She merely stated facts, with a minimum of innuendo and conclusions.

But deep inside Sara knew the truth about the Reverend Ernest Sanders.

There was just no avoiding it.

The man was pure scum.

The studio bustled with activity. Technicians read meters and adjusted lights. Cameramen swung their lenses into place. The teleprompter was being tested, no more than three words to a line so that the audience at home would not see the anchor's eyes shifting. Directors, producers, engineers, and gofers scrambled back and forth across a set that looked like a large family room with no ceiling and only one wall, as though some giant had ripped apart the outside so he could peer in.

A man Sara did not recognize rushed toward her.

"Here you go," he said. The man handed her several sheets of paper.

"What's this?" she ask eh

"Papers."

"No, I mean what are they for?"

He shrugged.

"To shuffle."

"Shuffle?"

"Yeah, you know, like when you break for a commercial and the camera pulls away. You shuffle them."

"I dor

"Makes you look important," he assured her before rushing off.

She shook her head. Alas, so much to learn.

Without conscious thought, Sara began to sing quietly. She usually restricted her singing to the shower or the car, preferably accompanied by a very loud radio, but occasionally, when she was nervous, she began to sing in public. Loudly.

When she got to the chorus of

"Tattoo Vampire" ("Vampire photo suckin' the skin"), her voice rose and she started playing the air guitar.

Really into it now. Getting down.

A moment later she realized that people were staring at her.

She lowered her hands back to her sides, dropping her well tuned air guitar into oblivion. The song faded from her lips. She smiled, shrugged.

"Uh sorry."

The crew returned to work without so much as a second glance. Air guitar gone, Sara tried to think about something both distracting and comforting.

Michael immediately came to mind. She wondered what Michael was doing right now. He was probably jogging home from basketball practice. She pictured all six feet five of him opening the door, a white towel draped around his neck, sweat bleeding through his gray practice jersey. He always wore the craziest shorts loud orange or yellow or pink Hawaiian ones that came down to his knees, or some whacko-designed jams.

Without breaking stride, he would jog past the expensive piano and into the den. He would turn on a little Bach, veer toward the kitchen, pour himself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and then drink half of it in one gulp. Then he would collapse into the reclining chair and let the chamber music sweep him away.

Michael.

Another tap on her shoulder.

"Telephone call." The same man who had handed her the sheets of paper handed her a portable telephone.

She took the phone.

"Hello?"

"Did you start singing yet?"

She broke into a smile. It was Michael.

"Blue Oyster Cult?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Let me guess." Michael thought a moment. " Tton't Fear the Reaper?"

"No, Tattoo Vampire'."

"God, how awful. So what are you up to now?"

Sara closed her eyes. She could feel herself beginning to relax.

"Not much. I'm just hanging around the set, waiting to go on."

"Play any air guitar?" "Of course not," she said.

"I'm a professional journalist, for God's sake."

"Uh- huh. So how nervous are you?"

"I feel pretty calm actually," she replied.

"Liar."

"All right, I'm scared out of my mind. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," he replied.

"But remember one thing."

"What?"

"You're always scared before you go on the air. The more scared you are, the more you kick ass."

"You think so?"

"I know so," he said.

"This poor guy will never know what hit him."

"Really?" she asked, her face beginning to beam.

"Yeah, really," he said.

"Now let me ask you a quick question:

do we have to go to your father's gala tonight?"

"Let me give you a quick answer: yes." "Black tie?" Michael asked.

"Another yes."

"These big stuffy affairs can be so boring."

"Tell me about it." He paused.

"Can I at least have my way with you during the party?"

"Who knows?" Sara answered.

"You may get lucky." She cradled the phone between her neck and shoulder for a moment.

"Is Harvey coming to the party tonight?"

"I'm going to pick him up on my way."

"Good. I know he doesn't get along with my father "

"You mean your father doesn't get along with him," Michael corrected.

"Whatever. Will you talk to him tonight?"

"About what?"

"Don't play games with me, Michael," she said.

"I'm worried about your health."

"Listen, with Bruce's death and all the problems at the clinic, Harv has enough on his mind right now. I don't want to bother him."

"Has he spoken to you yet about Bruce's suicide?" Sara asked.

"Not a word," Michael said.

"To be honest, I'm kind of worried about him. He never leaves the lab anymore. He works all day and night."

"Harvey has always been that way."

"I know, but it's different this time."

"Give him a little more time, Michael. Bruce has been dead only two weeks."

"It's more than just Bruce."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Something to do with the clinic, I guess."

"Michael, please talk to him about your stomach."

"Sara..."

"Talk to him tonight... for me."

"Okay," he agreed reluctantly.

"Promise?"

"Yes, I promise. And Sara?"

"What is it?"

"Kick some Southern-fried reverend ass."

"I love you, Michael."

"I love you too."

Sara felt a tap on her shoulder.

"Ten minutes."

"I have to go," she said.

"Until tonight then," he said.

"When I have my way with a famous TV star in her childhood bedroom."

"Dream on."

A sharp pain ripped across Michael Silverman's abdomen again as he replaced the receiver. He bent over, his hand clutched under his rib cage, his face scrunched into a grimace. His stomach had been bothering him on and off for weeks now. At first he had thought it was just a flu, but now he was not so sure. The ache was becoming unbearable. Even the thought of food now made his stomach perform backflips.

Bach's Seventh Symphony drifted across the room like a welcome breeze.

Michael closed his eyes, allowing the melody to work like a gentle masseur against his aching muscles. His teammates gave him unlimited shit about his musical taste. Reece Porter, the black power forward who co-captained the New York Knicks with Michael, was always goofing on him.

"How can you listen to this shit, Mikey?" he would ask.

"There's no beat, no rhythm."

"I realize that the musical ear of a Chopin does not compare with that of MC Hammer," Michael would reply, "but try to be open-minded. Just listen, Reece. Let the notes flow over you."

Reece paused and listened for a moment.

"I feel like I'm trapped in a dentist's office. How does this shit get you psyched for a big game? You can't dance to it or anything."

"Ah, but just listen." "It doesn't have lyrics," Reece said.

"And your noise pollution does? You can understand the words over all that racket?"

Reece laughed.

"Mikey, you're a typical whitey snob," he said.

"I prefer the term pompous honky ass, thank you."

Good of' Reece. Michael held a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, but the thought of even a sip nauseated him. Last year the knee, and now the stomach. It didn't make sense.

Michael had always been the healthiest guy in the league. He had gone through his first ten NBA seasons without a scratch before tearing apart his knee a little more than a year ago. It was tough enough trying to bounce back from reconstructive knee surgery at his age... the last thing he needed was this mystery stomach ailment...