[Veritas]

Saturday morning, and Jim Lettrille was asleep at his desk, styrofoam coffee cups flanking him on both sides, his head pillowed with the evidence report from the lab. His face was a couple of days away from a shave, and his thinning brown hair looked even more sparse, giving credence to the old joke around the department that Jim Lettrille was going bald from pulling it out whenever he was handling a difficult case. Given the fact that he was a twelve-year veteran on the force, it was a wonder he had any hair left to pull. That was how Officer Rosario Vivera, the administrative assistant from the Vehicle Violations department, found him that Saturday morning. She shook his shoulder to wake him. Lettrille snorted loudly and stirred.

"Hmm? Whaaa...?" he mumbled groggily.

"My God, Jim," Vivera said, "don't you ever go home?"

Lettrille rubbed his stubbly face and looked at his watch: Eight-thirty AM. "Oh, Geez!" he groaned. "Shiela's gonna be so pissed off at me." He made a mental note to buy his wife some flowers to atone for his night long absence and sat up in the chair, stretching his arms and legs to get the blood flowing again. He turned and finally noticed Officer Vivera standing next to him. "Oh, hi, Rosie," he said. "Whaddya got for me?"

"We ran a make on the Lincoln towed in last night from Ubeck," she said, handing him a printout.

Lettrille took the paper and read it over carefully. A smile began to creep over his unshaven face. Suddenly, it was going to be a beautiful day.



It was ten AM when Carey woke up, the bright Nevada sun nearly blinding her. She winced, got out of bed and closed the blinds. She located her bifocals and slid them on. Able to see more clearly, she dressed in her new khaki shorts and white cotton blouse, leaving her winter pale legs exposed to the desert sun. Donning her sunhat, she clipped on her pursepack and headed out to breakfast. She summoned the elevator and went down to the main floor.

The atrium was abuzz with activity. Broken, scorched tile had been chiseled out, leaving bare concrete underneath. Carey watched as a sweaty contractor spread thinset adhesive onto a new tile and painstakingly set it into place. Panes of window glass the size of a wall were carried in and carefully positioned into the frames of the storefronts and quickly caulked around the edges to secure them. Another contractor heat-pressed finishing strips onto the main desk to conceal the raw edges of the wood veneer. The whole atrium smelled of adhesive and sawdust, bringing back memories of her childhood in her father's carpet store, of clambering over the huge rolls of carpet stacked in the warehouse with her brother and sister. Sweet days gone by.

Carey turned and exited the hotel from the side. She figured that by the end of the day the main entrance would be opened again. Big Money bought big results, she thought, and nowhere on earth did the American Dollar command more attention than in Las Vegas. It was the lifeblood of the city, its very reason for its existance; it was the element its citizens swam in. Everything had a price tag, and everyone had their price. Thousands upon thousands flocked to this golden city, hoping to leave with some of its fabled bounty, only to find themselves reduced to penury, their dreams of easy wealth shattered like a fallen martini glass.

Now, that fabled wealth was being used to repair the damage done to the Luxor's atrium, with quick results. How much more damage had the Bomber created in this city, she wondered, and not just property either. Since the initial attack, many of the guests had checked out and either moved into the other hotels or simply gone back home. The Luxor, Carey had found from watching the local news last night, wasn't alone in losing business. Many of the other famous hotels, such as the Mirage, the Aladdin, Excalibur, and others were also losing revenue from the bombing attacks. Casinos reported a drop in patronage as well as the nightclubs and bars. Many celebrities had cancelled their shows out of fear for their safety, resulting in an even greater loss of revenue. Everyone was just plain scared.

Carey stepped out into the bright midmorning sun. She decided to walk down the Strip, maybe find a restaurant she hadn't tried yet. As big as the Strip was, it would probably be noon until she found one.

Everything seemed peaceful enough, she thought as she walked down the street. Maybe the police tracked the guy down and caught him. Maybe the Bomber had been found hiding in that house like the coward he was and arrested. Maybe there was something like it in the paper. She found a newsstand and bought the morning edition of the Las Vegas Sun. The front page detailed the pipe bomb found in her car, though her name was not mentioned, thankfully, and the evidence found around the house where she spotted the car, but no suspect had been arrested yet.

Disappointed, but not entirely so, Carey entered a small bistro advertising a brunch special and waited for a table. They were closer to finding the Bomber than ever, she told herself. They had more clues to his identity and more evidence to send him to Death Row. It was just a question of when.




Lettrille knew that, too; he had the arrest warrant for the Bomber's capture in hand. The car registration from the Lincoln towncar gave the name of Edward Charles Emory, living on 4804 Ubeck Street, the very house where they had found the vehicle. Emory had covered his tracks very well, not leaving any mail or any other document with his name on it. The car was left behind because it had a blown head gasket, leaving it undrivable--another lucky break for the police.

Two cruisers and a police van approached the house on Ubeck, this time silently. Lettrille spied the house and bolted out of the cruiser before it had time to stop.

The front door dangled on broken hinges from last night's raid; Lettrille entered the house, gun drawn, ordering the two officers who acompanied him to spread out. "Emory!" he shouted. "Come out with your hands up! We know you're here!"

A slight movement flashed by the corner of his eye. Lettrille whirled around to see a person run out the back door.

"He's going out the back!" Lettrille barked at the two officers. "Get him!"

The three officers tore out the back door, flinging aside the flimsy screen door, completely tearing it off the frame. The fleeing man tried to dash across the weedy back yard, but the thick overgrowth slowed him down, sending him tumbling to the ground.

"I didn't do nothin'!" Emory protested as his arm were pinioned behind his back and handcuffs clacked onto his wrists. "I didn't do nothin'!"

With a strong sense of satisfaction, Lettrille stood over the man he had pursued for three straight days. A small, vengeful part of him wanted to kick in the guy's face, but his years of discipline and training overrode it.

"You have the right to remain silent," Lettrille recited authoritatively. "If you choose to waive that right, anything you say will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you wish to have an attorney and cannot afford to do so, one will be provided for you before questioning. Is that clear?"

Emory nodded wearily. The two officers hauled him to his feet and frogmarched him to the waiting van. Lettrille headed back to the cruiser. It was over, he thought. This time, for sure, it was over.



Carey sat in the bistro, eating her Eggs Benedict brunch, when the large plasma television flashed a news bulletin. VEGAS BOMBER CAPTURED read the caption on the bottom of the screen. The news anchor related the pursuit and arrest of one Edward Charles Emory, confirmed by the police through the evidence on file to be the Vegas Bomber which had been terrorizing the city and responsible for the deaths of three people and the injuries of over two dozen others, most notably famous illusionist , Criss Angel, who is listed in serious but stable condition.

Cheers broke out in the bistro, so loudly that no one could hear the rest of the broadcast. Complete strangers high-fived each other like fans of a championship winning team. Carey smiled broadly. She knew it! She knew the guy would be captured! It was only a matter of time. Modern police investgation was too sophisticated to let him slip through the cracks.

She turned again to the screen. The face of the Vegas Bomber was revealed to the public for the first time on national television, along with his name, Edward Emory. The cheering turned to curses and fists with middle fingers extended replaced the high-fives. Carey, however, reeled from the slow shock of recognition. She knew that man on the screen--she had seen him before! The red-gold hair and goatee--it was that lousy magician she had met in the restaraunt on her first day in Vegas!

Him?! she said to herself. That lame-ass magician, the Vegas Bomber who couldn't do a decent card trick to save his life? HE'S the one who's been going around throwing pipe bombs? I can't believe that!




The news of the Bomber's capture set off a mini-Mardi Gras up and down the Strip and beyond. Car horns honked and blared; there was cheering in the streets. Liquor stores did land-office business as whole cases of beer and liquor were swept off the shelves. The terror was over! Las Vegas could live again!

Amateur videographers and professional camera crews recorded the tumultuous scene. Many of the revelers took advantage of their presence to claim a few minutes of fame and to send greetings to friends and family, and to send get-well wishes to an injured Criss Angel:

"Criss! We love you! Get well soon!"

"We just wanna say hi to Criss and tell him we're praying for him and his family! It's okay, they caught the Bomber!"

"Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad! They got the Bomber! Okay? We're all safe here! Be home soon!"

"WE LOVE CRISS ANGEL!! WHOOOOO!"

"God! I hope the (bleep)ing Bomber burns in (bleep)ing Hell! I hope they burn his (bleep)ing (bleep)!"

"I just want to say (sniff), that I love you, Criss, and...(sniff), please get well soon. I've been praying every...every day for you to get well and to see again...and...Oh, God, I can't go on! (sob)."





"Mrs. Thorton?"

Rosemary Thorton set aside the newspaper she had been reading in the lobby of the Clark County Human Services office and stood up from the uncomfortable plastic chair where she had been sitting with little Bethany Silverman at her side.

She had been summoned by Social Services earlier that morning with word about Bethany's family in Maryland; an aunt and uncle had been located in Bethseda, and they were willing to take her into their custody. She had gathered the little girl's things as quickly as she could and sent for a taxicab, then rode anxiously the ten miles to the Social Services office, tipping the driver an extra ten dollars to please hurry, only to be stuck in the waiting area for the better part of an hour until someone remembered they were out there and called for her. Someone had left the morning newspaper on the side table, so she had something to read while waiting. Bethany read the "funnies" while Mrs. Thorton skimmed the headlines. The Vegas Bomber was still terrorizing the metropolitan area with no end in sight, it seemed. She was about to read more before she was called in.

Mrs. Riley, the social worker, a plump redheaded woman in a blue business suit, escorted Mrs. Thorton and Bethany to her cubicle. She sat down at her desk, the elderly woman and the little girl in front of her. "First of all, we'd like to thank you for caring for Bethany while we located her family," Mrs. Riley smiled.

"Oh, it was no trouble at all, really," Mrs. Thorton said. "She's such a dear, and so brave after what happened."

"Well, the good news is we found Bethany's aunt and uncle in Bethseda, and they will be waiting for her at the airport this afternoon." Mrs. Riley went on. "We've arranged an escort for her with the flight crew to take her home. Can you make sure that Bethany gets to the airport by?"

"Oh, absolutely!" Mrs. Thorton replied cheerfully. "I'll take her in a cab myself, and make sure she gets on the plane safely."

Mrs. Riley handed Mrs. Thorton a navy blue airline boarding pass. "Wonderful! Here's her ticket. Make sure she has it when you get there."

"Oh, don't worry about me," Mrs. Thorton laughed. "My memory's not that far gone, I assure you. I am going to make absolutely sure Bethany gets on that plane for home!"

The two women stood, shook hands and left the cubicle, the little girl in tow. "I'm gonna go home today, Mrs. Thorton?" Bethany asked.

"Yes, dear, you are," the old woman replied. "You are going to live with your aunt and uncle in Bethseda."

"I am?"

"Yes, dear, you are. Now, we'd better hurry or you'll miss your flight."

They left the building and stepped outside into a carnival atmosphere. Bewildered, Mrs. Thorton tapped the shoulder of the first person she encountered, a twentysomething man with both arms sleeved with tattoos. "Excuse me, young man," she said politely, "but, what is going on here?"

"Haven't you heard, lady?" the tattooed man cried exuberantly. "The cops nailed the Bomber!"

Mrs. Thorton was startled at this sudden turn of events. "They caught him? Really?"

"Yep," the tattooed man affirmed with a nod. "Just this morning! His ass is grass, I can tell you that!"

"Oh, my!" said Mrs. Thorton, fluttering a hand over her chest. "Oh, my, that is good news!"

"Damn straight, lady!" crowed the tattooed man as he trotted away to join the other revelers on the boulevard.

Bethany looked up at her guardian, "Didja hear that?" she said eagerly. "They caught 'im! They caught 'im an' put 'im in jail!"

Mrs. Thorton nodded. "Yes dear, they did," she said. "Now, we'd better get a move on. We don't want you to miss your flight."

Bethany wrapped her arms around her guardian's hips. "I'm gonna miss you, Mrs. Thorton," she murmured.

Mrs. Thorton smiled sadly. "I'm going to miss you, too, dear, " she said. "Now, let's get you to the airport."




"Criss, you awake?" a familiar voice spoke through the darkness.

"Marisol?" Criss murmured.

"Hi," Marisol said. "I came to give you some good news."

Criss could feel her smile. "Sure," he murmured again.

"I heard on the news today they caught the Bomber this morning. He's in jail. Isn't that great?"

Criss' dark world suddenly seemed brighter. His voice quavered with emotion. "Thank God," he said. "Thank God."

[RACHEL02189]

party over here lol

[Smurf]

can i join in ? , i'm glad the bomber got caught i can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

It was late Saturday afternoon, that time of day when Las Vegas begins suiting up for the evening shift of high rolling and nightlong debauchery. Carey had planned to stay in her room that night, drained as she was after the Vegas Bomber's weeklong reign of terror and her part in bringing him down.

The telephone in Carey's hotel room rang twice before she picked it up. "Hello?" she said politely with a touch of curiosity.

"Hello, is this Ms. Carey Conner?" a man's voice spoke into her ear from the headset.

"This is she."

"Ms. Connor, this is Dave Baram, manager for Criss Angel, and we'd like you to come down to the MindFreak Productions office. An Officer Jim Lettrille is here to wrap up the investigation, and since you're the primary witness--"

"I'll be right down." Carey hung up, picked up her keycard and headed down to the atrium. As she descended in the elevator, she sorted through the past week's events like scattered photographs in a shoebox: the Luxor bombing; the Magic Castle bombing; the pipe bomb in her own car; the dented fender and license plate on that old Lincoln towncar; Criss' body flying through the air in the desert valley like a rag doll; Brent flashing his springblade in her face; the crowds of grief-stricken Loyals around the hotel and her little white lie to clear them out of there. God! What a nightmare her dream vacation turned out to be! I'm glad I booked a two-week stay here, she said to herself. I mean, I'm going to need a vacation just to recover from my vacation!

The elevator slid quietly and smoothly to a stop, and just as quietly and smoothly the doors slid open. Carey stepped out of the car and into the atrium. She didn't have the vaguest idea where the production office was, so she decided to cross over to the hotel desk and ask for directions.

In a week's time, the Luxor's famous atrium was fully restored to its former grandeur--indeed, it looked like it hadn't even been hit. The floor was polished to a mirror brightness, new greenery sprouted from marble-lined faux gardens, new windowpanes reflected overpriced merchandise. She remembered suddenly that there would be a grand re-opening of the atrium tonight, and she had received a VIP invitation by none other than the CEO himself. So much for a quiet evening, she said to herself.

As she walked briskly toward the front desk, she heard a voice call out from behind her. "Hey! Where's your sunhat, lady?"

She turned around to see some garishly dressed, body-pierced, tattooed twentysomethings standing by one of the faux gardens. From the Affliction t-shirts and the circle-A pendants, she recognized them to be Loyals. Maybe they can save me a trip and tell me where the MindFreak office is, she thought. She crossed over to the group with a gracious smile. If they gave her any trouble, she figured, she'd have security on them in no time. "Good afternoon," she said to them.

"Hi," a Gothic vampirish-looking girl with bone straight black hair said cordially enough. Her equally ghoulish companions also gave their hellos.

So far, so good. "So, what can I do for you?" Carey said to her new companions with a hint of nervousness in her voice.

"Hey, you did it already," Vampire Girl replied. "You nailed the Vegas Bomber. You are a (bleeping) hero, you know that?"

Carey held up her hands to fend off any accusations. "Now wait just a minute, there," she protested. "First off, I did not 'nail' him, I just picked up a tidbit or two and let the police figure it out. And second of all, how did you know who I am, anyway?"

"Hey, man, we saw you on YouTube. You're famous!"

YouTube? Her bowels turned to water. "You mean, I'm on the Internet?" she gasped.

"Damn straight! Someone taped you at the pizza restaraunt and sent it in!" said a blond haired young man who looked like a cross between a member of the Sex Pistols and the Hitler Youth.

Oh, Lord! Carey groaned inwardly, this, I don't need! "Look," she said urgently, "I need to go to the MindFreak Productions office. You know where it is?"

Vampire Girl took the lead. "Sure, I'll take you there. C'mon, it's this way."

Carey exhaled deeply. "Thank you."

She followed her creepy companions through the atrium, down a corridor and to the door clearly marked MindFreak Productions Office. There was a crowd of gawkers around the large windows like visitors at a zoo exhibit. Some turned and saw Carey and her peculiar escort.

"Hey! It's her!" someone cried out. "It's the Sunhat Lady!"

"Where? Where?" others demanded.

"Right there!" a finger pointed straight at her.

Carey suddenly found herself mobbed by Criss Angel's fans as if she had been Criss himself, forcibly greeted with hugs, handshakes and demands of "Hey, where's your hat?"

Help! she mentally cried out as she struggled to get to the safety of the office. Like the calvary, a couple of security guards came to the rescue; they pushed the crowd back and guided Carey into the office.

"My God!" she gasped as the door shut behind her. "I didn't think I'd get here alive!"

She readjusted her bifocals and walked over to where Officer Lettrille, Dave Baram, the Sarantakos brothers, JD and Costa, their mother, Dimitra, and the CEO himself, Felix Rappaport, were all standing, along with other members of the production staff. "Good afternoon," Carey said for lack of anything better to say to them.

Rappaport was the first to speak. "Good afternoon, Ms. Conner, we're glad you could make it."

So am I, Carey mentally replied, considering I was mobbed out there!

"Well, I am sure you know by now that the Vegas Bomber has been taken into custody, and it was your tip that brought him to justice."

"Well, I--"

"And you know that there was a reward for his capture." he continued.

"Well, yes, I--"

"So, on behalf of the Luxor Hotel and Casino, and the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, I hearby award you the sum of one hundred thousand dollars."

A large check was pushed into her direction. Carey took it hesitantly, bewildered over this singular honor. Everyone present applauded as a photographer snapped a picture of the pole-axed expression on her face as she received it. "Uh, thank you, I..I guess." she stammered bemusedly. "I really didn't do much, you know, just picked up a couple of bits of this and that, you know."

"Those 'little bits of this and that' are what finally nailed the Vegas Bomber," Officer Lettrille pointed out. "That car you saw was the biggest break in the case we ever got. And calling us about the pipe bomb in your car was the smartest thing you ever did. We got all the evidence we need to convict him."

"I need to sit down," Carey trembled.

She was led to a sofa and given a bottle of spring water. "Oh, Lord!" she sighed.

Lettrille sat opposite of her, smiling for the first time since she met him. "I suppose you would like to know the facts?"

"All I know is that he was just some lousy magician I met in the hotel restaraunt my first day here who couldn't do a lousy card trick. I never pegged him to be the terrorist type."

"Well, that 'lousy magician' as you call him goes by the name of Edward Emory." Lettrille pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy of Emory's mugshot. "Is that him?"

"That is he, yes," Carey confirmed.

"We ran a make on him. Found out he tried out for a spot on that show Criss Angel hosted last October, Phenomenon, is it?"

Carey nodded. She remembered that show, brief though it was. One contestant, a Jim Callahan or Callaghan--she couldn't remember--had created a ruckus when Criss called him out on a challenge to mentally "read" the contents of an envelope he had in his pocket, and the show almost went Jerry Springer when the angry pseudo-psychic flew into him.

"Well, he auditioned, and he washed out on the first try," Lettrille continued.

"Why am I not surprised?" Carey retorted.

"He still thinks of himself as the greatest thing since Houdini; a legend in his own mind, you know. When he blew the audition, he developed a personal vendetta against Criss Angel. As far as he was concerned, he was the one who should be top of the heap, with all the cars and the girls and the luxury suite. Instead, he was living in a two bedroom house on Ubeck Street which had been foreclosed months ago, just scraping by."

"How did he get the materials for the pipe bombs, then?" Carey asked.

"That's what we are trying to find out," Lettrille replied. "We found only small traces of sulfur, gunpowder and other materials in the basement. The guy tried to sweep it clean, but not good enough for the dogs. He's got to have some supplies hidden somewhere."

An alarm went off inside Carey's brain. If they did not find those bombmaking materials soon, someone else would, and that someone would either use them for their own nefarious uses, or end up blown to bits themselves. Given the volatile nature of explosives, that was not too far fetched. "So, he boosted some klunker right off the street, hot-wired it, and turned it into a rolling bomb, right into the Luxor" Lettrille continued. "No one saw him because he just shifted it into gear and let it roll while he ducked behind a building."

"And the Magic Castle?"

"Passed himself off as a professional magician, smuggled in another bomb, set it behind one of the bars and took off. One of the wait staff recognized his face when she saw his picture."

"And tell her about the boots," JD Sarantakos reminded him.

"Oh, yeah, the boots" Lettrille recalled . "Turns out he slipped in the back of the office wearing a maintenance worker's coveralls, made off with the boots, wore them while he did his dirty work in the desert, and in all the confusion, put them back where he found them."

"Thus trying to frame JD for the crime," said Carey.

Lettrille nodded. "We got his DNA sample from the persperation he left behind in them, and we found his fingerprints on the door. Also, video surveillance caught him in the act."

"Why didn't anyone stop him?" Carey demanded.

"As I said, he was dressed like a maintenance man, so security didn't take too much notice of him."

Carey sighed. Even with the most sophisticated, round-the-clock surveillance that money could buy, human error was always a factor never considered by those who invested in it.

"The rest is history" Lettrille said. "You caught the guy's license plate and a description of the car, and we did the rest."

"But how did he know I saw him? He planted that pipe bomb in my car to get rid of me."

"That is another mystery we intend to solve," Lettrille said. "But you're safe now, Ms. Connor. Emory is being held without bond, so he's not going anywhere. We will have to subpoena you as a witness for the trial, you know that?"

"I understand," Carey told him, "and I intend to see to it that he gets put away for life."

"It won't be life, Ms. Connor," Lettrille said to her. "Emory is facing the death penalty for three counts of second degree manslaughter and one count of attempted murder, among other things. He's a domestic terrorist, a menace to society. And when they strap him to that table and give him the juice, I'll be there with the biggest smile on my face you ever saw."

Rappaport spoke up behind Lettrille. "You, me, and the rest of the city." He turned to Carey. "So, I'll see you tonight at the gala, hm?"

"Uh, yes, Mr. Rappaport, I'll be there," Carey nodded, still unsure.

"Good. We look forward to seeing you tonight." He shook hands with her and left.

"I guess I'd better be going as well," Lettrille said. "Well, so long, Ms. Connor, and thank you for your help. We couldn't have done it without you. You deserve every cent of that reward money." He winked mischeviously. "Don't spend it all in one place!" He smiled and walked out of the office.

Carey stared balefully at the retreating figure of Jim Lettrille. She was about to leave herself when she felt soft fingertips upon her hand. She turned and faced Criss' mother, Dimitra.

"Ms. Connor," she said in a gentle, Greek accented voice quavering with emotion, "I want to ask you a favor."

"Anything, ma'am," Carey said, "anything you want."

"I want you to come with me to the hospital tomorrow afternoon, and see Christopher," she said . "Do you want to see Christopher?"

Something in the tone of her voice seemed to say Do you want to see what that monster did to my son? Carey did not have the heart to refuse. After all this poor woman had been through, she thought, it would be rude of me to turn her down. "Yes, I'd like to very much," she replied hesitantly.

"Good. We pick you up at two." Dimitra wrapped her arms around Carey. "Thank you for finding that criminal who injured my darling son," she sniffled. "May God bless you."

Carey embraced her in return. "You're welcome," she choked. Poor old woman, she said to herself, what you must have suffered this past week! One son nearly scarred for life trying to save her, another blind and maimed with his career all but ruined. And her eldest nearly framed for both crimes in the bargain!

Costa walked up to the two women. "Sorry your vacation turned out to be a disaster," he said to Carey.

Carey released Dimitra and turned to Costa. "I admit, this wasn't in the brochure," she quipped.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter i can't wait to read more

[RACHEL02189]

can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

The first thing that struck Carey when she arrived at the Luxor Atrium Gala was the glamour, pure Las Vegas glamour, putting all the weddings and formal dances at the old banquet hall where she had worked during her college years to shame. The atrium itself was dimly lit. White-jacketed waiters glided between tables, holding aloft polished silver trays--real silver, not stainless steel--with very expensive looking beverages upon them, carrying them with such practiced ease that it seemed the glasses were permanantly attached to the trays. A meticulously arranged buffet, a masterpiece of culinary art dominated by a large, crystal clear ice sculpture of the Egyptian Sphinx replication outside the Luxor Hotel, stood to one side. A chef in a blindingly white jacket and paper toque stood behind a huge roast, carving knives at the ready.

Carey was quite intimidated among the elegantly dressed VIPs in their tuxes and after-nine gowns, and she in her ten-dollar lavender summer dress that she had picked up at a Big Lots store three years ago. She felt like a party crasher even though she had received an invitation from the CEO himself. Her only claims to fame were her book (and it wasn't even on the best seller list) and being the one person who identified the Las Vegas Bomber, or came closest to it. Maybe this was a mistake, Carey thought. Maybe I should just go back up to my room and forget this whole deal. I don't belong here with these people. Hell, I'm just a hack writer from Southfield, Michigan who saw a dent in a guy's fender and half a license plate.

She spotted the buffet. Well, at least I won't have to order room service, she thought. I'll just grab a quick bite and then I'm outta here.

Carey made her way to the buffet table, only to be stopped by none other than the CEO himself, who had seen her going by and headed her off at the pass. "Ah, Ms. Conner," he hailed her jovially, "glad you could make it."

"Oh, uh, thank you, Mr. Rappaport," she stammered.

"Well, hate to cut this short, but I have to make the dedication speech," he said. "Enjoy the rest of the evening."

"Thank you, sir." Great! Now I'm stuck here. she groaned inwardly. Lord, how do I get myself into these things?

Rappaport climbed up the dais to the podium. "Good evening," he spoke over the microphone. All conversation gradually died down. "Good evening," he repeated to the attentive crowd. "Thank you and welcome to the Luxor Atrium Gala. In case you don't know me, I am Felix Rappaport, CEO and President of the Luxor Hotel and Casino. Since its opening on October fifteenth, nineteen ninety-three, the Luxor Hotel's atrium has held the title of having the world's largest atrium, twenty-nine million cubic feet. By way of comparison, it is as large as most office buildings, if not larger.

"Up until a week ago, the only attack on the Luxor was an explosion in the parking garage on May seventh, two thousand and seven, when a car blew up, killing one of our employees. It was believed to be a homemade bomb." (1)

Anxious murmurs rippled through the crowd. Rappaport went on. "We had thought it was an isolated incident until last Monday, when another car bomb crashed into the atrium, exploding and killing two guests and a parking valet. The two incidents were not related, police say. After three days of terror, with the destruction of the Magic Club and the attack on Criss Angel in the desert valley, the so-called Las Vegas Bomber was finally apprehended."

The guests applauded. Please don't mention me! Carey thought.

Rappaport waited until the clapping stopped. "He was finally apprehended with the help of one of our guests here tonight, whose quick thinking and sharp eye aided the police in his capture. Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Carey Conner."

More applause as a blushing Carey was reluctantly escorted up to the dais. She smiled graciously but nervously at the Cosmopolitan magazine crowd on the floor, blushing furiously. Cameras flashed, nearly blinding her. She had never been the publicty-seeking type, prefering the privacy of the written word. More than anything, she wanted to get off that stage and back to her room.

"Now, it is my pleasure to declare the Luxor Atrium officially open," he said. "Ms. Connor, would you like to do the honors?"

Rappaport gave her a small, white remote with a red button. Carey pressed it and the atrium began to glow brightly from the overhead lights. Gasps of delight and more applause filled the huge atrium. There were more photos and more handshakes. You'd think I was running for mayor or something, she thought.

The rest of the evening was a blur. Carey managed to grab a few nibbles from the buffet table, but every time she tried to make a break for it, someone cut off her path of retreat with the same inane questions about what she saw, what she heard, how she felt about being a hero, and so on and so on. Her hand ached from all the grabbing and shaking. She was tired, she had a headache, and she was growing bored with the whole ordeal. Finally, around ten-thirty PM, when all the alcohol kicked in and made the guests oblivious to her presence, she slipped away from the gala and dashed to the elevators. An interminable wait later, she dived into the first car that opened and was swept away to her room, relieved to be free at last.

Carey peeled out of her dress and into her nightshirt, an oversized purple t-shirt with yellow butterflies on it. Yawning, she pulled on her pink robe and gave the Strip one last look before retiring for the night. She wanted to be well-rested for her visit with Criss Angel tomorrow.

Even from twenty floors up, she could tell that the Strip was livelier than ever; she guessed that people were making up for lost time after the Bomber's reign of terror ended. More cars were on the street, and more people populated the walkways. Life was good in Las Vegas once again. Satisfied that all was well in the world , she closed the blinds and headed for bed.

If she had stayed up a minute longer, she would have heard the all too familiar wail of a fire siren and seen the armor-plated Bomb Disposal Unit van headed for the Mirage.




The nine-one-one call was made just as Carey had made her exit from the gala, reporting what appeared to be a pipe bomb in the rear loading area of the Mirage Hotel. The hotel was not evacuated for fear of alarming the guests, but the ground level in the rear of the hotel was sealed off with heavy security doors.

The BDU set the dogs on the search for the bomb while they scanned the area with flashlights. Meanwhile, up in the surveillance room, security personnel combed through the past week's videotapes for anything suspicious, or at least unusual. After only five minutes' search, one of the dogs wagged his tail and sat down, his conditioned signal that a bomb had been found. His handler praised the animal with pat on his flanks and called his collegues to bring the "can", the reinforced barrel in which bombs are transferred and safely detonated.

Captain Marshall "Hard-Ass" Harding of the BDU since his discharge from the Marines after the Gulf War and acting commander since the turn of the Millennium, observed his men as a sealed pipe, about a foot long, was carefully lifted and deposited into the "can", quickly sealed, and swiftly removed from the premises. He didn't show it, but he approved of the well-executed, professional manner of the retrieval and disposal of the device; it was a classic manouvre, a textbook case.

Harding and his men had been earning their paychecks this past week since the Las Vegas Bomber began raising seven different kinds of hell along the Strip. Now, the son of a (bleep) was in jail where he belonged, but the BDU still received a call. A leftover from the Bomber? Could be. A copycat crime? Maybe--some (bleep)holes would do just about anything to get their fifteen minutes of fame. But it wasn't his to question why, his was to get that bomb the hell out of there before it went off. Let the cirme lab techies handle the whos and whys.

"We're ready to go, sir," one of his officers said to him.

Harding never wasted time with pleasantries, but barked at his men in the militaristic tone that gave him his nickname. "All right! Move it! In the van! Now!"

The BDU Squad trotted up to the van and filed in; the dogs were pulled along on their leashes and led into their own specially designed K9 unit SUV. Once settled, the BDU vans headed back to HQ to deliver the bomb to the techies in the crime lab.

"Think it was the same guy?" BDU Officer Wuliman asked anyone who cared to answer.

"Could be," his fellow BDU Officer Kotlrczak replied drily. "I dunno."

"You think there are any more out there?" Wuliman pressed on. "Some pipe bombs he set out and forgot about, you know?"

"Hell if I know," Kotlrczak shrugged. "Just gotta wait and see."




Sunday morning lived up to its given name. The sun rose in the clear blue desert sky, full of promise and hope. Carey, however, failed to see this glorious spectacle as she was still in a deep sleep and didn't wake up until ten-thirty AM. Once her brain kicked in, she suddenly remembered her promise to the Sarantakos family and bolted out of bed. Once showered and dressed in her green summer suit, she headed down to the atrium for Sunday Brunch. The atrium was cleared of any signs of the previous night's gala, returning to business as usual. Carey hoped Mr. Rappaport didn't take offense to her early departure.

In the hotel restaraunt, she helped herself to one of those luscious Eggs Benedicts and some cranberry juice to flush out what was left of her kidney stones. As she dined in welcome peace, she turned her attention to the large screen television adjacent from her table. It seemed every restaraunt she went to had a plasma television or three in it. It seemed so intrusive, almost Orwellian in a way, even more so when she considered that Las Vegas pioneered video surveillance in their casinos and hotels, setting the standard for security ever since, from convience stores to the CIA. Big Brother, it seemed, had been born in Sin City.

As usual, the set was tuned to CNN. She noted the rolling captions on the bottom of the screen, but could not make them out very well, even with her bifocals. Only when the larger caption read PIPE BOMB FOUND IN VEGAS did she sit up and take notice.

The screen flashed images of the BDU at the Mirage Hotel carrying out what looked like a garbage can. The announcer stated that it was an unexploded pipe bomb reported by a hotel worker. No one was hurt, thankfully. Investigations were underway to link it to the recently arrested Las Vegas Bomber.

Carey finished her brunch and dashed out of the restaraunt. Handle this one yourselves, boys--I've done my hitch. Today, I'm going to go visit Criss in the hospital.



As she waited for the limo to take her to the hospital, Carey saw Amber Woods enter the atrium. She rose to greet her. "Amber, what are you doing here?" she asked.

"Came to see you, that's all." Amber replied. "Did you go to that big party they had here last night?"

"I did, and it was a bore, really," she replied. "I'm not a party person, as a rule."

"So, what are you doing now?"

"Waiting for my ride to take me to the hospital," Carey said, and immediatly wished she hadn't.

"Why? You sick or something?" Amber was concerned.

Carey shook her head. "No, no. It's just that, well, if you promise not to freak out, I'm going there to see Criss Angel by invitation of his family."

Amber did freak out. "You're going to see Criss?" she squealed. "Oh, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease, can I come, too? Pleeeeeeeze?"

Carey sighed like a weary parent with a demanding child on her hands. "Okay, I'll ask to see if you can come along, but try not to be too disappointed if they say no."

Amber hugged Carey. "Oh, thankyouthankyouthankyou! You made my lifetime!"

Lord, Carey groaned inwardly as she extricated herself from Amber's arms, how do I get myself into these things?

(1) This was an actual incident recorded by Google.

[Smurf]

Great chapter can't wait to find out what going to happen next

[RACHEL02189]

This is getting stranger and stranger

[Veritas]

"Ms. Conner?"

Carey turned to see Dave Baram, Criss' manager, approaching her. "We're ready to go," he said.

"Thank you." She smiled apolgetically. "This is Amber Woods, Mr. Baram. She's a big fan of Criss Angel's, and she was with me when I was on Ubeck Street the night they towed the car away. She also called the police. Would you allow her to accompany me to the hospital before she self-destructs?"

"Please, Mr. Baram?" Amber pleaded. "I won't cause any trouble, I promise. I just want to see Criss. Please?"

Baram thought it over. "Okay," he said to Carey, "but she's your responsibility, got it?"

"Fine," Carey nodded. "We'll keep it brief."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Baram! Thank you!" Amber squealed. "I won't be any trouble, no trouble at all!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Baram mumbled impatiently. "Let's go."

Carey, Baram, and Amber settled themselves inside the spacious rear of the limosine. Amber pulled out her cosmetics bag and began touching up her face with a powder puff. Baram reached over to the minibar and poured himself a drink. Carey removed her sunhat and set it on her lap; no sense wearing it inside a limosine, she thought. She gazed idly out the tinted window, watching the famous Las Vegas Strip pass by her. Strange how different it looked in the daytime, almost boring, like any other city. At night it came alive, with its gaudy lights beckoning, seducing you to its pleasures like a vampire in a Gothic novel, only to return to sleep at sunrise.

Her reverie was broken by the sight of a fire engine going by. No sirens, no flashing red lights, just a fire truck tooling down the Strip as if on a morning commute. Maybe they were just returning from an emergency back to the station, she thought.

Carey recalled the newscast about a pipe bomb found in another hotel, the Mirage she thought it was, but that was last night. She was about to ask Mr. Baram about it when the limo made a sharp turn to the right up the main drive of the hospital. They had arrived. The limo glided gracefully up to the Visitors' Entrance and slowed to a stop. The driver got out, circled around to the side door and courteously opened it for his passengers. Carey donned her sunhat and picked up her handbag.

Carey, Amber and Baram exited the limo, stretching their legs under the canopy. The hospital staff seemed nonplussed at the sight of a limosine parked in front of the Visitors' Entrance; with all the high rollers and celebrities in Vegas, Carey figured they were undoubtedly used to it by now.

The glass doors slid open as the three stepped quietly into the visitors' lobby. Amber quickly spotted the Sarantakos family, mother Dimitra and the two brothers, sitting in one of the waiting areas. "There they are!" she gasped, trying to tone down her enthusiasm in the stillness of the hospital atmosphere.

The family rose to greet them. Carey stepped forward, hand extended. "Hello, Mrs. Sarantakos," she said as graciously as she could, "so good to see you again."

"Thank you." Mrs. Sarantakos turned to Amber. "And who is this?"

"Oh, this is Amber Woods," Carey told her. "She was with me that night I found the car, and she was the one who called the police--"

Amber could not control herself anymore, but threw her arms around the elderly woman. "Oh, God! Mama Angel, I don't know what to say! I asked Carey if I could come and see Criss! It must have been so hard on you this past week!"

Mama Angel embraced the girl comfortingly as only a mother could. "Now, darling, it's all right. Of course you can come and see Christopher. You called the police, right?"

Amber nodded eagerly. "Yes! Yes, I did! Right here on my cell phone, see?" She held up her pink Nokia.

"All right, come along, then. Christopher is in the sunroom today."

They left the lobby through another set of sliding doors and down a glass encased corridor. To the left was a large atrium-like sunroom, fit more for afternoon cocktail parties than for patient recovery with its beveled-glass doors, its meticulously tended greenery, and tiled walkways. In Las Vegas, even the hospitals were luxurious, Carey observed.

The sunroom was bright in the afternoon sun, but for the lone figure sitting in a wheelchair with his eyes bandaged, it was eternal night. Criss was fully dressed for the first time since his admission to the hospital, in torn jeans and grey t-shirt slid over his wrist cast. He stirred at the sound of footsteps approaching. He heard his mother's voice calling out his name. "Christopher?" she said softly. "We bought you some visitors."

Criss felt two slender arms wrap themselves tightly around him. "Oh, God! Criss!" Amber sobbed. "I always wanted to meet you, but not like this! Oh, please! Say you'll get well again! Please say you'll get your sight back and keep doing magic!"

"Amber, for heaven's sake, get a grip!" Carey snapped.

Criss put his free arm around Amber. "It's okay--Amber, is it?" he whispered. "Everything's gonna be all right. Don't cry anymore, okay? Hush, now, it's all right. Okay?"

Amber sniffled and reluctantly pulled herself away. JD stepped forward and guided her to a padded wicker chair. "You just pull yourself together, okay?" he said to her. "Can I get you some water?"

She shook her head no, still sobbing. Dimitra approached her injured son. "We bought the woman who found the Bomber" she said. "She is right here."

Carey stepped forward. "Hello, Criss, I'm Carey Connor."

Criss extended his free hand. "Nice to meet you," he said.

Carey shook Criss' hand carefully. "You're looking well, Criss," she spoke with feigned cheerfulness. "I see they've been taking very good care of you."

"Thanks," he deadpanned.

"You've already met Amber," Carey continued. "She and I met after the first bombing at the Luxor, and she was with me when I found the car where the Bomber lived. She was the only one who had the good sense to call the police."

"The 'only' one?" Criss asked.

"There were two other guys with us, Raul and Brent," Carey explained. "They were going to tear him a new one and went around back to find him."

"Did they find him?"

"No, he was either hiding or wasn't home. The car had a blown head gasket, so he couldn't drive away. Anyway, Amber got on her cell phone and the police did the rest."

''Way to go, Amber," Criss feebly cheered.

Amber smiled from her chair, still sniffling. She would have done anything for Criss, even given him her eyes if she could. He did not deserve to suffer like this, she thought. No one did, but especially her beloved Criss.

"Tell us what the doctor said about your sight," Dimitra requested.

"Well, they said the prognosis was good, whatever that means. I have another surgery coming up on Wednesday, and if that goes well, chances are good I'll get my sight back if there aren't any complications. I don't feel any pain, which means I don't have any infection, which is good."

"I'll be praying for you on Wednesday, Criss," Amber promised with all sincerity. "All the Loyals will. We want you to see again."

"I want me to see again, too, Amber," Criss quipped. "I hate being kept in the dark like this."

"What's it like, if you don't mind my asking?" Amber inquired.

Criss sighed. "It's like being inside a dark prison cell, in solitary confinement. No faces, no nothing, just voices in the distance. I get scared sometimes, wondering if anyone's out there, or I'm alone and I get so lonely. It used to be I had no time to myself; I was always in some club, or on stage, or doing a demonstration. Fans would come up to me and ask for an autograph or a picture or something. I was always surrounded by people. Now, all of a sudden, I'm alone, isolated in the dark. Hours would go by with no one to talk to. I feel cut off from the world all of a sudden. It's horrifying."

"You are not alone, Christopher," Dimitra said consolingly. "God is with you always. He is always there for you to talk to anytime you feel lonely or scared. God has not abandoned you; He is always at your side. He will bring light into your darkness, and will comfort you when you feel afraid."

"Amen to that," Amber spoke up. "We were at the Red Cross station, and you would not believe the people there, all praying for you, giving blood for your surgery."

"What surgery?" Criss asked, bewildered. "My surgery isn't until Wednesday."

"I'm afraid I have a little confession to make here," Carey said sheepishly, and went on to reveal her little scam with Felix Rappaport to clear away the mob of Loyals in front of the Luxor. Amber was appalled. "You mean I gave blood for nothing?" she said indignantly.

"Oh, it wasn't 'for nothing', dearie," Carey said. "Look at it this way: You and your fellow Loyals completely replenished the state blood supplies, enabling doctors and hospitals to save other people's lives. Remember, there were a couple dozen other victims of the Bomber as well. They needed blood more than Criss did, so the end justified the means."

Criss laughed weakly, the first laugh he had enjoyed since the attack. Amber, however, was still miffed. "I was doing it for Criss," she huffed.

"Amber," Criss said, "come here for a minute, willya?"

Amber got up and went to Criss, kneeling down by his wheelchair. Criss stroked her soft brown hair tenderly, but his head faced forward. "I know you feel a bit scammed right now," he said to her, "but when you gave blood, you were saving a life, even if it wasn't mine. Like Carey said, others have suffered from the bombing attacks like me. I got to see some of them before I was attacked myself. I helped start the Vegas Victims' Fund to help their families, and I put up the reward money for the Bomber's capture. But I only gave money: you gave life itself, and that was more than I ever did. In that sense, you did give blood for me, because I couldn't. You and the other Loyals helped save so many lives in the spirit of saving me. It may have seemed like a dirty trick, but in the end, a lot of people are going to have a second chance at life because of it."

Criss drew Amber's head toward himself and planted a kiss on her forehead. "Thank you for saving me," he said.

Amber embraced Criss, shaking with sobs. Dimitra took over, comforting the poor girl with shushes and pats on the shoulder.

"Thank you for being so understanding about my little scam," Carey said. "I only hope your fans will feel the same."

Criss smiled. "Ah, they'll get over it. Once they realize the good they've done, they'll forgive you."

"Howdy, folks," a new voice drawled behind them.

Everyone turned to see Matt Behr, one of the parking valets from the Luxor, wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and a big smile, standing at the sunroom entrance, an infant's gerrysack slung over his shoulder.

Criss recognized him instantly. "Matt? What's up?"

"Oh, Ah've just come by t' see how y'all was doin'," he spoke in his native South Carolina drawl. "And Ah brung ya a special visitor."

He walked up to Criss and emptied the gerrysack onto his lap. Criss was startled to feel four tiny paws land on his thighs. He laughed in astonishment, while his mother gave a little shriek of surprise. "Hammie!" Criss nuzzled the furry body of his beloved cat. "Oh, Hammie! Oh, I missed you so much! Yeah, I did!"

Dimitra was a little exasperated. "You bought a cat to the hospital?"

"Weeeell, Ah thought Mr. Angel here could use a bit of cheerin' up, bein' in the hospital and awl," Matt explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "And Ah know he loves his kittycat all to pieces, and Hammie here got to missin' him, so Ah brung him here to see him."

"Matt," Criss said, "I totally owe you, dude."

Amber stroked the soft, smooth fur, down the cat's agile spine all the way to the tip of his rigid tail. She could hear his purring of contentment. She loved Hammie almost as much as she loved Criss himself. Indeed, Hammie had a special place within the Loyal Community, with his own thread on the boards and innumerable photos posted on the Web. Criss' cat had become a celebrity in his own right, it seemed.

"How the hell did you get a cat past the desk?" JD wanted to know.

"It warn't easy, I kin tell ya that," Matt answered. "If they'd a caught me, they'd a given me Hail Columbia for it, shure enough."

"It was worth it, man, believe me," Criss said, stroking his cat. "I can't thank you enough, Matt, believe me."

"Mah pleasure."

"God! I wish I'd bought a camera for this," Amber said. "I'd show everyone that you were all right, and everyone would feel better about it. I read on the boards that some Loyals were so depressed about what happened to you, they didn't want to go to school or work or anything."

Criss shook his head. "No, Amber, I don't want anyone to see me like this. It would make them even more upset. Just tell them I'll be back soon, okay? In fact, I want you to give all the Loyals a very special message from me. Will you do that?"

"Anything you want, Criss," Amber agreed eagerly.

He leaned forward. "Tell them: Believe. I will be back."

Amber nodded. "I'll tell them, I promise."

"Good." Criss straightened up. "Matt, you'd better take Hammie back home before the nurses give me Hail Columbia for it."

Matt chuckled and bundled Hammie back into the gerrysack. Hammie purred in angry protest over this indignity but reluctantly submitted to it. After final goodbyes, Matt left.

JD shook his head in disbelief and amusement. "Guy brings the cat here to the hospital and no one knows it," he laughed. "That took nerve."

"It made Criss happy," Amber pointed out. "That's all that matters."

The afternoon began to fade into evening. It was time for Carey and Amber to leave. Carey put on her sunhat while Amber gave Criss one final hug. "Remember, Amber," Criss whispered in her ear. "Believe. I will be back."