[Veritas]

The premiere of Believe was the hottest topic on every Loyal Community website in existance. There had never been so much gushing, fawning, squeeing, pouting, and tantruming online. First the months, then the weeks, then the days and then the hours were counted down with all the meticulous attention of a rocket launch. Those lucky few who were granted admission to the big event shared their excitement, not to mention their impatience, with all the anticipation of children on Christmas Eve, consoling those who couldn't go with promises of pictures and play-by-play narrations of this show of shows. To them, it was more than a Vegas production--it was the Loyal's answer to Woodstock.

The Luxor hotel was busier than ever in the final week leading up to the premiere, not only with the normal functions of the hotel--accomodating guests, maintaining the facilities, and keeping order--but also with the pre- and post-parties before and after the show. Every suite was booked, every available space occupied. Extra towels, linens, pillows, blankets, and other supplies had been purchased beforehand, so there would be no shortage of anything; like other hotels, the Luxor had to deal with the common problem of guests taking the towels home with them. Even with the hotel name and logo stitched clearly on the hems, they still vanished quicker than a coin in Criss Angel's hand.

Meat and produce trucks shuttled to and from the hotel's loading dock, delivering choice meats, fresh seafood, ripe fruits and vegetables; huge sacks of flour and sugar stacked on pallets like bags of concrete at a construction site; gallons of olive, canola and other cooking oils; cases and cases of wine, champaigne and other liquors, and most important of all in that desert oasis, ice. Bags and bags of cubed, crushed, crystal clear ice were hastily stored in the giant walk-in freezers, safe from the merciless desert heat. The piece de resistance was a four foot tall ice sculpture of two slender Cirque dancers swirling on their long silken ropes, a crystalline masterpiece destined to grace the main table at the cocktail buffet.

The buffet itself was no small affair, either. Pastry chefs pushed their talents to the limit as they painstakingly turned blobs of sugary dough, slices of tender cake, and streams and dots of icing into tiny, delicate works of art. Italian glaces were scooped from four-gallon containers into delicate crystal dessert dishes and whisked into the freezers. On the other side of the kitchen, shrimp by the bucketful were inspected, deveined, slit and arranged as artisically as possible on huge glass bowls--never metal, for that would leave an off taste to the shrimp--filled with red sauce, or made into shrimp appetizers or cocktails. Giant roasts rotated slowly in their ovens, rolls baked to golden brown in the bakery. Everywhere there was chopping, kneading, slicing, dicing, stirring, beating, shouting and, occasionally, cursing as the kitchen staff prepared for the biggest event in the history of the Luxor. It was organized chaos.

None of this mattered much to Abby Runyon as she pushed her housekeeping cart down the hallway. Her job was to keep the rooms clean, and that was what she focused on. And not just clean, either, like Brother Bob's house. It had to be perfect, immaculate--"Grandma clean", as Abby called it. Grandma Runyon had been mighty particular about keeping her house clean, especially on Sundays; she refused to welcome the Lord's day with a dirty house. Talk about having a floor so clean you could eat off it! Yes, that was Grandma Runyon all right. Of course, Grandma Runyon didn't have to worry about a hotel with almost a thousand rooms to take care of.

Abby stopped at one of her assigned rooms and knocked on the door with the master keycard. Keycards were new to her, although they were easy enough to use. They couldn't be duplicated like metal keys at the hardware store, so they were safer, because they were registered in the computer, and the computer knew who had what card, and when it was used last.

There was no answer at the door. Abby knocked again. "Housekeeping," she called out.

No answer. No one there. Abby hated interrupting people (it just wasn't proper), and so was relieved when she entered the empty suite without having to bother anyone. She sized up the condition of the room: bed unmade, towels in the tub in the bathroom, a bit of paper in the wastebasket--nothing unusual. She gathered her supplies and got to work, singing a hymn as she sanitized the bathroom, dusted the furniture, vacuumed, and checked for the "bedsheet card" on the nightstand. The Luxor had a new policy about bedsheets and towels, created out of concern for water conservation and laundry expenses. A card was to be left by the bed on the dresser stating that the sheets and towels were to be left unchanged for another day's stay. No card was spotted, so Abby had the added chore of supplying fresh towels and linens. Some people were fussier than others, she figured.

The room once again cleaned to the Luxor's standards, Abby carefully gathered her supplies and closed the door behind her. As she wheeled her cart to the next suite, she thought she saw a familiar face by the elevators, just a hint of it, gone in a flash. If she didn't know better, she could've sworn it was Brother Bob Talbot.

She peered around the elevator bank. No one. Abby shook her head in disbelief. It wasn't Brother Bob, she thought. Couldn't be. It was someone who looked like him, that's all. With folks coming and going all the time, faces start to look the same, didn't they? And what would he be doing here at the Luxor, anyway?

Abby stopped short. He wanted to kill Criss Angel, is what. But how could he? This place had cameras everywhere; you couldn't scratch your behind without someone watching you. And how could he get up to this floor without a keycard? You needed one just to ride the elevator and get onto your floor; free rides were discouraged for security reasons. And besides, Criss lived at the tippy-top of the Luxor, just under the big light. Everyone knew that. Abby had never been to the Presidential Suite because of her probationary status. And, she guessed, never would, considering her reluctant assassination attempt. Besides, there was a regular housekeeper assigned up there, anyway. That suite was the most heavily guarded of all the suites in the hotel; no one was allowed in without permission, and even then with an escort.

No, it wasn't Brother Bob she saw, she told herself firmly. It was just one of the guests, that was all. Nothing to worry about. Brother Bob was not here. He had never been here. It had been one of the guests going about his own business, and it was none of hers. Just one of the guests. She promptly dismissed the phantom image from her mind and continued on her rounds. No more wool-gathering, she said to herself. She had work to do.




Shoot, that was close, Brother Bob Talbot said to himself as he hid in the open elevator car. That maid almost spotted him. She reminded him of Sister Abigail. No, not "sister", anymore, he reminded himself. She had been a backslider and a sinner, and therefore he had cast her out of the fold. No more thoughts of her; he had bigger fish to fry.

It had taken a lot of cunning on his part to swipe that keycard from that guest like that. Some careless person had set the card onto a bench and forgot it. Figuring the Lord was on his side, Bob snatched it up and slid it into his pocket. He now has access to the upper balconies; now all he needed was a good place to take a clear shot. Not too high, for the Winchester had so much range, but not too low to be spotted by the police.

He traveled up to the third floor. He was about to scout out the view from the balcony when the maid saw him. He ducked back into the elevator just in time. When she left, he cautiously reentered the foyer and mentally mapped out the length of the balcony and where to stand with his Winchester. If he stood by the emergency stairs, he could make a quick getaway after he slew the Anti-Christ. Yes, the third floor would do it.

But there were still the matter of the all the security. How would he get his rifle up to the floor on the night of the premiere? He just couldn't walk in carrying over his shoulder, not in this post Nine-Eleven world. No, he'd have to smuggle it in somehow. But how?

He heard the creak of the housekeeper's cart. The maid was coming back. He ducked again, peering around the corner. Well, glory be, it was Abigail! So now she's working here, huh? A plan formed in the back of Brother Bob's mind. Once again, the Lord had provided.




Whew! That last room was done for the morning. Abby parked her cart in the Housekeeper's office and headed for her lunch break. She couldn't afford to buy anything in the hotel shops and restaraunts, so she bought her own in a zippered vinyl six-pack cooler. She chose to eat outside, next to the garage; it was the only fresh air she got all day while working. The area where she sat overlooked Criss Angel's fleet of cars and motorcycles. She couldn't help but wonder just why he had to have so many cars and motorcycles in the first place. If he wanted to collect something, why couldn't he collect something smaller and simpler, like stamps and coins like Uncle Waylon used to? Be cheaper, too.

As Abby nibbled her bologna sandwich, she tried to guess which one was Criss' favorite. Unfamiliar with the makes and models of high-end sports cars, she just went by color: the wicked looking black one, so black it was almost invisible? Or the big SUV in the corner there? The red one with the stripes looked kinda pretty. So did the convertable over there. Just how many did he own, anyway? She tried to count them all, but always lost count somewhere. Maybe she should ask Matt the parking man in the booth when she saw him again.

A loud growling noise startled her out of her thoughts. She looked around fearfully and saw him, Criss Angel, riding up on a motorcycle the likes of which she had never seen before in all her born days: a mean looking machine with handlebars that stretched out like a Longhorn steer, and a tiny wheel in front that looked way out of proportion to the rest of the bike. She sat there, frozen with terror. Did he see her? Would she get in trouble sitting here eating her lunch? Oh, Lord, please don't let him see me, she prayed.

Her little prayer went unheeded. Criss caught a glimpse of her as he dismounted and removed his helmet. He wasn't offended, just curious. He strode up to her casually. Abby sat on her perch, paralyzed with fear. Criss recognized her immediatly. "Hey," he said, "aren't you the girl who got picked up for...you know..."

"Trying to kill you?" Abby finished for him in a squeaky voice.

Criss nodded. "Yeah, uh, Sister...Sister Abigail. Yeah."

Abby set down her sandwich. "Well, it ain't Sister Abigail no more," she told him, lowering her eyes. "It's Abby. I done left that all behind me. In fact, Brother Bob said I was a backslider, so he all but kicked me out, anyway."

"Sounds like a lucky break to me," Criss said.

"So, anyway, the county found me a job here, of all places, in spite of what I done to you." she explained. "Chief of security don't like me much being around here. Everyone else is mighty nice, though."

"First of all, you didn't do anything to me," Criss pointed out. "I know you didn't want to kill me--that's why I got you off. And don't worry about Chief Macaffey--I'll handle him. You just keep doing your job and everything will be okay."

He pulled himself up on the berm where Abby sat. "So, you like it here at the Luxor?" he asked casually.

"Oh, my, yes," she replied. "Most beautiful place this side of Heaven. Big, too. I swear this place is bigger than my entire home town! I have a hard time finding my way around it!"

"Where is your hometown?"

"Littleton, Texas," she answered.

Criss smiled. "Oh, a Texas girl, huh? How long you been in Vegas?"

"About five years or so. Jobs were scarce, so I came here to work. I used to work at some cheap motels--you know, the kind that show dirty movies on TV?"

Criss nodded knowingly. "Oh, those kind of motels."

"Then I went to work at a Holiday Inn, which was much better," she went on. "I really liked it there, but--"

"But what?"

"Well, I had just joined up with the Perfecting Church, and the Inn wanted me to work on Sundays, and Brother Bob said it was a sin, so I had to quit to save my soul. I went to work for him, instead."

"How did you get mixed up with that guy, anyway?" Criss asked curiously.

"Well, I was too far from home, and some ladies from Perfecting Church came by and invited me to services," she explained. "At first, it was all right, everyone was all friendly and right with God and all that, but then..." Abby hesitated. "But then about a couple of years ago he began turning mean. You should have heard the things he said about you, that you were--"

Criss raised his hand to silence her. "Yeah, I know what he said. Devil, Anti-Christ, the whole bit. I was there, remember?"

"Then, just last night, I was talking to Matt, the parking man in the booth--he's from South Carolina, by the way, real nice--and he told me things about you that were clear on the other side of what Brother Bob said about you. That you took good care of your mama, and bought her things, and you did charities, and visited sick kids and all." Abby wiped her eye. "Well, I got to feeling really bad about coming after you with that gun. I should have told Brother Bob flat out no. But, I guess you could say I was weak and...backsliding. I thank God that they caught me, 'cause if I had killed you, I'd be facing the Lord on Judgement Day with murder on my soul."

She faced him, a smile on her thin face. "You know, you showed real Christian charity by dropping those charges against me. Not many people would do that in real life. I hope someday you'll forgive me."

"Abby," Criss spoke gently. "There is nothing to forgive. You didn't do anything. You were a pawn in this Brother Bob's chess game against me. You were so deep under his thumb that you didn't know how to free yourself from him. Now you are free, so put Brother Bob and that church behind you and get on with your life. There are hundreds of other churches here in Las Vegas for you to go to." He laughed a little. "In fact, this city has more churches per capita than any other in the nation!"

Abby looked at Criss in surprise. "And they call this Sin City?" she exclaimed.

"Ironic, isn't it?" Criss said with a wink. "I gotta go. Catch you later."

He clambered down and trotted off into the hotel. Abby stared after him longingly, her sandwich lying forgotten in her lap.




"The Lord be with you, Brother Hiram."

"And also with you, Brother Bob."

"Rejoice and be glad, for the Day of the Kingdom is at hand."

"Amen."

"Soon, the Beast which had been wounded with the sword, but was healed, will finally fall."

"Praise the Lord. Are you ready?"

"I am ready, with weapons of righteousness at my side."

"I will keep vigil for the Coming of the Lord, with prayer and Scripture."

"Bless you, Brother Hiram. Your freedom will come soon."

"I will wait patiently for the Lord."

"He is coming soon. Keep the faith, and remain steadfast."

"I will. May the Lord shield you from the Anti-Christ."

"Amen."

[RACHEL02189]

Oh god Brother Bill is going to use Abby to sneak in his gun. What an

[Veritas]

Criss lay semi-nude on the massage table in the dimly-lit spa in a blissful semi-state of consciousness, submitting to the skillful caresses of Serena, the masseuse. Tonight was the premiere, and his opening night jitters had led him here to relax and unwind. Well, to tell the truth, it was more at the insistance of his brother, JD. He had been turning into a Type-A obsessive in the last forty-eight hours, checking and rechecking the set and equipment, sometimes twelve times in a single day, pestering the stage managers about every little detail and getting upset at them if something was not quite right. His daily workout in the gym didn't help relieve the tension he felt, nor did a round of Tae Kuon Do with his trainer. He grew irritable, snapping at his assistants and storming out of discussions.

"Criss," his brother, JD, had said to him earlier that morning, "if you don't lighten up, Costa and me are gonna toss your ass into the pool and hold you down."

"I'll help!" Cousin George had chimed in from somewhere in the office.

"You've been nervous as a groom since yesterday," JD went on. "Why don't you go to the spa or something? Get a massage, soak in the hot tub--just get the hell out of everyone's hair for a while, willya? You're driving everybody nuts!"

So there he lay, face down on the specially designed table, a padded rim on which to rest his face comfortably and still be able to breathe, a towel modestly covering his buttocks, with Serena kneading and squeezing the tension away from his back and shoulders, mellow jazz playing softly from overhead speakers. He could feel her hands pressing down on him in all the right places, working out the knots in his shoulders, melting away the stress of five years of preparing for tonight's premiere. Tight muscles began to loosen under her firm but gentle hands, working her way up from his calves to his thighs, his lower back to his waist, his shoulders to his neck. JD had been right, he thought. This was just what he needed. He could have lain there forever if he could, no phones, no crowds of people clamoring for him, no work of any description, just drift away. Bye-bye.

He pictured the desert sunset he saw a couple of days ago, the swirls of reds, oranages, pinks and yellows above his head. He felt himself levitate high above the earth, escaping the chaos that had become his life. He soared higher, ever higher, toward the huge golden sun, celestial music echoing in his ears, and a voice calling his name...

"Criss?" Serena called to him quietly, but she may as well have shouted through a bullhorn, for he started suddenly, jerking out of his dreamstate.

"Are you all right?" Serena asked him.

Criss looked around himself. He was back in the massage room; he could still hear the celestial music, but he quickly realized that it came from the speakers in the room. God! What a dream! he thought.

"Your session is over," she broke it to him gently. "You can get up now. How are you feeling?"

Criss rose spaggetti-limbed from the massage table, the towel falling to the floor, exposing his nakedness. "If I was any more relaxed, I'd be a blob of goo," he quipped. "Thanks, Serena."

He dressed himself and left the spa in a mellow mood, the calmest he had been in a month or so. In fact, he was almost drowsy. He thought maybe he should go back up to his suite and sleep it off. Yeah. He'd been busting his hump over this show for years now, with MindFreak on top of that. He'd been more sleep-deprived than a resident intern; he deserved a good, long nap. Let it all go, he thought. Everything was good to go, no need to worry about it any longer. Let everybody do their jobs. He was going to sleep, and sleep well for once. God was in His Heaven, all was right with the world.



Abby Runyon walked briskly towards Brother Bob's house, her bony jaw set in determination. Her ostensive goal was to return his spare housekey which she had used while she served as his personal housekeeper, but she had another issue in mind: she was going to set him straight about Criss Angel, tell him he was way off base about him, that he was not the Anti-Christ or the Devil, or any of that nonsense. He was a decent, upright man, and a better Christian than Brother Bob could ever hope to be. The nerve of that man ordering her to shoot him, or anyone for that matter! Intimidate her, will he? Not on your Nelly, as Mama used to say. She was not going to stand for his abuse any longer. She was mad as hell and she wasn't going to take it anymore! She was going to give him such a big piece of her mind that he'd choke on it!

She stormed up to the front door of the makeshift parsonage, a small bungalow with a six-paneled white door in front, the upper stile and center rail painted in a contrasting brown to form a cross. For a moment her confidence wavered, but she regained her composure and hammered on the door.

"Brother Bob?" she shouted. "It's me, Sister Abby. I know you're in there! Let me in!"

No answer. Could he be afraid of her? Abby quickly dismissed that notion. Brother Bob Talbot feared no man, and especially no woman, either. She was a mouse to him, a weak-willed little mouse who could be scared into doing anything for him, including murder. Well, this mouse was roaring, she thought. If he wasn't going to come out, she was going in. She jammed the spare key into the lock, twisted it and opened the door.

It had been weeks since she had stepped foot in Brother Bob's house, but it was as if she had never left. Everything was the same as it ever was: same hardwood floor she used to run a dustmop over, the same worn out old rugs that kept slipping out of place, the same Last Supper tapestry hanging over the overstuffed sofa, the same overstuffed chair with the same little round lamp table where he read his Bible every day without fail. Same old same old. After having worked in the Luxor Hotel for a few weeks, with its shiny modern furniture and every available convienence--even a few she had never even known existed--she came to the realization that interior design was not one of Brother Bob Talbot's strong suits.

She crossed over to the small bedroom that served as Brother Bob's office. When she had kept house for him, he had explicitly ordered her not to disturb his paperwork on his desk. As usual, she had obeyed, steering clear of his precious desk covered with stacks of paper. No sense dusting in there, she had once half-jokingly said to herself, because all that paper made a good dustcover. She looked in his office. The paper was all still there, but Brother Bob was gone. He didn't seem to be anywhere. Perhaps he went calling on one of the members for something or other; he did that on occasion, calling on sick or troubled members of the church, or those who had skipped services for some reason. Seemed that she had just missed him, that was all.

Maybe it was just as well, she thought. If she had met him in the mood she was in, she'd probably say something she'd regret later. She decided instead to leave the key on the kitchen table with a note explaining everything. She pulled off a sheet from a long notepad that she had once used for shopping lists from the "junk" drawer and began to write.

Bro. Bob.

Am returning my key. Your wrong about Cris Angel. He is a good man and a christian too. Hes not the devil or nothing. Stop tring to kill him. I quit your church for good. Your no christian man, but a devil yourself. Abby.

There. Done and done. Abby set the key on the table alongside the note, picked up her purse and turned to leave, only to come face-to-face with Brother Bob himself, grim as a criminal jury. Abby's heart leapt to her throat.

"Hello, 'Sister' Abigail," he hissed.

Abby backed away in terror. "Wh-what do you want with me? Keep away from me!"

Brother Bob looked down at the note Abby had just written and picked it up. He scanned the crude writing and crumpled it in his massive fist. "Et tu, Abby?" he sneered.

"I don't know what that means," Abby said, gathering her courage, "but it's the gospel truth. Criss Angel isn't anything at all what you said about him. I saw him, talked to him. He's more angel than devil."

Brother Bob shook his head. "You poor, poor misguided child," he said patronizingly. "Can't you see he's led you into his snares? He's deceiving you with his wiles. He's twisted your mind so that--"

"Oh, come off it, Brother Bob!" Abby snapped. "You got your head buried so deep in Revelations you can't see what's real! If you actually sat down and talked to him, you'd know what a decent man he really is!" She pulled herself to her full height, though she barely came up to his chin. "And I ain't no child, neither."

Brother Bob was taken aback at this sudden display of insubordination. Abigail had been so malleable back in the day, almost putty in his hands; he could bend and squeeze her to his will. Now she stood before him, hard as stone, cold, defiant. It made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle like a junkyard dog.

"The Devil is within you, Abigail," he warned her, stepping closer. "He has taken possession of your soul. But I can free you, my child--"

"I ain't no child!" Abby exploded. "And what's more, you get away from me!"

She drew a large carving knife from the caddy on the kitchen counter like a sword out of its sheath and pointed it straight at him. "You take one step closer, Bob Talbot, and so help me God I'll send you to your Maker in so many pieces!"

Brother Bob halted. "Abby," he said placatingly. "Put the knife down now, dear."

"Like hell I will!" She circled the perimeter of the kitchen, the knife in her hand, backing into the living room. "You've made my life miserable since I came here, Talbot! Well, I'm shut of you for good and always! And I ain't gonna let you kill Criss Angel, neither!"

"How did you know about it?" Brother Bob snapped at her. He grabbed Abby's wrists and wrestled with her. The knife clattered to the floor at her feet. "Let me go!" she screamed, struggling to free herself.

"You saw me, didn't you?" he accused her. "You saw me at the hotel, didn't you?"

The truth dawned on Abby. "So, it was you that was there!" she screamed angrily. "You really are gonna kill Criss, ain't you!"

She kicked him squarely in the shin. Brother Bob cried out in pain, releasing her wrists as he grimaced in pain. Abby stood before him, trembling with rage and terror. "I ain't gonna let you do it, Talbot!" she told him sharply. "Even if you did try, they'd nail your sorry butt so fast it'd make your head swim! They got cameras everywhere in that hotel--inside, outside, all around. Them cameras are so sharp, they could count your nose hairs if they wanted! And them security guards are a mean bunch. I heard the chief, Big Luke, he used to be a prison guard--you wanna go messin' with him? They'd have to scrape you off the floor with a spatula if you do!"

Abby retrieved her purse from where she had dropped it. "If I was you, I'd think twice about it," she said. Again, she turned to leave. And again, Brother Bob stood in her way, this time with a revolver, the business end in her face, and again, the purse fell to the floor as she stood before him in terror.

"I can't let you go, Abigail," he told her with menacing calm. "I won't let you stand in my way. Anti-Christ is finished, no matter what you say."

Abby grabbed his gun hand and struggled to push it away from her. Brother Bob fought back with bearlike force. Abby was knocked to the floor, skidding on the living room rug. She scrabbled madly to her feet, tackling the retreating Talbot, clawing him with her nails. Brother Bob slammed her against the wall with such force her head cracked the drywall. Undeterred, Abby made one final lunge at him, wrestling for the gun in his hand. Suddenly there was a huge explosion as the world came to an end, blood spraying the walls and window, then silence.





Cole Shoope puttered around the neighborhood making his grocery flyer deliveries on his dirt bike. He had been working for Sunrise Market every Friday afternoon for a few weeks now. He needed the money, since the pastor couldn't afford to give him an allowance beyond what Dad sent him every month, and with the price of gas going up and up, a five-dollar a week allowance wasn't going to do it, so he landed a job delivering flyers for Sunrise Market once a week after school. It was the dirt bike that clinched the deal for him; the manager believed he'd get more ads out faster with it. But as much as he tried to save his money, the cost of gas ate into his paycheck, and since the pastor insisted quite strongly that he tithe some of it to the church, he had very little left over for his own use.

But it was his first job, he thought. Not some odd job or a household chore assigned to him, but real employment. He had been so estatic about it he practically flew home to tell Pastor and Mrs. B. about it. And they were proud of him, they had said. No one, not even his parents, had ever said that to him before. "If you work hard enough," the pastor said to him, "you could get promoted. Get more money that way."

And Cole did work hard, tossing flyers onto front porches or wherever it was convenient. He wanted to get home fast this particular Friday, for it was the night of Believe. True, he had no ticket, but there was certain to be television coverage, and he didn't want to miss it. He tossed two more flyers; they landed squarely on the front stoops. His aim was getting better, he thought. He was about to toss another one when he was stopped short of a car barrelling out of the driveway of one of the houses, narrowly missing him. Geez! he thought. What's his hurry? Criss Angel doesn't come on until tonight.

He glanced at the house where the car had come from. There was a big brown cross painted on the front. Thoughts of Hiram Block drifted back into his memory. And there were splashes of what looked like red paint on the window.

Red paint? Or blood?

Cole crept up to the large picture window and peered in. The scene he saw was straight out of CSI: NY: There was blood spattered on the walls and on the floor in a crimson puddle. There was an overturned table and some broken pottery on the floor, scattered around the bloody corpse of Abigail Runyon.

[RACHEL02189]

OH MY GOD!!!!

[Veritas]

With calm, cool, professional efficiency the CSI team photgraphed the living room, the kitchen, and the body lying on the floor. Blood samples were taken for DNA analysis from the puddle lying underneath Abby's head. The furniture was painstakingly dusted for fingerprints or examined for strands of hair or other incriminating evidence. The .38 shell casing, the most crucial piece of evidence of the crime, was circled and photographed where it lay, then picked up with tweezers and carefully sealed in a plastic baggie labeled with all the necessary information for the ballistics experts to examine. Not one inch of space was overlooked.

Outside the house, cordoned off with yellow police tape, Cole stood by a police cruiser with Investigator Grissom as blue and red lights rotated hypnotically around the area.

"I was delivering flyers for Sunrise Market, and I saw this car come shooting out of the driveway," Cole said, his voice quavering with terror, "and it almost ran me over, you know?"

"You know what kind of car it was?" asked Grissom.

"Well," Cole struggled to remember, "it was an Oldsmobile, 'cause I saw the name on the back of the trunk. Big brown one, a really old model, kinda boxy looking."

"Did you get a good look at the driver?"

"No," Cole replied regretfully. "It all happened so fast. He just peeled out of there, you know?"

"What direction did the driver go?"

Cole pointed down the street. "That way," he said simply.

Grissom noted it down on his pad. "Then what happened?"

"I went up to the house, 'cause I saw some red paint on the window, but it wasn't red paint--it was blood."

"Did you go into the house?"

"No, sir, I just looked through the window. That's when I saw the lady on the floor there."

"You didn't touch the doorknob or anything, did you?"

"No, I just looked through the window, then I got on my dirt bike and went to the first house I could find that had someone home to call the police."

"Do you know what time you saw the body?"

"I can't remember the exact time, but I can tell you that the minute I saw the body, I ran away from there as fast as I could to the house."

"So, you contacted the police the very minute you saw the body."

Cole nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Grissom closed his notepad. "Okay, you're free to go, son. You did good in calling us when you did. Is there a number we can reach you if we have any furthur questions?"

"Do you know where the Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless is?" Cole asked in reply. "I live there with Pastor Beaman."

Grissom looked curiously at Cole. "You homeless, kid?"

"Me? Oh, no, no," Cole answered lightly. "I'm just his foster son, that's all," It was a good enough explanation as any, he thought. It certainly helped avoid retelling the series of events that landed him in Pastor Beaman's care. He doubted that they would delve too deeply into his record, or at least he hoped not. To his relief, Investigative Officer Grissom seemed satisfied with it.

"Okay, Cole," Grissom said. "We'll take it from here. You'd better get back to the store." He handed Cole a white business card. "If you boss gives you any grief over it, tell him to give me a call, okay?"

"Sure." Cole shoved the card into his jeans pocket and sped away back to the market. God, I hope that's the last time I have to mess with the cops! he said to himself. Even if this time I was only a witness.

Meanwhile, Grissom circled around and entered the house through the back door into the kitchen. More forensics experts were at work, dusting, photographing and gathering evidence. Grissom turned to his fellow investigating officer, Duane Melkin. "Okay, what've we got?" Grissom wanted to know.

"Looks like there was some sort of scuffle in here," Melkin told him. "Knife on the floor there--looks like one tried to murder the other or it was self-defense. We also found this under the table."

Melkin handed Grissom a crumpled piece of shopping list paper. Grissom stretched it out as best he could to read it.

Bro. Bob. Am returning my key. Your wrong about Cris Angel. He is a good man and a christian too. Stop tring to kill him. I quit your church for good. Your no christian man but a devil yourself. Abby.

"So, what do you think?" Melkin asked Grissom.

Grissom pondered the note he read. "I think we'd better alert the Luxor fast," he replied, whipping out his cell phone. "We got a psycho preacher out to kill Criss Angel."

Runyon, Abigail Louise: Age thirty-five, single. Born May 12, 1973, in Littleton, TX. Employed as housekeeper at Luxor Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas since October 4, 2008. Had been taken into custody in July, 2008, for carrying a weapon with intent to murder Criss Angel. All charges dropped. Suspect claimed to have been instructed to kill by order of one "Brother" Bob Talbot, minister of Perfecting Church of Jesus Christ with Signs Ascending, of which she had been a member. Job application states suspect had been employed by Talbot to be personal housekeeper since 2005.

"Abby Runyon's dead?"

Luke Macaffey looked quizzically at Grissom from behind his desk in the Luxor security office. Grissom nodded somberly in reply. "How the hell did that happen? And who did it?" Macaffey demanded.

"She was shot in he chest area, right through the aorta. She died instantly. We suspect it was Brother Bob Talbot who did it."

Grissom drew closer to Macaffey. "When you first took Abigail Runyon into custody, did she show any signs of religious fanaticism? Put up any resistance?"

Macaffey shook his head. "Nope. She looked scared to death, actually. She surrendered on the spot--gave up the gun the second I asked her to. Kept going on about this Brother Bob character ordering to kill Criss Angel, and that she really didn't want to do it, and all that other bullplop. Just between you, me and the lamppost, she looked like she couldn't hit the side of a barn. Still, she was carrying a deadly weapon, so we took her in. Angel insisted we drop the charges against her, so we did. Then three months later, she gets hired here as a housekeeper. Bad move in my opinion."

"Who's in charge of housekeeping here?"

"Lisa Genaldi. Her office is down the service corridor. Last one on the right, can't miss it."

"Okay, we'll go talk to her. In the meantime, you'd better keep a sharp eye out for this Brother Bob tonight."

"Like I need you to tell me how to do my job?" Macaffey growled. "We got everybody covering every square inch of this place tonight, and video surveillance to boot. Trust me, this Brother Bob, whoever he is, won't even be able to pick his nose without us knowing it!"

"It's not his nose I'm concerned about," Grissom retorted. "It's Criss Angel's life."




Lisa Genaldi sat in total shock upon hearing the news of Abby's murder from Grissom. Wavering, she pulled out a tissue from a large box of Puffs and wiped her eyes.

"I-I don't understand," she sniffled. "She was such a good worker here, even though she was only here for a couple of weeks. Who would do such a thing?"

"Ms. Genaldi," Grissom began, "were you aware of Abby's previous arrest for carrying a weapon with intent to kill back in July?"

Ms. Genaldi pulled herself together to answer that question. "We screen our applicants very carefully, I assure you, Mr. Grissom," she said defensivly. "Those charges were dropped the same day."

"So, why did you hire a woman who had come into the hotel with a gun, intending to kill a major celebrity like Criss Angel three months prior?"

"First of all, she didn't intend to kill him," Ms. Genaldi countered, "she had been ordered to do so. She told me so herself. And we hired her because the Believe show was opening soon, and we needed more staff. The majority of applicants we screened could barely speak English, let alone be legally allowed to work in the US. She came to us through the Works program, and she was better qualified than most. Her conduct was exemplary, and her work met all the standards we set for cleanliness and comfort. We had no trouble with her at all, none whatsoever."

Grissom noticed the ID badge around Ms. Genaldi's neck. "Was Abigail issued a security badge by the hotel?" he asked.

"All Luxor employees are issued badges, Mr. Grissom," Ms. Genaldi replied. "It's the rule for them to have them on their persons at all times while on duty."

"Are these badges just for ID, or do they serve another purpose?"

"Well, they serve as time cards for punching in and out," she informed him. "And they serve as elevator passes as well, especially for housekeepers and attendants."

"What about keys?" he persisted. "If she was a housekeeper, she'd need keys to get into the rooms, wouldn't she?"

"Our doors are secured with keycards issued by the management," Ms. Genaldi explained. "And all keycards given to our housekeepers are returned at the end of every shift. All housekeeping staff are accountable for every keycard given to them."

"And these keycards also activate the elevators?"

Ms.Genaldi nodded. "It's for the safety of our guests."

Grissom nodded. "Thank you, Ms. Genaldi," he said politely. "If we have any furthur questioning, we'll contact you."

"I am happy to be of service, Mr. Grissom," Ms. Genaldi said, rising. "I hope you find Abby's murderer soon."

"Oh, we will," Grissom said confidently. "Rest assured, we will."




"Probation office, Jennifer Paris speaking."

"Hello, Ms. Paris? It's me, Cole Shoope."

"Oh, hello, Cole. Is everything all right?"

"Listen. I think I witnessed a murder, okay?"

"Witnessed a murder? Are you sure?"

"Well, I saw the body, and the guy driving off in his car."

"Did you contact the police?"

"Yeah, I went to a neighbor's house. She let me use her phone."

"Did you talk to the police when they got there, tell them everything you saw?"

"Yeah, I did the best I could."

"Did they take you in for questioning?"

"No. Just right outside. They asked me a few questions, then they let me go."

"Will they be contacting you in the future?"

"I don't think so. They pretty much got it covered. It was totally CSI over there."

"What were you doing at that particular house?"

"Delivering flyers for Sunrise Market, like I do every Friday."

"I see. Well, homicide is out of my league, but I am glad you reported it to me, as well as the police."

"So, what do I do, Ms. Paris?"

"Just stick with the program like you always have. Keep reporting to me on a regular basis, and we'll get through this fine."

"Okay, Ms. Paris. Later. Oh, by the way--will I have to testify?"

"Probably. But don't worry, your record won't be called into court. The murderer will be on trial, not you."

[Smurf]

Love the story

[RACHEL02189]

Originally Posted by smurf

love the story

me too

[Veritas]

For the hundreds of people lining the entrance to the Luxor's theater for the premire of Believe, it was the night of nights, the event that they had been eagerly anticipating for months, if not years, to witness. Dressed to the nines in the latest designer fashions, or in more Criss Angel punkish styles, they mingled in the enormous atrium, queued up to the lavish cocktail buffet to sample the luscious delicacies, artfully arranged on colorfully draped tables, and posed for photographs. Smiles were everywhere, laughter rippled across the vast ballroom and atrium while a grand piano in the corner supplied soft, relaxing music.

Even though the show hadn't even started yet, for the Luxor's president, Felix Rappaport, it was a personal and professional triumph. Thanks to Criss Angel, the Luxor Hotel had never been more popular. Oh, sure, there had been a few close calls, from crashing buildings to crazed assassins, but that was all in the past. Tonight the one hundred million dollar investment he and the Luxor made would now pay off. Clad in a black tuxedo, shaking hundreds of hands and posing for endless pictures with anyone with a camera, Felix was supremely confident that Criss Angel would not disappoint these people. Nothing was going to mar this--dared he say it?--magical evening, not anything.

For Mario Mendoza, it was just another night on the job for VERVE! magazine. He had been assigned to cover the opening night of Believe with another photographer, Rob Ciborowski. Mario liked Rob, he really did. It's just that he was a more formal photographer, taking portraits instead of action shots, as Mario liked to do. He needed to lighten up a little, he thought. So, more by chance than by mutual agreement, they split up, Mario going for the action, Rob posing his subjects by whatever scenery was handy. While Rob was photographing a very elegant couple by the ice sculpture, Mario went sniffing for anything of interest--a lover's quarrel, a cheating celebrity spouse, drunk and disorderly conduct, anything to spice up the night. True, there had been the murder of the new housekeeper earlier that day. Sad, tragic, yes; a good story for the press, certainly, but the Prez had insisted that everybody who knew about it (and he made sure that few people as possible did) to "keep a lid on it for now". Roughly speaking, it meant no talking to the media. There was too much at stake here, financially and personally, to let a homicide tarnish five years and a hundred million bucks' worth of producing the biggest show in Vegas.

For Chief of Security Lucas Macaffey, however, opening night was like anticipating a prison riot in the exercise yard. He had guards posted in every strategic place he could locate on his chart. The video monitors were fully manned and operating at peak efficiency. Everyone on duty was to be extra vigilant, he ordered emphatically. Eyes and ears open, lips zipped. Remember the last Criss Angel demonstration when he got shot? That's what's gonna happen if they let their guard down for even a moment, he told them. Complacency was death.

Macaffey showed the security staff a photo of "Brother" Bob Talbot that Investigating Officer Grissom had obligingly faxed to him. This man is out to kill Angel, he told them, likely armed and certainly dangerous. "Watch your rooftops, watch your backs," he barked. "Anything suspicious, radio in ASAP. You see this man, draw first if you can. We don't want any casualties."





Brother Bob Talbot stretched his legs until the knees popped. He had been crouched down behind some cartons in a dusty, forgotten corner of a maintenance closet for several hours now. He had succeeded in slipping into the hotel itself, thanks to Sister Abigails keycard that he had found in her purse after he had sent her sinful soul to Hell. She had served the Lord--and Brother Bob--better in death than she had in life. He had to dismantle his Winchester rifle in order to smuggle it into the hotel, disguised in his blue work coveralls, a painter's cap pulled over his eyes to prevent the cameras from spotting him. In the chaos of preparing for the premiere, he had no trouble at all getting in and finding a hiding place, praise the Lord.

The first hour had been spent reassembling the Winchester, slowly and painstakingly. A few "dry" clicks of the hammer, and Brother Bob was satisfied that it was back in working order. He attached the telescope onto the rifle, peering through it for accuracy. He then pulled out two shells from the pocket of his coveralls, holding them up in his palms like an offering. Almighty Father, bless these two simple cartridges, that they may destroy the Anti-Christ tonight. Guide them straight and true into his black heart, so that the people of this modern-day Babylon shall be free of his Godless ways and turn to Thee for salvation. Shield me, O Lord, from the prying eyes of the security cameras and the guards who patrol the building. We ask this in Jesus' name, Amen.

Then he slowly, almost reverently, loaded the cartridges into the rifle, cocking them into place. Now, he had to get to the third floor. Taking the regular elevators was out of the question; security was too tight. He'd have to take the service elevators instead. He unzipped his coveralls, stuffed his rifle down one leg, zipped up again, and slowly but casually limped out of the closet, his painter's cap firmly over his eyes. So far, so good, he thought.

Over there, the freight elevator. Thank You, Jesus, he prayed silently as he limped stiff-legged to it. He pressed the UP button, but got no response. He pressed again, and again. Then he discovered it was key-operated, shooting down that way up. Undeterred, he decided to go back to Plan A, the service elevators. He limped to the simple sliding door marked Service and used Sister Abigail's keycard to access it. The green light flashed on, allowing him to enter the car. Thank You again, Jesus.

He pressed 3 and waited for the doors to close. Nothing happened. He pressed 3 again. Then he saw the cardslot by the buttons. He slid the card in the slot, pressed 3 again, and this time was successful. Brother Bob was growing irritated by all these newfangled devices just to get into an elevator. They gotta make everything so complicated these days, he thought.

A quick trip up to the third floor, and Brother Bob was on his way to bringing about Armageddon. He limped his way to the balcony and looked down, praising the Lord he had no fear of heights. No sign of Criss Devil anywhere. Well, he was bound to turn up sooner or later to greet his followers. Time was on his side.




Criss sat in silent meditative pose, costumed and made up for the performance, centering his Mind, Body and Spirit for the upcoming performance. Tonight would be the culmination of a dream, the revelation of his deep, innermost self to an audience. Years of preparation, planning and training narrowed down to this one moment. He visualized the role he would play, a Victorian gentleman in a surreal world, surrounded by beings of his own imaginings--and nightmares. He would face them with confidence, dance with them, work with them, overcome them with magic. Yes. He was ready.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter , i hope they get to bob before he hurt Criss , Cant wait to read more

[Veritas]

The audience inside the new Luxor theater buzzed in anticipation of the upcoming show. Every seat was filled; indeed, it was hard to find room to move around, let alone see the stage. Ushers doubling as security patrolled the aisles for any signs of rowdiness, their slender flashlights sending bluish-white beams darting between the seats.

The houselights dimmed. Thunderous applause erupted in the darkened theater as the lush crimson stage curtains parted, revealing the Salvador-Daliesque stage setting. The very nanosecond Criss Angel appeared from stage left, the audience cheered even louder, their applause reverberating through the acoustically perfect auditorium. It took almost two minutes for their bravos to die down so Criss could start the show.

And what a show it was! There weren't enough words in Roget's Thesarus to describe the wonders Criss produced on stage with the Cirque de Soleil troupe. Indeed, there weren't any words in existance to define it. Every movement, every illusion, every contortion on the "webs" was perfectly executed. And Criss himself was in rare form; he was the magician, he was the ringmaster, he was the legend in the making. He was the MindFreak. A waiter tending to the buffet later stated that he could hear the gasps of astonishment and the standing ovation at the end of the performance all the way to the Grand Ballroom.




So near, and yet so far. It was the story of Crystal Rathbone's life, it seemed, when it came to Criss Angel. She sat in the media room of her home, watching the E! broadcast of the premiere of Believe. How she longed to be there, among the glitterati, wining and dining and making chitchat, wearing a designer gown without having to worry about breakouts or her weight or any other afflicitions associated with adolescence. She would have given anything to be there, even her very soul to the Devil himself....



The end of the performance was a blur of deafening roars and applause, endless cellophane-wrapped bouquets of flowers, tears, cheers, and high-fives. Criss Angel had triumphed. He had not only achieved his greatest dream, but had changed the face of magic forever, setting a new gold standard for which all future illusionisnt would strive to meet, if not exceed. He had surpassed even the legendary Siegfried and Roy, his former mentors, though he used no animals as they did; Cirque de Soleil prided themselves on being the first circus troupe not to exploit animals in their performances.

Still feeling the post-performance rush, Criss made the usual round of photo-ops and interviews with the media while still in costume. Yes, he felt great about how it went, and he was confident that all future performances would be just as successful. His performers did exceptionally well, and he was proud of them all for coming through the way they did, and he wanted to thank his mom, his brothers, the rest of his family for their loving support ("Hi, Mom!" he waved at the camera), Felix Rappaport for giving him this opportunity to produce Believe, his staff and managers, his producers, and most of all, the Loyals for standing by him all the way, through thick and thin.

In the thick of the media feeding frenzy, someone had the temerity to bring up Hiram Block, Criss' would-be assassin. Criss brushed it off with the comment, "We'll let the courts deal with Mr. Block," and that was that. No furthur comments, thank you very much, and good night. Criss left the media clamoring for more in his wake as he made his way to the afterglow party in the Grand Ballroom.





Brother Bob Talbot peered again over the balcony on the third floor. He had hidden himself in the service elevator during the performance--the only spot that wasn't covered by video surveillance. It had been quiet during the two-hour show; now they were coming out again, and this time Criss Devil was among them.

Look at them down there, he contemptuously thought, fawning all over him like a god, a pagan idol, dressed in their fancy clothes, feasting and imbibing their wines and liquors. And they worshipped the Beast, saying, Who is like unto the Beast? who is able to make war with him? Brother Bob, that's who, he said to himself. He unzipped his coveralls and drew out his Winchester. No one could see him from above--all eyes were on the Beast himself. He trained his telescope onto Criss' head and waited for the right moment to fire...




Mario Mendoza snapped pictures of Criss schmoozing it up with the partygoers, but he was bored. It was the same Hollywood-type soiree, drinking, gossiping, blah, blah, blah. He glanced around for something more interesting. Nothing on the floor, but on the upper balconies, he saw some fans draping a homemade bedsheet banner with Criss' image airbrushed onto it. Well, it was something different anyway. It was non-celeb, and it was a pretty good work of art. He took a picture of it and scanned the balconies for more. He had just passed the center when something made him do a double-take. There! Up on the third floor! It's...oh, God! A sniper! And his rifle was aimed straight at the crowd below. He had to be gunning for Criss Angel! There was no other possible explanation.

For the first time in his career, concern for a human life took precedence over a photo-op. He shoved, butted, and plowed his way through the mass of humanity in his path to reach Criss.

"Criss!" he shouted. "Get down! We got a sniper! Get down NOW!"

Once again, Medoza's timing was perfect. He had reached Criss just in time and pulled the bewildered illusionist out of the line of fire. His cries of "Sniper!" had drawn attention to the third floor balcony. The would-be assassin still stood there, his gun lowered. Instinct kicked in as Mario lifted his camera and snapped the closest shot he could get with his telephoto lens of the sniper. Then he pulled Criss away as fast as he could. Little did he know it at the time, but he had taken the shot of a lifetime.




"We have an unidentifed person on the third floor on camera three, looks like a maintenance worker. Copy?"

"Copy that. Suspect is on the balcony, looking down."

"Zero-One-Nine, no maintenace worker was called on three."

"Suspect still on balcony. Send up units onto three."

"Suspect is opening his suit. He's got a rifle! Suspect has a rifle!"

"Attention all units! We have a sniper on three! Move in! Move in! Move in!"

"Ten-four! Moving in!"




Wait for it...wait for it...

Brother Bob Talbot zeroed in on Criss Devil. He finally had a clear shot. His finger curled around the trigger, ready to pull. Suddenly there was a commotion down below, a man's finger pointing up at him, pulling Criss Devil out of the way. For a moment, Brother Bob lowered his Winchester, exposing his face under the painter's cap. It was that exact moment that a flash of light burst up in his eyes, temporarily distracting him. Brother Bob tried to refocus, but Criss had vanished. It was sabotage! he thought. The agents of Satan were at work here!

"FREEZE! GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!"

Brother Bob turned and saw himself assaulted on all sides by uniformed guards. They siezed him by the arms, kicked him in the back of the knees, sending him buckling to the floor, and pinioned his hands behind his back, clamping steel cuffs around his wrists. He could barely breathe with all those knees pressing him down on the carpeted floor. Subdued, he was hauled to his feet and dragged back to the service elevator where he had been hiding two hours before.

"Suspect in custody," a guard radioed in. "All clear."




As soon as Criss heard the word "sniper", he looked around wildly. "Sniper?! Where?" he shouted.

He felt his arm being pulled by a photographer. "Get down! Now!" he ordered Criss, pointing up at the balcony.

Criss looked up. To his shock and horror, there really was a sniper up there, rifle drawn and ready to shoot. For a moment he stood there, frozen in time, his gaze narrowed to the business end of the gun trained squarely at him. Then a flash of light bought him back to his senses, and he allowed himself to be pulled away from the spot by someone he didn't see beside him. What's happening? he kept thinking. What's happening?

Screams and gasps of terror rippled through the crowd of partygoers as they caught sight of a man with a rifle on the third floor balcony. Security moved in to control the surging panic; a large crowd like this in a panicked state could result in disaster. The guards moved through the frightened crowd, assuring them that everything was under control. Thankfully, before any tragedy could occur, cheers rose as those looking up witnessed the sniper being tackled by more guards, then all disappeared from view behind the railing, then reemerged again with the sniper being frogmarched away from the balcony. Sighs and murmurs of relief followed in the wake of near disaster.





Big Luke Macaffey was livid. How in the flaming hell did a sniper get into the Luxor on his watch? he demanded furiously. How could that (bleepbleeper) get by under his nose with a rifle, for chrissakes? Who the flaming hell let him slip through? Whoever it was, his ass was grass as far as he was concerned.

He sank his heavy frame onto his chair. Every square inch of this place had been covered. He had made sure of it himself. It was practically vacuumed-sealed from intruders. Before all hell broke loose, his men had nabbed a few gatecrashers in the North Lot, but that was all. Just a few overeager teens who wanted to see Criss Angel. No big deal, but it confirmed that his men were on the ball. Satisfied, he had continued with his patrol. Then word got out that a sniper had been spotted on the third floor by video surveillance. Big Luke exploded, barking orders for all units to apprehend the son of a (bleep) yesterday! He watched on the monitor as four guards took him down without firing a shot. It was a classic takedown, a textbook case, and he was very pleased with that.

But it shouldn't have happened, he thought, drumming his stubby fingers on the desktop. That (bleeper) should not have been up there in the first place. How did he get up there, anyway? Every elevator either needed a keycard or a employee pass to get between floors; even the freight elevator needed a key to operate. There must have been an accomplice, an insider who was working with him. And God (bleep) it, he was going to find out who, no matter whose ass he had to rake over the coals!




The afterglow went on, but the glow had dimmed in the wake of the sniper sighting. Few partook of the buffet, a lighter affair than the pre-performance one, but there were some who took advantage of the bar to settle their nerves with whatever the bartender could mix together. Many left early, too shaken to stay. Criss, however, toughed it out, playing the star by signing autographs, posing for pictures, and giving out consoling hugs to those still traumatized by the near-attack.

Then the press moved in, barking questions while thrusting microphones in his face, demanding statements. Criss was blinded by the constant flash of cameras, forced to shield his eyes with his hands. He wished he had bought his Ray-Bans with him. He fielded their questions to the best of his ability until a pair of security guards came to his rescue and herded the reporters and photographers out of the building.

For the first time since before the performance, Criss was alone, save for the wait staff clearing away the buffet and sweeping the tables of plates and glasses. For a minute he recalled the days of his youth working in his father's cafe. He had been safe with his family back then; no one had threatened him with a gun or anything like that while he bussed tables and washed dishes in the back of the cafe. He had hated it at the time; now, he felt a sense of nostalgia as he watched the staff do the same work he had done more than twenty-five years ago.

The magnificent ice sculpture had melted into an indistinguishable lump in its basin, dripping at points like icicles at spring thaw. The floor was littered with bits of food, shards of a broken glass, and paper cocktail napkins. Only the giant posters hanging from the ceiling reminded him of his earlier triumph.

"Criss?"

He turned to see Felix Rappaport, still resplendent in his black tuxedo, standing beside him. Felix's smile was pasted on; Criss could tell just by looking in his eyes that he was as upset and disappointed as he was.

"Turned out to be quite an evening, didn't it?" Felix quipped with a touch of irony in his voice.

Criss nodded. "Yeah," he replied, forcing a smile of his own. "It ended with a real bang--almost."

Felix failed to see the humor in that statement. "The sniper's in custody," he told him unneccessarily. "They're questioning him right now."

"Good," was all Criss could say.

Felix sighed. "I'm really sorry about this, Criss," he said sadly. "I had planned for a perfect evening for the premire and--"

"Ah, don't blame yourself, Felix. It was a perfect evening, in spite of what happened. You did the best you could. And they did nail the guy before he could fire a shot at me, or anyone else for that matter. It's me they want."

"'They'?"

"There's this church, Perfection Chruch of something or other, and I've been on their (bleep) list because they think I'm the Anti-Christ or something."

Felix stared incredulously at Criss. "They what?!"

"I don't believe it, either," Criss said, "but there it is. I'm the first to admit, I am not one hundred percent popular with some people. I have my skeptics, my share of detractors, but it comes with the job, you know. It's like an, well, occupational hazard, you know?" Criss laughed a little.

"Yeah, well, this particular 'occupational hazard' as you call it almost ended your life tonight," Felix retorted. "I still don't know how the hell he got in here, let alone with a rifle."

"Well, there's only one way to find out," Criss said. "Ask the guy who did it."

"You really want to come face-to-face with that psycho?"

Criss shrugged. "Hey, I did before with Hiram Block."

"Yeah, but he was laid up in the hospital at the time!"

"So? This guy'll be in cuffs. I'll be fine, really." Criss assured him as he headed for the security office.

"That's what you said before you got shot in the hand with a nail gun," Felix murmured as he followed in Criss' wake.