, of course, but she could hear what was going on all around her. The Red Cross volunteers went about their routines mechanically, asking the same incomprehensible questions and delivering the same information about blood donation and AIDS an HIV. The donors themselves had more interesting things to say:

"How come we gotta fill out these fricking forms?"

"Look, I'm straight, I'm clean, and I'm sober! That's all you need to know, right?"

"Did I have what in the past six months?"

"Have it? Hell! I can't even pronounce it!"

"Take it all, nurse! Take it all! Every last drop of blood I have, just save Criss Angel!"

"This is for you, Criss! Whoooooo!"

"Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women..."

"Aw, (bleep)! I shouldn't have gotten that tattoo! Now I can't give blood for Criss!"

"Oh, Jesus, I'm gonna be sick!"

"Emergency!"

"Just take it easy, you'll be all right."

"Juice boxes and cookies?! What the hell is this, kindergarten?"

"Anyone want to go in for pizza?"

"What? No beer?"

"Hey, I feel fine, really! I'm good for another round!"

The plastic pouch dangling beside her filled, Amber was disconnected from the needle and her wound bandaged. She held her arm upright, pressing a square of gauze with her free hand. She slowly sat up with the help of the volunteer and escorted to the recovery table. As she munched her cookies and drank her juice, she was soon joined by Spiky-hair and the Latino she had sat next to in the waiting area.

"Hey, how ya doin'?" Spiky-hair greeted her.

"Hey, wassup?" the Latino waved at her.

Amber smiled. "Hey, guys. You okay?"

"Fine," Spiky-hair nodded. He picked up a Red Cross "Be Nice to Me, I Gave Blood Today" sticker, peeled off the backing, and stuck it to his ragged t-shirt.

"So, what's your name?" the Latino asked Amber.

"Amber. Amber Woods."

"Name's Raul Alvarez." They shook hands. "How about you, man?"

"Brent diOrio." Again, more handshakes all around. "Glad to meet you."

"So, what do you do?" Raul asked his new companions.

"I'm studying computer graphics at the University of Nevada." Amber replied.

Raul was impressed. "Hey, cool! You know, I'm trying to get a Latino Criss Angel Website going, okay? Maybe you can help?"

Amber brightened. "I'd love to! Sure!"

"What about you, man?" Brent asked Raul.

"Me? I'm an apprentice electrician, man. Las Vegas is the best place in the world to be an electrican, you know, what with all the lights and the computer-generated screens and all that."

"Yeah, for real," Brent nodded.

"What about you?" Amber asked Brent.

"Ah, I just work at the auto parts store off the Strip. I had the day off today, so I came down here to do my bit for the cause, you could say."

"Where were you when you heard about Criss?" Amber inquired.

"I was at work, and I heard it on the radio. I was like, oh, (bleep)! I mean, it was total shock!" Brent answered.

"I heard it on the radio where I was working. There was this big plasma TV in the next room, and we all watched it. God! It was awful!" Raul said. "How about you?"

"I was there," she said. "I saw the whole thing live." Amber burst into tears. "One minute Criss is riding around on his motorcycle, the next, he was--" Her voice choked off in a muffled sob.

"Aw, hey." Raul patted her shoulder. "He's gonna be okay. He's the MindFreak. That's why we're here, right?"

"Damn straight" Brent nodded. He tossed his juice box away. "To hell with this, man. I'm getting a pizza." He got up and left, exchanging high-fives with the people waiting in line to donate. Amber and Raul finished their snack and also left.





Outside the Red Cross station, shrines had been erected to Criss on the side of the building. Posterboard signs, teddy bears, silk flowers, drawings, photos and other signs of devotion lined the wall, more added by each passing Loyal. Dominating the scene was what had to be the world's biggest get-well card, a huge tryptich made up of three sheets of drywall hinged end-to-end with duct tape and covered front and back with scribbles of love and prayers for their fallen Angel--so many in fact it began to resemble the Berlin Wall. Those who bought camcorders wandered around, documenting the actions and reactions of the Loyals gathered there. Others resorted to camera phones to preserve the event for posterity. The general atmosphere was part vigil, part prayer circle, part Loyafest and part indignation meeting against the Vegas Bomber.

Raul and Amber met up with Brent, who had been sidetracked by a few friends among the crowd. "I swear to God," they heard Brent say, "I ever find this mother(bleeper) Bomber--" He flicked open a springblade for emphasis. "I'm gonna carve him a new one!"

"I'll hold him for you," one of his companions snarled.

The group laughed. Amber was startled. She didn't know that Brent was carrying a knife; it made her wonder if her newfound companion belonged to a gang or something. Brent turned and saw her standing next to him along with Raul.

"Hey, there!" Brent smiled.

"Wassup?" Raul greeted him.

"Just talking to some friends of mine." Brent said. "Jordan, Deege, Mike, and Evan. This is Raul, and Amber. I met them inside."

Hellos were exchanged. "Love to stay and chat, but I got to catch the bus home," Amber said. "Later."

They waved good-bye to her as she headed for the bus stop. A large group of Loyals stood there, waiting to return home after donating as well. Amber looked around idly at the crowded Red Cross station. Suddenly, she noticed a familiar figure wearing a large sunhat.

"Carey!" Amber called to her. "Over here!"

Carey caught sight of her and walked up to the bus stop. "Hello again," she said.

"You here to give blood?" Amber asked.

Carey shook her head. "Nope, sorry. My last bout with kidney stones disqualifies me."

"So, what have you been doing?"

"I just spent the better part of the day being grilled by the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police regarding the Vegas Bomber, is all."

Amber practically jumped out of her Nikes. "You're a witness?"

"Well, sort of," Carey replied. "I can't go into too many details about it, because--"

"Well, did you see him or not?" Amber demanded impatiently.

"No, I didn't see him, I just got a partial license plate and a voice."

"What'd he say?"

Carey sighed. "He said, and I quote, 'I did it, I did it, no more Criss effing Angel!', end quote."

The minute Carey uttered those words, shock and outrage spread among the Loyals like a brushfire out of control.

"You hear that? The Vegas Bomber is targeting Criss!"

"She saw him! That lady saw him!"

"Who?"

"The Vegas Bomber, dipwad!"

"No, I mean, who saw him?"

"The lady with the sunhat over there! She got his license plate and everything!"

"For real?"

"The Sunhat Lady over there nailed the (bleeper) who did it!"

"Tell us what you know, lady! We wanna know!"

The Loyals surged forward, screaming for answers. Fearing for her own safety, Carey fled the scene, seeking refuge in an alley behind the Red Cross Station. Oh, boy, I really did it this time! she said to herself. I had to go and tell the whole world about what I saw, which really wasn't much of anything to begin with, and now, not only have I put the whole investigation in jeopardy, but my life as well! Lord! How do I get myself into these things?

"Carey?"

She turned to see Amber Woods standing just outside the alley, with two young men beside her.

"Oh, Amber," Carey sighed with relief. "I don't know what to do now. I wanted to keep this under wraps, and now that everyone knows..."

"Don't blame yourself, hon," Amber said. "It's partly my fault for pressing you for details. It's just that everyone out there is gunning for the Bomber, and they're scared, see."

Carey looked at the two young men. "Who are your friends?"

"Oh, this is Brent, and this is Raul. We met inside when we were donating blood." Amber replied.

"How do you do." Carey nodded politely.

Brent waved and Raul nodded. Brent was the first to speak. "So, you know who did it? 'Cause whoever did it, man," he flicked open his springblade, "he gets it."

Carey was shaken at the sight of that slender knife in Brent's hand. "Now, wait just a minute there, friend! Let's talk this over, shall we?" An idea flashed into her head. "What do you all say we go out for pizza--my treat! Okay? My car is right over there."

They nodded. Brent sheathed the springblade. "Relax, lady," he assured her. "I wasn't going to use it on you."



In a small pizza restaurant Raul had pointed out as they drove away from the Red Cross station, Carey, Amber, Brent and Raul sat in a corner booth all the way in the back to avoid attracting attention. Carey had taken the extra precaution of leaving her sunhat in the car before entering the restaurant.

"So, I didn't really see anyone," Carey explained. "I just saw a big Lincoln towncar with a dent in the fender and just three letters on the license plate. The rest was a blur."

"But you heard his voice, didn't you?" Brent pressed.

"If you heard it again, would you recognize it?" Amber chimed in.

"I probably would, if I heard it again." Carey replied hesitantly. "You two are begining to sound like police investigators," she added with a little chuckle.

"Hey, we're concerned citizens," Brent told her. "We want this (bleeper) behind bars as much as anyone, and you're the key to do it! You're the prime witness!"

"What 'prime witness'? I just picked up a couple of crumbs of information and reported it to the police."

"Those 'crumbs' were the best lead anyone got, man," Raul pointed out.

The group fell silent when the pizza arrived, and did not speak again until after the waitress left.

"So, we gotta put our cards on the table and go over what we do know about the Vegas Bomber," Amber said authoritivly. "We have to go over every detail from the beginning. We'll start at the Luxor."

Carey rewound the mental videotape of her memory from that fateful day. "There was a car bomb that crashed through the main entrance and exploded. There was no driver. That's all I know."

"Anyone know what kind of car it was?" Raul asked.

"Two-door hatchback from what I saw from the framework," Brent said, "and from the videotape."

"The pipe bomb was attached to the gas tank, and the gearshift was stuck in 'drive'." Carey continued. "That's still not enough to go on."

"What about the Magic Castle?" Raul asked.

"Same deal," Carey said. "The pipe bomb was behind a bar where it went off. No one saw a thing."

Brent sighed in frustration. "Look, maybe the CSI people got more than we think," Carey said. "They can find a suspect with a single hair or a fingerprint. We should leave it up to them. They're the professionals, know what I mean?"

"But you're the closest witness we got," Amber insisted.

Carey threw up her hands in exasperation. "What witness? I didn't see anything! And why am I letting you drag me into your little investigation, anyway? I mean, I came her for a two-week vacation, some psycho starts blowing up the city, and all of a sudden I'm Nancy Drew! I gave my statement to the police--let them figure it out." She sank her teeth into a slice of pizza.

The group ate in silence. Once their meal was finished, Carey paid the bill, left a five dollar tip and walked out of the restaurant to where her car was parked. It was already dark; Carey noticed her car in the shadow of a retaining wall; she wished she had parked under a light. She glanced inside the car as she fumbled for her keys, then suddenly froze.

"Amber," she said quietly with forced calm, "I need you to call the police. Now."



JD Sarantakos stared incredulously at the two police officers standing before him. "You gotta be kidding me!" he cried.

Officer Jim Lettrille shook his head. "We checked out those footprints in the desert where the Bomber was allegedly hiding, and from the Magic Castle. We matched them up with those bootprints we found around the Luxor, in the back of your office. They matched perfectly."

"But I never even wore those boots!" JD protested. "They'd been there since my wife picked them up from the shoe repair shop last Tuesday!"

"Do you have them here?" Lettrille asked.

JD led the two officers to the very back of the MindFreak office. "There!" he pointed out triumphantly, "you see?"

Lettrille picked up a boot and examined it. "You say they were in a repair shop?"

"That's right. And my wife picked them up and left them there. I hadn't touched them since."

Lettrille held up the boot higher for JD to see. "Then what's all this dirt in the treads? Your shoe repairman take 'em out for a test run or something?"

JD's bowels turned to water. "But I never...I swear to God...!"

"Okay," Lettrille said. "We'll take the boots to the lab and run a few tests, take a few soil samples, and if there's any sweat samples inside, we'll run a DNA test. If they come up negative, you got nothing to worry about. In the meantime, you'd better come with us." He carefully slid the boots into a large plastic bag.

"Officer," JD protested, "I swear to God, I am not the Vegas Bomber! I was nowhere near where he struck! I never even wore those boots since they came back from the shop! I'm telling you, I didn't do it!"

"You can tell us everything when we get to the station," Lettrille said. "Like I said, if the tests come up negative, you're good to go."

"All right, fine!" JD walked out the door alongside the two policemen. "You have my full cooperation. DNA, fingerprints, whatever--just take it! I'm going to prove to you that I am not the Bomber."

[Smurf]

Poor jd i hope this guy get caught soon , can't wait to read more

[RACHEL02189]

I'm lost how did JD get into this mess

[Veritas]

Originally Posted by RACHEL02189

I'm lost how did JD get into this mess

The CSI team took footprints from the back room when the desert bombing occurred. They matched soil samples and the prints with the boots Lyn had placed there after fetching them from the shoe repair shop. Since they belonged to JD, he became a suspect.

[Veritas]

"What's the deal?" Raul asked, stepping up to Carey's car. "You got a mugger in the back seat or something?"

"Someone's been in my car," Carey said. "The front seat is pushed all the way back, and I think there is something in there on the floor."

"The police are on their way now," Amber said, closing her cell phone.

"Good." Carey sighed with relief. "Whatever you do, don't touch the car, or let anyone else touch it. They need to look for fingerprints."

After an anxious ten minute wait, a single police cruiser quietly pulled into the restaurant parking lot. The sight of the blue and red lights stirred curiosity among the customers in the restaurant and passersby on the sidewalk. Two uniformed officers got out of the cruiser and walked over to Carey. "You the one who reported tampering with your vehicle?" the elder of the two officers asked her.

"Yes, right over here." Carey led the policemen to her car. "I noticed that the seat was pushed all the way back, and there's something on the floor by the gas pedal."

The younger officer clicked on his big black flashlight and examined the car's interior, reflecting smudges on the side window. The officer stood upright and turned to his partner. "We'd better get the bomb squad on this one," he said. "Looks like a pipe bomb to me."

The elder officer stepped forward and looked for himself. "Wired under the dash," he murmured. He turned on the police radio. "One-Five-Seven reporting possible pipe bomb in vehicle located at Nino's Pizza, corner of J--- and R--- street. Request Bomb Squad, over."

"One-Five-Seven, Bomb Squad is on its way, over." the police radio crackled in response.

"Ten-Four."

The two officers turned their attention to the groups of curious onlookers milling around the parking lot. "Okay, folks, everyone get back as far as possible, the farther the better. Everyone get back." the older officer ordered, hands upraised, motioning everyone away.

"Hey, man, is there really a pipe bomb in there?" someone asked.

"We got the Bomb Squad coming to check it out," the officer told him. "Just keep a safe distance."

Anxious looks and frightened chatter passed between the onlookers. It had to be the Vegas Bomber, they said amongst themselves, it just had to be. But why would he target an innocent woman?

The shrill blast of fire sirens shattered the peace of the neighborhood, announcing the arrival of the Bomb Disposal Unit, accompanied by the Las Vegas Munincipal Fire Department and escorted by three more police cruisers. The very sight of the armored BDU truck triggered a wave of horror among the citizenry already traumatized by three previous attacks. They didn't have to be told twice to "get back" when ordered by the police to do so; past images of blasted, burnt bodies reminded them of what would happen if they got too close.

The scene was cordoned off with yellow plastic tape. Those inside the restaruant were told to remain inside and stay away from the windows in case of a blast, while those outside were instructed to either go back home or keep behind the "barricade" of yellow tape. Only those with children chose to leave; most stayed to witness this real-life crime drama to the end, watching with horrifed fascination. Some held up camera phones to photograph the scene. Tension mounted as the BDU Squad geared up for whatever was to come.

As the Bomb Squad readied itself, a CSI investigator dusted the side window for fingerprints, extracting them carefully with adhesive tape. A dusty footprint was found by the driver's side window; it was photographed and preserved with plastic laminate. Finally, the car door was opened. A BDU officer reached inside, fumbled around a bit under the dash, and withdrew an unexploded pipe bomb. Gasps and shrieks of astonishment and horror echoed up and down the street. Carey's knees almost buckled at the sight of it. My God! she said to herself, that guy's trying to kill me!


"So you were in the production office when the first bomb went off at the Luxor, is that right?" Officer Lettrille asked JD Sarantakos. "And you were in the valley with the production crew during the motorcycle stunt."

"That is right," JD insisted. "You can even check the surveillance tapes in the Luxor for yourself. And the footage from the demonstration. Nothing was edited yet."

"Then how did your boots get the same soil sample from the same spot the Bomber had been when he threw the bomb if you never wore them?" Lettrille inquired, leaning closer to his suspect.

"Hey, you tell me," JD retorted facetiously, "you guys are the experts. Those boots never left the back room since they got back from the shop."

Lettrille leaned back, sighing. He wanted to believe this man, he really did, but years of experience had taught him that people could commit the most heinous crimes and put on Oscar-winning performances protesting their innocence. Besides, the soil samples belied the suspect's alibi.

A rap on the glass-paneled door caught his attention. It was Dr. Mackenzie Taylor from the crime lab. "We got DNA results from the interior of the boots." she said, handing him the report. "According to the test results, the sweat sample DNA from the boots we took and Mr. Sarantakos' own sample don't match. It seems someone was wearing them at the time of the attacks."

"You check for fingerprints?" Lettrille asked.

"We checked, but the perp was probably wearing latex gloves, so nothing definitive." Dr. Taylor told him.

Lettrille turned to JD. "So, it looks like someone was wearing your boots," he said. "Any idea who?"

"No one I know of," JD replied. "The only one I know who about the same size I am is my brother, Costa, and he was injured in the Luxor bombing. Couldn't have been him."

"My guess is that it was an inside job, a member of the crew," Lettrille said. "You know of any, you know, disgruntled workers? Anybody get fired, wanted some sort of payback?"

JD shook his head. "No one I remember," he said.

A CSI officer burst into the office. "Hey, Jim! We got a call from Dispatch. They found a pipe bomb inside a car at some restaurant. Bomb Squad's bringing it in now."

"Send it over to the lab," Lettrille ordered. "and make damn sure it's defused!" He turned to JD Sarantakos. "Well, I guess you're cleared. You can go home now." He smiled a little. "No hard feelings?"

JD stood up and shook Lettrille's hand. "None whatsoever," he said. " I know you're just doing your job, and I just got caught up in it. This psycho's almost killed my brother. I want him caught more than you do. Good luck."

The two men went their separate ways, Lettrille to the crime lab, JD to the exit. The latter found himself in the middle of a media firestorm as soon as he stepped out the door. Flashbulbs nearly blinded him as he struggled through the crush of bodies, cameras and microphones, snapping photos and demanding statements from him regarding his arrest.

Amid the journalistic feeding frenzy JD spotted a familiar face--Dave Baron, Criss' manager who had come to take JD back to the hotel. Weaving his way through the massed media, he managed to reach JD in one piece. "Dave, what the hell is going on here?" JD demanded.

"There's been a news leak," Baron told him. "Someone saw you being taken away in a police cruiser, heard something about you being the Bomber, and all screaming hell broke loose."

"Oh, Geez!" JD groaned aloud. He turned to the press. "Okay," he shouted over the din. "First of all, whatever charges there were against me, I've been cleared. Whoever did this was trying to frame me. The crime lab experts proved my innocence. I am not the Bomber!"

"How were you connected to the bombings?" a female reporter cried out.

"I had a pair of boots that were stolen and worn by the Bomber. DNA tests showed it was someone else." he replied. "The soles had the same dirt as the crime scenes."

"Were you formally charged?" shouted another reporter.

"No! I was just bought in for questioning."

"Where were you when Criss was attacked?" demanded yet another reporter.

Geez! JD thought. They're worse than the cops! "I was where I was supposed to be--with Criss!" he snapped.

"You have any idea who the Bomber might be?" someone beside him asked.

"If I did, I'd go after him myself, instead of being here talking to all of you!" JD retorted irritably. "No more questions! I've been cleared, and that's all there is to it!"

The press clamored loudly for more statements. Baron held up his hands for silence. "May I have your attention, please!" he shouted. "I don't know how you got word of this, but everything is fine now, everything's okay, so please leave!"

JD pushed his way to the waiting hotel limo and dived in to the back seat, drawing a deep breath as the door closed behind him, shutting out the persistant media. "My God!" he exclaimed as the limo pulled away, "what a nightmare this week has been!"




"Whaddya mean JD was arrested?" Criss mumbled into his cell phone as he lay in his hospital bed. "For what?"

"It's okay, bro," Costa assured him. "He's been cleared. We got word from Dave. He's coming back to the hotel."

"Cleared of what?" Criss demanded.

"There was some circumstantial evidence linking him to the demo bombing," Costa explained carefully. "The CSI lab proved him innocent."

Criss was incredulous. "They think JD is the Vegas Bomber? That's bull(bleep)!"

"We know, we know, but he's been cleared, okay? Don't get upset about it, all right? You just take it easy. You've been through too much as it is."

"You coming to see me tomorrow?"

"We'll all be there to see you, okay?" Costa reassured him. "You just take it easy and get some rest. We'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay, see you tomorrow then," Criss drowsily replied. "Later."

Costa chose to ignore the irony of that statement and said good night to his injured brother. Flipping off his phone, Criss lay in his gauzy prison, feeling sleep creeping upon him.

JD is innocent! Criss said to himself. He wouldn't hurt anyone, much less a member of his own family! Costa said he was cleared of all the charges. They shouldn't have charged him in the first place! He had nothing to do with it, nothing to do with it at all...

Criss drifted off to sleep with these thoughts still echoing in his mind. Nothing to do with it, nothing at all...

[Smurf]

Great Chapter ,i can't believe Jd is getting set up , i hope they catch this guy soon , can't wait to read more