Part 1

Scene 1

Richie walked into the concert hall at the edge of town the next afternoon, a manila folder tucked under his arm. He headed up to the stage where Michael was playing a classical piece on the piano.

Richie applauded as the musician finished. "I didn't know you were into that stuff," he said.

Michael shrugged. "I'm classically trained, but the record company doesn't like to admit it. They say it doesn't fit with my image," he replied. "So, Richie, why are you here anyway?" But the teasing tone in his voice belied the gruffness of his words.

Richie held up the folder, grinning. "Joe finished the plans for the party you're throwing after your concert," he explained. "He was too busy to bring them over and, since I had nothing going on, I volunteered." He climbed up on the stage and handed Michael the folder. "And since I was coming in here anyway, your security guy gave me your messages."

"Thanks, man, I appreciate it." Michael opened the folder and started flipping through it. "Oh man, not another one of these."

Richie raised an eyebrow. "Another one of what?"

Michael put the folder on top of the piano and showed Richie a typed note that had been stuck in with his messages. "This wacko who calls himself 'The Angel of Death' has been sending me threatening letters since my first single came out," he answered. He crumpled up the piece of paper and tossed it off the stage.

"How do you know it's a guy?" Richie asked.

Michael ran a hand through his hair. "The security company the label hired for me said that it has to be a man because the letters have always been death threats," he answered. "According to them, a woman would have started with sexual propositions and then moved on to death threats when I turned her down or ignored her. I don't know if it's really true, but the letters do read like a man wrote them."

Richie shook his head in bewilderment. "You know, for somebody who's having his life threatened on a regular basis, you're awfully calm about it," he said.

Michael shrugged. "What do you want me to do, turn into a hysterical recluse who's afraid to leave the house?" he asked a little defensively. "I have never backed down from a challenge and I'm not about to start now. Besides, my security guys have assured me that this guy is just a nut job who won't follow through on any of this. And if he's not, well, what's life without a little risk?"

Richie couldn't think of a way to argue with that. And, as a fellow risk taker, it wasn't like he could say much. "Well, it's your life," he said. "Although if I were in your shoes, I'd be doing everything in my power to keep that life going."

Michael stood up and stretched. "Since you're all ready here, you wanna crash my lunch meeting ?" he asked. "You can help keep my from making an ass out of myself in front of Mary Hart."

Richie laughed. "Sounds good," he answered. "Although I don't know if I can handle that big of a job. I am only one man after all."

Michael shook his head. "That was cold, man," he said. "No wonder Joe likes you so much." He grabbed his folder off the piano and they headed off.

Scene 2

At exactly midnight, Michael slipped out of his hotel room window and scrambled down the fire escape. He loved being a rock star and adored every part of that life, except for the fact that no one would let him go anywhere. His entire day was scheduled and planned down to the second and it drove him nuts. As a result, he'd gotten very good at sneaking out of hotels in the middle of the night. As long as he was back before sunrise, no one was ever the wiser.

As soon as his feet hit the ground, he started whistling. He had memorized the route to Joe's during the drive over last night by putting it to a couple of his favorite songs. Each turn and street crossing was timed to hit a particular note in the song so he wouldn't get lost. It was a method that he'd been using for years and it hadn't failed him yet.

Michael was about ten bars, or five blocks, away when someone grabbed him from behind and yanked him into an alley. "Hey, watch it pal!" he snapped as he turned to face his assailant.

The man was tall with a very lean build, non-descript features, and short-cropped blonde hair. But his big blue eyes were wild and intense.

Michael swallowed hard, scared stiff. "Who, who are you?" he stammered.

The man's smile was cold and menacing. "The Angel of Death," he whispered.

Michael was moving into pure terror now. "What do you want from me?"

"To make you famous," Angel answered.

Michael prepared to scream, but the bite of cold steel shoving into the flesh of his stomach stopped him. Angel twisted his knife and pulled it sideways, slicing Michael open.

The musician fell to his knees, his blood pouring out onto the concrete. "Why?" Michael gasped.

Angel sneered as he brought his knife up for another attack. "Because no one ever forgets the ones who die young."