[Smurf]

Great Chapter i hope everthing is going to be ok with Criss and i really hope he get to see again ,also i'm glad the bombs were found, more please as i'm really enjoying reading this story

[RACHEL02189]

Dimitra will be happy that JD is done with looking for bombs

[Veritas]

"So, your brother, JD, called the Bomb Squad and they took out this big oil barrel full of explosives," said Marisol as she wheeled Criss to the doctor's exam room. "He's quite a hero now."

"He's always been a hero to me," Criss said.

"Well, now he's a hero to the whole city. If anyone else had found that barrel, there's no telling what would have happened."

They rounded a corner of the corridor. "Here we are!" Marisol announced cheerfully. "You got the whole family waiting for you!"

"Hey, everybody!" Criss called out, even though he could not see anyone or anything with his bandaged eyes. He did feel the soft, warm embrace of his mother's arms around his shoulders; he would have recognized it anywhere. "Mom," he murmured, "I knew you'd come." He gave her a peck on the cheek.

"Hello, darling," his mother greeted him in return.

"Hey, bro', how's it going?" It was his brother, JD. Criss groped for his hand and clasped it.

"JD!" he exclaimed. "Marisol's been telling me about that barrel of explosives you found yesterday. Way to go!"

"Well, I didn't find it," JD said modestly, "it was one of the other volunteers--Ray, an older man with a metal detector. He found the trap door and called me over to help him dig."

"But still..."

"But still, I'm not going to take any credit I don't deserve," JD insisted. "Ray is the real hero--I just helped."

"Well, okay if you say so," Criss conceded.

Costa squeezed his way between his older brother and the exam table to reach Criss. "Good to see you, bro'," he said.

"Back at you, bro'," Criss replied in kind.

There was an awkward silence. A palpable tension swirled around the exam room. This was the day that Criss' bandages would come off. This was the moment the family had anticipated for weeks, not without feelings of dread; the results of the operations on Criss' eyes would determine his and their future. If successful, he could go back to performing magic, fufilling his contract with the Luxor Hotel and Casino. If Criss went blind (God forbid!), then, well...other arrangements would have to be made.

Finally, Criss spoke. "I have a confession to make."

"What?" his mother asked.

"Last night, I was so anxious about seeing again, I told God that if He restored my sight, I would make a donaton to the blind. I just remembered that now. I said a lot of things last night to Him in my excitement about being able to see again."

"Will you remember that promise if you do see again?" his mother asked him in all seriousness.

Criss nodded. "Yes, I will. Just don't let me forget, okay?"

His mother smiled. "I promise."

A knock on the door. Dimitra reached over and opened the door. A doctor entered the already crowded exam room. "Excuse me," he said politely with a faint MidEastern accent. There was no need for introductions. Dr. Yousef Mahmood was the eye surgeon who had operated on Criss' eyes ever since he had been admitted. He was reputed to be among the best optical surgeons in the country, one of the pioneers in Lasik and retinal restoration surgeries, performing everything from cataract removal to corneal transplants. He had kept the family up to speed on Criss' progress, for which the family was grateful. They were confident in Dr. Mahmood's skill as a surgeon, trusting him completely.

Dr. Mahmood drew the blinds and dimmed the lights just enough for Criss not to be overwhelmed by the sudden brightness, yet leaving enough to work. "All right, Criss," the doctor said with a touch of optimism, "let's see how we did here, eh?"

"Ready when you are, Doc," Criss smiled.

"Now, as I remove these bandages, I want you to keep your eyes tightly closed until they are completely off. Then, I want you to blink a few times before opening them. When you open your eyes, let me know if you can see."

"Got it," Criss nodded.

Dr. Mahmood began to unwind the gauze wrapped around Criss' head. "Your eyes may be sensitive to bright sunlight at first, so remember to wear sunglasses when you go out. Your night vision may also be affected. If that happens, just take a daily dose of Vitamin A, and that should improve it."

The doctor hesitated before removing the last layer of gauze. He bent down beside Criss. "Just remember," he said seriously, "whatever the outcome, we did our best."

"I know," Criss acknowledged. "You did your part; the rest is up to God."

Dr. Mahmood smiled. Inshallah, he thought. God wills it. What happens, happens, because it was divinely ordained by Allah, so said the Prophet Mohammad. Yet all the same he labored diligently for his patients to restore their vision with all of his skill and training; not everything should be accepted so fatalistically.

The last layer of gauze was removed. Criss squeezed his eyes shut tightly. "Now, blink a few times," Dr. Mahmood ordered him.

Criss opened and closed his eyelids hard, working out the stiffness caused by weeks of inactivity.

"Now, open your eyes," ordered the doctor. "Wide."

Criss forced his eyelids open and tilted his head up, facing his mother. A huge smile spread across his face. "Mom?" he whispered. "I can see..." He reached for her. "I can see! I can see again!" he shouted in triumph.

His mother tearfully embraced her son. "Oh, thank God!" she sobbed. "Thank God! Oh, thank You, Lord, for this miracle!"

Criss stood up from his wheelchair and went over to embrace his teary-eyed brothers. "It's good to see you again," Criss quipped through his own tears of joy.

"It's good to see you, too," JD replied, his voice breaking.

Dimitra wiped away her tears and drew a deep breath to compose herself. "Thank you, Doctor," she smiled. "You gave our Christopher back his sight. We cannot thank you enough."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Sarantakos," Dr. Mahmood replied simply. The satisfaction of another successful operation was reward enough. "Now, Marisol will take you back to your room, while your family and I go through the formalities of your discharge."

"You mean, I'm finally going home?" Criss said eagerly.

"Yes, yes, yes, you are finally going home," the doctor answered. "You still need to rest for a week or so for your other injuries. Remember to wear sunglasses outside and take plenty of Vitamin A if you have trouble with your night vision."

"You got it, Doc!" Criss shouted, elated. At last, his ordeal was over! He was finally free of the dark prison in which he had suffered the past few weeks. He was back in the light again and he wanted the whole world to know it! Impulsively, he walked over to the window and yanked open the blinds.

"Criss! No!" Dr. Mahmood cried out.

It was too late. Pain exploded in Criss' eyes. He whirled away from the window, howling in pain and rubbing his eyes. He blinked away the shadows, refocusing on the doctor.

"I warned you about that," Dr. Mahmood admonished him firmly. "Your eyes are still too sensitive to light right now. Sit down."

Criss sat in his wheelchair again. Dr. Mahmood tilted Criss' head back and squeezed a few drops of saline into his eyes. Criss wiped away the excess with a tissue given to him by his mother.

"That better?" the doctor asked.

Criss nodded. "Shoulda been more careful," he muttered. "I almost went blind again."

"I am going to prescribe some eyedrops for you, just in case." Dr. Mahmood took out his prescription pad and scribbled something illegible on it. "Here," he said, handing it to Criss. "One drop in each eye should do it."

Criss read the prescription, or tried to, anyway. He couldn't make out just what the doctor had written on the slip of paper. He knew doctors were notorious for their scribblings on prescription forms; even if his eyesight had been perfect he would have had a hard time deciphering it. I hope I don't get the wrong stuff, he thought.

"You be careful," his mother told him, kissing him on the cheek, then whispering in his ear, "Remember your promise to God." She left the room with Dr. Mahmood, JD and Costa.

"Criss?" he heard Marisol's voice outside the door. "You ready?"

"Coming, Marisol," he answered.

It suddenly occured to Criss that in spite having known his day nurse for weeks, what with her daily news reports about the Bomber aside from her regular duties, he never found out what she looked like. He knew she had a sunny personality and a sweet, friendly voice that would put even the most nervous patient at ease, but her physical appearance still a mystery to him.

I bet she's as pretty as she sounds, he thought. I bet she's got blond hair and big blue eyes, with a California tan and bikini bod! Or, maybe she's darker, like Mexican or something. Marisol sounds Spanish. Maybe she's Hispanic or something like that. Whatever! I bet she's hot either way!

Criss seated himself in his wheelchair, smiling with anticipation. "Come on in!" he called to her.

The door opened, and Criss got his first look at his day nurse. It was not what he expected, to say the least. She was dark, yes, but African-American dark, round and stocky in form, the hem of her nurse's smock barely covering her oversized hips. Her large eyes seemed to bulge from her round head, and she smiled through a train wreck of a mouth. There was no proportion to her at all.

Criss swallowed his initial shock and smiled back at her. After all, this was the woman who had cared for him since he was first admitted here, who had delivered news of the outside world as he lay in total darkness, relieving him of his pain and lonliness of his islolation. She had been there when he needed her. Her voice had been a light in the dark prison he had endured, comforting him, reassuring him. She had become a friend to him as well as a caretaker. Marisol had been his personal angel of mercy in his time of pain and misery.

"You know something?" he said to her.

"What?" said Marisol.

Criss smiled and took her hand in his. "You're beautiful," he said.




It is said that whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. What happened to Criss Angel, however, didn't stay in Vegas but spread worldwide as the news of his restored sight became public. Infotainment sites and fanboards trumpeted the good news to anyone who logged in. Loyals shared their jubilation on and off line, offering prayers of thanksgiving and praise to God for His miracle of restoring His Angel's vision.

A press conference had been hastily arranged for Criss upon his arrival back to the Luxor. It became Las Vegas' biggest media event to date with the Grand Ballroom reserved for the press, and the main entrance mobbed with screaming fans.

The limo bearing the returning Angel tooled up to the curb. Criss, dark glasses firmly in place to protect his sensitve eyes from the flashbulbs of the news cameras, stepped out onto the curb to tumultuous cheers and shrieks of ecstacy from female fans. Criss waved to everyone, making his way up the red carpet, bodyguards keeping the estatic crowd and persistant press at bay. Microphones were thrust under his chin with demands for a statement.

"Thank you everybody," he cried out over the din. "I just want to thank each and everyone of you for all your support and prayers for me and my family. I couldn't have made it without you. As I always said," he continued, his voice beginning to break, "that I have the best fans in the world, and I love each and every one of you. God bless you, and I'll see you soon--and I mean that literally!"

Another rousing cheer as Criss was escorted to the Grand Ballroom for the press conferance. As much as he wanted to take off his glasses, the flashbulbs forced him to keep them on. He did not want another episode like the one in the exam room.

Criss was seated at a table with a row of microphones in front of him. On the floor, more flashbulbs popped as the representatives of the media applauded his arrival. "First of all," he began, "it's good to see all of you. It's good to be back at the Luxor again. And I am looking forward to getting back on schedule with the Cirque show and the MindFreak series. My eyes are still sensitive to bright light, but I am doing fine, I can see again. I thank God for it, and for the love and support of all my fans."

Criss heard his mother's voice echoing in his mind: Remember your promise to God. He went on: "When I was in the hospital, I made a deal with the Lord. If He restored my sight, I would make a donation to the blind. Well, He kept his end of the bargain, so now I'm going to keep mine. I am donating fifty thousand dollars to the National Foundation for the Blind."

His offer was greeted with warm applause. "I figured it was the least I could do." he said with a smile.

There were more questions about the show, JD's arrest and clearance as a suspect and his bomb searching volunteer work ("I am very proud of him," Criss said. "He's always been my hero."), what it had been like to be blind ("Very scary, like being in a dark prison,"), his thoughts on the Vegas Bomber ("Let the court decide," he said. "I am confident he will receive the full penalty of the law."), and if he was for or against the death penalty ("Let's just say, the jury is still out on that one."). Finally, it was all over. Criss went up to his suite for the first time in over a week.

But instead of the peace and quiet he anticpated, he walked into a huge reception of family, friends and hotel management, hosted by the CEO himself, Felix Rappaport. "Surprise!!" they all yelled. A huge WELCOME HOME CRISS banner draped one wall. The drywall tryptich created by the Loyals outside the Red Cross station stood underneath, restored from the damage inflicted by Hiram Block's rampage. The suite was filled almost to overflowing with stuffed toys and other gifts from the hundreds of Loyals who had kept vigil for him.

Criss was moved to tears. "You guys..." he choked.

He saw his mother carrying his beloved cat, Hammie, in her arms. "Someone to see you," she crooned.

Criss gathered his cat in his arms. "Hammie! I missed you!" he said, his voice breaking with emotion.

He cuddled the animal as everyone gathered around him. It was good to see--actually see--the familiar faces he knew and loved. The light was sufficent enough for him to remove his shades without discomfort so he could read the messages on the drywall message board, stopping only to wipe away the tears.

He paused at one message in particular. "Mom?" he said, "can you come over here for a minute? This one is in Greek."

Dimitra stepped over to the board and read the Greek-lettered message inked onto one corner. "It says, 'For Criss Angel, that he may be restored in mind, body and spirit, we pray to the Lord'."

A shadow crossed the board. Criss looked up to see Duane Chapman standing over him. "Hey, Dog," he greeted him.

"Hey, Criss," Chapman said, embracing him back. "Welcome home, bra'."

"Glad you could make it," Criss said.

"Glad to be here," Chapman returned. "Now, where does it say that again? Mind, body, spirit...?"

Criss pointed it out to him on the board. "Right there. Can you see it?"

Chapman stared at the message. "I dunno. It's Greek to me!" he laughed into a video camera.

Criss imitated a vaudeville rim shot in reply. There were more hugs, more kisses, more smiles and a few tears as well. It was the happiest moment of Criss' life to date. He was back with friends and family, basking in the light of which he had been deprived for so long. His heart sang with joy, his creative mind already composing new songs enough for another CD. The terror was over. The enemy had been vanquished. He was healed. All of Las Vegas was free of the Bomber's reign of terror, and the Angel would rise again, triumphant.




Edward Emory sat in his jail cell, waiting. Tomorrow was his outdoor work detail, and if the timing was right he would be a free man. He had planned it down to the last detail. He would leave nothing to chance. If he blew it like he almost did last time, he was screwed. A few days ago he had concealed himself behind a wall next to the gate, hoping to make a dash for it when it opened to allow a delivery truck inside, but he was spotted by a guard and caught. He bluffed his way out of solitary, pleading an attack of faintness, and he was taken back to his cell to "recuperate".

There would be no slipups this time, though, he thought. He just needed luck, cunning and the courage to do it. He had the last two in abundance; the first, however, had been lacking of late. Yet, he would preservere. He would have his vengeance. He may have lost the battle, but he was going to win the war--even if he had to leave Las Vegas in smoking ruins to do it.

[RACHEL02189]

oh god!!!!

[Smurf]

Great Chapter this is getting very nail biting , i'm glad Criss can see again i can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

Carey Conner spent the better part of Monday at the Las Vegas Public Library. She wished she was back home in Southfield, Michigan, cozying up in her overstuffed recliner with a hunk of chocolate cake and a strawberry-kiwi slush beside her. But her publisher insisted on her remaining in Vegas, at their expense, to write the Bomber book (she didn't have a definate title yet), so there she was, sitting at a library computer doing research on the man who had tried to kill her and Criss Angel. She had left her laptop at home, so she had to resort to pencil and paper for her notes. Information on Criss Angel filled two million three hundred and thirty thousand entries on Google alone. It would have taken a year to read through it all, so she just concentrated on a brief biographical sketch and focused more on the desert valley attack.

Edward Emory, however, proved to be more elusive. Carey had to sift through all the Edwards, Charles, and Emerys to find what she was looking for. There was an obituary for a Captain Edward Emory who was awarded the Silver Star in World War Two, and a Baptist preacher in Georgia named Charles Emory noted for his work among the homeless, but none about Edward Emory save for his arrest for arson and murder.

Carey scrolled furthur. Finally, she hit paydirt: There was an obscure entry about Edward Emory auditioning for the reality show Phenomenon, of which one of the judges was none other than Criss Angel. Now there was a link she could use. She clicked onto it and waited for the clip to download.

The tiny frame flashed a thirty second clip of Emory fumbling through his routine before the judges in the initial qualifying round. He seemed nervous, stammering a little. The judges were unsparing in their criticism, pointing out every little flaw in his performance. Emory was miffed, and he stormed off the stage in a huff, insulted. Was that why Emory tried to kill Criss? she thought. Or is it something deeper than that? This kind of homicidal rage must go beyond mere disappointment over not landing a spot on a television show. Jealousy, perhaps?

Carey made a note on her pad to use that clip in her book, downloading it from her own computer when she got home. She also planned to pay a special visit to Officer Lettrille if he had time to see her. Maybe he had some information she could use.

She checked her watch. Almost one o'clock PM. And she didn't even have lunch yet. She logged off the computer, retrieved her license from the reference desk, donned her sunhat, and left the building. A quick bite, and she'd be back to work.

She walked briskly down the street to a small Chinese restaraunt that did not look too busy. Good. She could use the peace and quiet to collect her thoughts. Meanwhile, the fresh air and sunshine was refreshing after a morning of being cooped up in a computer lab. Her arthritic knee had been acting up that morning from all the sitting; it needed a workout as well.

A frantic honking startled her. She whirled around to see a familiar blue van pulling up to the curb beside her. She stepped up to the van's passenger side and peered in through the window. "Brent?" she called out.

"Hey, Carey!" Brent shouted over the traffic noise.

"Brent!" she repeated, "what's up?"

"I thought you left already!" Brent said.

"I was, but my publisher wanted me to stay an extra week," she explained. "They want me to write a book about the Vegas Bomber."

"Well, here's a new chapter for you," Brent said.

"What are you talking about?"

Brent leaned closer to the passenger window. "I just heard on the radio that the Vegas Bomber escaped from jail!"

"Escaped!" Carey cried in horrified astonishment.

"Yeah, he busted out sometime this morning. They think he rode out in a garbage truck!"

"Oh, Lord!" Carey groaned. "Can you get me back to the Luxor?"

"Sure," he nodded. "Hop in!"

Carey climbed into the van and slammed the door behind her. "I got to warn Criss and the family," she said. "From what I read about Emory, Criss is his primary target."




In the dimly lit bedroom, Dimitra gently squeezed a drop of saline into each of Criss' eyes from a tiny vial. Criss blinked and wiped away the excess with a tissue. "Better?" she asked.

Criss nodded. "Thanks, Mom." The saline soothed his burning eyes, still sensitive to bright light. He had to draw the blinds in his suite during the day, opening them at night to allow the city lights to guide him as his night vision was so poor that anything weaker than a standard night light left him blind as a bat. Dr. Mahmood insisted it was only temporary, prescribing Vitamin A supplements to improve it, but to Criss it bought back memories of his hospital stay, the dark prison of gauze and cotton isolating him from the rest of the world. After his ordeal, he vowed never to take his eyesight for granted ever again.

He looked up at his mother, at that sweet, gentle face, a little withered with age but still beautiful to him, the face he saw above his crib as an infant and in the exam room in the hospital when the bandages were removed. He had clung to the memory of her face while he lay blinded in the hospital, refusing to let it fade as the days passed. It kept his spirits up and his hopes alive, warding off despair and self-pity. The sight of his mother's face for the first time since the attack was one of the most joyous experiences he ever knew, worth more to him than all he possesed.

Dimitra carefully put away the eyedrops in the nightstand drawer. "Did you remember to take your vitamins today?" she asked.

Criss smiled indulgently. "Yes, Mother," he replied with mock obedience. That was so "mom" of her, still looking out for her little Christopher, making sure he took his vitamins, ate his veggies, and went to bed on time at an age when he should be looking out for her. Once a mom, always a mom, he thought.

A loud banging on the door jolted him out of his thoughts. He put on his shades and ran to answer it. He heard his brother, JD, shouting his name from the other side.

Criss opened the door. JD stood there, pale as death. "Hey, man, what's up?" Criss asked.

"The Vegas Bomber escaped from jail this morning!" JD told him frantically.

Criss was aghast. "He what? How?"

"I don't know," JD panted, "but he's out on the street somewhere, and I know he's coming after you! You're the one he wanted to kill!"

Dimitra clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, Lord!" she gasped. "Oh, dear God!"

Criss drew his mother's trembling body close to his chest. "It's okay, Mom," he said comfortingly. "They got him before, they'll get him again."

"Oh, God, I hope so," she quavered.

"They will, don't worry," Criss insisted. "Everyone knows who he is and what he looks like, so he'll be easy to catch this time. He's a marked man. And besides, JD found his bombmaking barrel, so he can't blow up anything. He tries to dig it up, they nab him."

"But what about you?" she asked him. "If he sees you, he will try to kill you, just as JD said."

"Well, for one thing," Criss replied, smiling a little, "he's got to find me first."

[Smurf]

Great Chapter i hope they catch the vegas bomber soon , can't wait to read more

[RACHEL02189]

'chills running down the spine'

[Veritas]

"Escaped?" Jim Lettrille shouted in outrage. "How the hell did he escape? He was under twenty-four hour surveillance, wasn't he?"

"From what we heard, he was on work detail at the county jail, and got out when they picked up the garbage," Sergeant Phil Macomb told him. "Either he climbed into the truck or was hiding in a dumpster and dumped into the hopper."

Lettrille cursed under his breath. Only yesterday, Sunday afternoon, he was with his family, relaxing for the first time in over a week, the Bomber case closed, the villian vanquished, the forces of good triumphing. God was in His heaven, all was right with the world. Everything had been all tied up in a neat little bow, signed, sealed, and waiting to be delivered. Now it had all come unravelled. One single lapse in security--a momentary distraction, a small detail overlooked, a bending of the rules--had unleashed another wave of terror upon Las Vegas. True, they had found his bombmaking materials in the yard and confiscated it, but what was to stop him from going to the source where he got them in the first place? He had to have acquired them from somewhere. But where?

"They're ordering a stakeout on Ubeck Street," Macomb informed Lettrille, "in case he comes back to claim his stuff."

Lettrille nodded. "Good."

"Briefing's in ten. Captian wants everyone on the shift there."

"I'll be there." Yes, he'd be there all right, and he'd make damn sure there would be no slipups this time. He'd make every officer from rookie to lieutenant memorize Emory's face until they knew it like they knew their own mugs. He'd have a nonstop search for that (bleeper) if they had to tear up the whole damn city to do it. Hell, he'd call out the National Guard if it would bring back Emory! One way or another, Jim Lettrille was going to bring back the Vegas Bomber, dead or alive. Preferably the former.




By Monday afternoon, all of Las Vegas had been alerted to the escape of the Vegas Bomber. Emory's picture had been posted on every electronic billboard and outdoor television screen on the Strip. News networks and local stations ran "Wanted" ads during commercial breaks, with the one-eight-hundred number to call to report any information about him. The Nevada State Police had been alerted within minutes of the discovery of Emory's escape. Every major highway crossing the state border was heavily patrolled. All states bordering Nevada--California, Oregon, Idaho, Utah and Arizona--were issued an APB regarding the Vegas Bomber, and warned to be on the lookout should he cross state lines. In just twenty-four hours, Emory had more public exposure than any celebrity headliner in Vegas.

The fear which had gripped the city resurfaced. All of Las Vegas was on red alert. Anxious parents picked up their children after school, leaving their jobs early to do so for fear a stray bomb might cross their paths. Communities hastily organized neighborhood watches to patrol the streets every night until the Bomber had been captured. Some of these watches bordered on vigilantism, its members ready not only to capture the Bomber, but bring him to justice--their brand of justice, whether it was to beat him to a pulp or string him up from a lamp post.

Most fearful of all were the Loyals, Criss Angel's devoted fans. They knew from the electronic grapevine that their idol had been the Bomber's primary target; now that he was on the loose, what was to stop him from going after Criss again? Anxiety, if not outright terror, spread through cyberspace like an epidemic; Loyals feverishly posted their hopes and prayers for Criss' safety on message boards and websites. Hundreds of Loyals acting out of a sense of civic duty scanned and posted the now all too familiar "Wanted" ad on the boards in hopes of a swift capture. The more creative types took advantage of these ads and designed banners villifying Emory in extremis by drawing devil horns on his head and the like, the electronic equivilant of throwing darts at his photo.

For all the terror, however, there was hope. Now that everyone knew who the Bomber was, what he looked like, and where he might possibly be, his recapture would be quick and easy. Emory was a marked man; it was just a question of when he would be caught. It was only a matter of time. Yet, for all the optimism, there was an uneasy feeling, an undercurrent of fear, that time was running out.



The undercurrent was still trickling as day faded into evening, yet life in Sin City went on as it always had, despite the lack of guests and patrons in the Luxor and other hotels and venues. Many had fled after the Luxor attack, more after the Magic Castle bombing, and still more after the desert valley attack, leaving many hotels nearly half empty and costing millions of dollars in lost revenue. Yet there were a few brave souls who courted Lady Luck in the casinos, ogled the showgirls and strippers in the theaters and clubs, and drank their paychecks away in the bars.

Despite doctor's orders to the contrary, Criss threw himself back into his usual grueling work schedule first thing Monday morning, preparing for his new show with Cirque de Soliel, Believe. He was in his element and was as happy as a clam, designing, redesigning, arranging and rearranging the stunts and illusions for the most ambitious project of his career. It was going to have the biggest "wow" factor, even by Vegas standards. Released from the dark prison of temporary blindness and healed of his injuries (at least as far as he was concerned), he was once again master of his own destiny, the Bomber be damned!

There was, however, the problem with his eyesight. He could not tolerate too bright a light, whether it was the sun or the stage, so he still had to protect his eyes with dark glasses, and his lack of night vision left him sightless when the lights went out. No matter, he thought, they would be completely recovered in time for the premiere, so long as he shielded them from the light and kept taking his Vitamin A pills. He kept his vial of eyedrops handy in his pocket, just in case.

As he paced around the stage, directing, instructing, choreographing, and mapping out the set, though he could not see her in the darkened theater seats, he knew his mother was sitting out there, front row center, watching his every move, worrying about his health. Though he could see well enough on stage, beyond the apron was total blackness. His limited eyesight frustrated him, though he realized he should be grateful to be able to see at all. Maybe he should have the house lights turned up...?

Dimitra, for her part, could see everything clearly, which was quite remarkable for a seventy-three-year-old woman, an age when the majority of her generation needed glasses, either to read or just see what was in front of them. She had always been in reasonably good health, despite the heart problem she had two years ago, and even then she had bounced back. Unlike her headstrong youngest son, Christopher, however, she had followed doctor's orders and rested when she had to and exercised when she could. Christopher should have been resting this week after being discharged from the hospital last Friday, but no, he had to go back to work after just a single weekend. So there he was, on the stage, slaving away on his new show, perfecting every little detail just has he had before the attack in the desert. He could do everything except relax, it seemed.

Dimitra shifted in her seat. She needed to use the ladies' room. She got up and headed for the exit, her son's voice directing the cast still echoing up the aisles.

She walked down the corridor confidently. Despite its size, the Luxor was as familiar to her as her home in Long Island, New York. The staff, in turn, were familiar with her; Criss Angel, being the Luxor's biggest star attraction, made Dimitra Sarantakos Queen Mother with all rights and priviliges therein. She had a suite reserved just for her when she came visiting, a standing reservation at the spa; even a record of her medications was kept active in the hotel pharmacy, paid for by the hotel.

Dimitra checked her watch. It was getting late, almost seven PM. She and Christopher had planned to go out to one of the restaraunts in the hotel for dinner, as soon as he could tear himself away from work. She entered the lavish restroom, hoping her famous son would have wrapped up rehersals for the day by the time she got back.

Her personal business completed, she made her way back to the theater. She decided to wait in the "green room", as they called the backstage lounge where the performers relaxed. She knew that her son could not see her in the darkened theater, and, besides, watching those day-to-day rehersals became wearisome after a while. She slipped backstage and down the passageway to the green room. She noted that it was rather dark in there; Christopher would not be able to find his way unless he had help. Maybe she should wait for him in the wings so she could guide him. Yes, that would be a good idea.

Dimitra picked her way past the huge cases of props, electrical equipment, and costumes. Just as she was within reach of the stage, a hand siezed her wrist. "Don't make any moves, Mommy," a voice hissed in her ear. "Just come along quietly and you won't get hurt."

[RACHEL02189]

Oh sh**