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of her incredulous refusal still burned, but he was damned if he'd let Brice's glorified receptionist know it.
    Mrs. Brice is on an important call, Daphne told him, clearly implying that Brice's meeting with him was not important. Take a seat and I'll tell you when she's ready to see you.
    Dennis planted himself on a sofa and fumed silently while he leafed through the latest issue of World News. He had just finished mentally editing another article on the Middle East poorly written by one of the senior hacks when Daphne told him he could enter Brice's inner sanctum.
    Dennis was tall and gangly, with the pasty complexion low-paid reporters have when they only make enough to subsist on fast foods. His black hair was curly and his blue eyes were intense. He always seemed to be on edge and though he was obviously very smart he was slow to get jokes, because he lacked a sense of humor. Dennis was also socially inept. He had no sense of style and never felt comfortable in a restaurant that rated stars or at a function where a tuxedo was required.
    Martha Brice was completely at home at Le Bernardin or a society gala. Dennis grudgingly conceded that she had a first-class mind, as evidenced by the diplomas from Yale and the Columbia University School of Journalism that hung on her wall, but she couldn't have been more than ten years older than he was and she was already the editor in chief of a major news magazine. What really bugged Dennis was that she'd gotten her position by marrying Harvey Brice, who owned World News and was at least twenty years her senior. Dennis couldn't really argue that she wasn't a good executive, but he felt that he was as qualified to run a major magazine as she was, and might be sitting in Martha's chair if he'd had the good fortune to be born to wealthy parents instead of the owner of a dry-cleaning establishment and a first-grade teacher.
    Dennis also had to concede that Martha Brice was glamorous if, in his opinion, a bit overweight. Her heart-shaped face was framed by jet-black hair shaped in a bob, and she'd applied bright red lipstick to her thick, pouty lips. The lustrous hair and fire-engine mouth contrasted sharply with her pale white skin. Today, she was wearing a black Armani pants suit with a cream, man-tailored shirt. Tasteful black pearl teardrop earrings and a matching necklace told you that she was loaded but didn't have to broadcast the fact.
    Good to see you, Dennis, Brice said as she motioned him into a chair. How are you getting along?
    Dennis had no idea what she was asking about. Did she want to know about his private life, or how he liked his job? He decided to play it safe.
    Fine, he answered.
    I've been keeping an eye on you and I' m very pleased with your work.
    Dennis blushed. He was not used to praise.
    I know you haven't been given the most challenging assignments, Brice continued, but one way I gauge how dedicated and competent my reporters are is to see how they handle assignments I know won't necessarily interest them. Now it's time for you to take a step up. Are you interested?
    Definitely, Dennis answered, sitting up straight without realizing he was doing so.
    How old are you, Dennis?
    Twenty-five.
    You would have been thirteen, twelve years ago, Brice said, more to herself than Dennis. Do the names Charlie Marsh or Gabriel Sun mean anything to you?
    Dennis frowned. Didn't he start some kind of New Age religion and then get charged with murder?
    The editor nodded. The press called him ' Satan's Guru' and the case was plastered on the front page of every newspaper in America. Mr. Marsh first gained notoriety during a prison standoff at the state penitentiary when he saved a prison guard's life. He was rewarded with an early release and wrote a best-selling autobiography called The Light Within You, which attributed his miraculous conversion from petty criminal to hero and alleged humanitarian to the discovery of God's light within himself. The TV talk shows ate it