Reign

Scene 1

The rest of the night was chaos, a phantasmagoria of whirling faces, medics working in vain, the omnipresent policemen returning like vultures to worry the dead, Marvella's eternal sobbing, the pale, drawn faces and whispered words of Curt and Evan and John, and the stern, dread countenance of Dan Munro, his presence like a bell tolling doom for still another denizen of the Venetian Theatre. Questions were asked, photographs taken, in a dreadful fivefold repetition, and Dennis told only some of what he knew, lying some of the time, keeping the truth to himself, knowing that it would be thought a lie, that he would be thought mad for telling it.

He agreed listlessly when Munro told him that he wanted to meet with him at the station first thing in the morning, and did not see the growing awareness in Munro's eyes, nor feel the solicitude the policeman subtly offered.

Nor did he watch Munro look at him with pity in his eyes as he started to walk toward his lonely suite.

Munro lay awake in his bed for a long time that night. Patty had been asleep when he had come in shortly after one o'clock, and at first he had considered staying up, thinking about it all in his big leather chair, a Coors by his side. But he thought he might think about it better in the dark. Too, he felt as if he needed his wife beside him, needed the knowledge that he had someone he loved and who loved him, and who he need not fear would be taken away from him.

Oh, he had those fears from time to time, but they were only the normal, natural fears of any man for his loved ones – that they would be taken by disease or accident or even a random act of violence. But he did not have the fears that he knew must be possessing Dennis Hamilton. He did not have the precedents that Dennis Hamilton had.

The town of Kirkland averaged. 5 homicides per year, but now in only half a year the Venetian Theatre and environs had experienced five violent deaths – one definite murder, one possible suicide, and three "accidents."

No, Munro thought again, they were no accidents. Accidents didn't happen over and over again in one place, to a small group of people. And tonight? The little girl had suffocated, but that she should have done so on her own had been impossible. Self-preservation would have kept her pushing the clothes away from her face. There was no reason for it, just no reason at all short of murder, but to assume that the grandmother had done it was just plain stupid. Her grief had been real, as had been her attempts to bring the little girl back to life. The probability then?

Simple. When the grandmother wasn't looking, when she was in the john, somebody sneaked in and smothered the girl, then left. That story the woman had told about the clothes moving on their own Munro had dismissed as hallucination brought about by panic. It was the only thing to believe. Clothes didn't move on their own, not even in the goddamned Venetian Theatre.

And Dennis Hamilton once again had an alibi of sorts, though not a perfect one by any means. There had been one set of wet footprints going up to the costume shop from the pool, a bloody spot on the stairs where Hamilton had apparently raked his shin when the lights went out, and John Steinberg saying that he had left Dennis in the pool just minutes before the time of death. One thing bothered Munro, however, and that was why Hamilton had run up to the costume shop the way he did.

Hamilton's explanation had come in bits and pieces. He said that after Steinberg left he thought he had seen someone else pass in the hall, someone he didn't recognize, and ran out to see who it was. He said he called to the person, but that there was no answer, and that he grew afraid, thinking that it might be the same person who had murdered Donna Franklin. He decided to warn the others, and went to the costume shop first, knowing that Marvella Johnson was working late, but the lights failed, which alarmed him further, and he had to get a flashlight in the lobby. When he arrived, the girl was already dead.

Munro believed the story. There was no reason not to. Munro had little doubt that the person Hamilton had seen was the killer, not on his way to murder the little girl, but on his way out after having done so. One more death. One more mindless and motiveless death.

At least there was no motive that any sane mind could come up with. And that was what had given Dan Munro his theory.

Dennis Hamilton remained awake through most of the night as well, trying to deal with a reality that could not be, but was. The Emperor had proven himself. Proven himself with Whitney's death.

Dennis gave a shuddering sob and wondered if he had accepted the Emperor, had told him that he believed in him, had begged him to turn back from whatever horrible path he was taking, if the girl would still be alive. But she was not. She was dead, just like Robin and Tommy and Harry Ruhl and Donna, whom the Emperor had paraded before him like waxworks in some chamber of horrors.

And wasn't that just what the Venetian Theatre had become?

For an instant the old Dennis Hamilton flared, and he thought, How dare he? How dare that monster take my dream and turn it into a nightmare? How dare he tread on the bodies of the people I love?

And then the feeling was gone, but the memory of it buoyed him. There was still anger, emotion there, wasn't there? The Emperor had not taken it all. And he would not. He would not use Dennis's strength to harm the very people he loved. No. No more. No more theft. No more deaths.

No more.

The next morning Dennis Hamilton arrived at the police station at nine o'clock. John Steinberg was with him, and Dan Munro guided them into the little room that served him as an office. There were only two chairs, so Bill Davis brought in a folding chair for Steinberg, then coffee for the three of them.

"Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Steinberg," Munro said, "I'm convinced you have a real problem, and one that's not going to stop." He noticed that Hamilton's eyes seemed to light with surprise, but made no comment on it. "I don't think that any of the deaths that have occurred in the theatre building have been accidental. I believe every one was a premeditated homicide – and that includes Harry Ruhl's so-called suicide." He took a deep breath and another sip of coffee, watching for a reaction from either man, but there was none. "You've heard of celebrity stalkers?"

Steinberg murmured, "Yes," and Hamilton nodded.

"I think that may be what we've got here," Munro went on. "I came in early today, and read as much as I could find about it in our law enforcement journals. The situation doesn't fit the pattern perfectly, but it's damn close."

"You mean… a stranger?" Steinberg asked. "Someone we don't know?"

"It's possible. Maybe someone you do know, if only slightly. A big fan who may be jealous of the people around you, Mr. Hamilton, who'd like to be part of your entourage, and decides to whittle down the competition, or a performer jealous of your success, trying to hurt you through your friends… your wife. There are a lot of sick people out there. And a lot of people who don't need much of a reason to kill. Look at that kid who killed Lennon, or the one who shot Reagan – to impress Jodie Foster, for crissake. Celebrities can make weird people do weird things."

"I don't quite see," Steinberg said carefully, "how you suspect murder in all these cases."

"All right. I think that somebody dropped that curtain on Tommy Werton. I think Harry Ruhl was just plain murdered with that knife. Somebody knew when your wife and Mrs. Deems were going to be in the ceiling, and turned on the light to purposely startle them into falling. We know that Donna Franklin was strangled, and the little girl was smothered. It was no accident."

"How do you know that?" Steinberg asked.

"They did an autopsy early this morning, called me with the results. There were bruises and contusions on the girl's inner lips, and her nose was broken. Someone held those clothes over her face."

"Poor thing. Poor little thing." Steinberg grimly shook his head. "But how could this person… this stalker, as you put it… have access to all these places?" Steinberg asked.

"That's not difficult. He – or she – may have possession of all the keys he needs to get in and out of the theatre. One thing I'd do is have the locks changed – all the locks. To your apartments and everywhere else. But the first thing I'd do is to search that building from top to bottom. Every tunnel, every forgotten staircase, every room, any nook or cranny where somebody could be hiding."

"You mean you think this person might actually be living in the theatre," Steinberg said, "in hiding?"

"It's not likely, but it's possible."

Steinberg gave a dry chuckle without a trace of humor. "I think you may have seen The Phantom of the Opera once too often, Chief."

"And I think your situation warrants every precaution at this point, Mr. Steinberg. No offense, but there aren't that many of you left. Your chance of being the next victim is growing by leaps and bounds."

"All right." Steinberg sucked on his lower lip for a moment. "All right with you, Dennis?"

"Of course," Hamilton said. "If there's something there… something that can be found, let's find it." He sighed. "It won't do any harm. But does this clear Sid?"

Munro shook his head. "No. There's still the possibility that Miss Franklin's murder was an isolated incident. All the evidence points to Mr. Harper. Even someone with keys can't bolt a door when they're on the other side."

"What about with string?" Steinberg suggested. "I've heard of -"

"Now you're reading too many locked room mysteries, Mr. Steinberg. The investigators know all the tricks, and there was no trace of any gimmicks like that. It couldn't have been done, believe me."

"Do you think we should leave the premises?" Steinberg asked.

"Well, I’d sleep a lot better, knowing you folks were out of Kirkland, but it might not do any good. This… person would just follow you. No. Let me and my men come in and sweep the place, then change all your locks. That's a start. And if you see anyone suspicious hanging around outside the building, give us a call right away. I'd expect this to be someone from out-of-town, someone who followed you here, and we could find that out by questioning them." Munro sat back. "Is there anything you can tell me? Anyone you can think of who might have a reason, no matter how twisted, for doing these things? Any strange fan mail? Threatening notes? Calls?"

"No, nothing," Steinberg said. "My office handles all that, and there's been nothing out of the ordinary – the usual requests for autographs, pictures, things like that. Maybe two or three a day. But nothing in the least bit unusual."

"Do you save those items?"

"No. We just respond to them, then throw them away."

"Would you hang on to them from now on? I'd like to look at them.”

“Of course, if you like."

"Thanks. And thanks to both of you for coming in. Like I said, anything strange happens – anything – call me. We'll be over this afternoon."

It was only three blocks to the Venetian Theatre, and a sunny day. Steinberg and Dennis had walked over, and now they walked back, their eyes downcast, Steinberg deep in thought.

"Do you think he's right?"

Dennis's answer was a long time in coming. "Yes. In a way I do." There was something in his tone that made Steinberg stop.

"Dennis, do you know more about this than you let on?" Dennis said nothing, kept his eyes on the sidewalk. "Has anyone been in touch with you that I haven't been aware of?"

"No, John." The words were soft. Dennis still did not look at Steinberg.

"I've known you a long time, my friend, and I don't think you're telling me the truth."

"The truth is… that there's been no one in that theatre other than the people we know."

"My God, what are you saying? That it was one of us? Curt? Evan? Abe Kipp?”

“No, not at all, it's just… oh, forget it, John. Just forget it. I don't know what the hell I mean."

They walked on in silence. As they rounded the corner of the Kirkland Community Center, Steinberg saw a figure standing under the marquee. It was a heavy man in a dark blue, down filled jacket and a Irish bog trotter's hat. It was not until he turned around that Steinberg recognized Larry Peach, the reporter from The Probe who had accosted them at Tommy Werton's funeral.

"Hey, what a treat," Peach said, walking toward them. "Both of you at once. My luck's changed. Your security guys were so damn good after the first funeral I didn't get a chance to chat with either of you. But now here you are walking down the street. Saves me using my usual subterfuge to get in to see you."

"What do you want?" Steinberg asked.

"The usual. Maybe a picture, a little interview, a few kind words. Look, don't get me wrong. I'm simpatico. I know you've lost a lot of people. I mean, five deaths? And you're all still here? Hey, if it was me, I'd've hauled ass a long time ago. So what's the story? The cops around here don't say dick, and I've been driving since early this morning to get here. I think I deserve a little enlightenment."

"Mr. Hamilton has nothing to say," Steinberg said, walking around the man. Dennis tried to follow, but Peach blocked his way.

"You let Mr. Hamilton tell me that."

"I'm warning you," Steinberg said.

"Come on, Dennis Hamilton hasn't popped a reporter in years." He lifted his camera and took a close-up. The flash blinded Dennis and he put his hands up. "He's needed the publicity too much for that. Everybody needs publicity, am I right? Come on, Mr. Hamilton, you want the truth told, don't you? Not some silly bullshit. So talk to me, tell me what you know. The press is your friend if you know how to use it."

The flash exploded again. "Stop it," Dennis said. "No more pictures.”

“Then talk to me."

"I'm not talking to you."

"It's the only way you'll get rid of me."

"That's enough," Steinberg said.

" Talk to me!"

"Go away." Dennis flailed an arm weakly in Peach's direction.

"What do you know? Who do you think did it?"

" Stop it!" Dennis balled a fist and swung it at Peach. It grazed his shoulder, but did not even make him lose his balance.

"Fuck you," Peach grunted, and pushed a gloved left hand into Dennis's midsection hard enough to push him backwards and send him to the pavement on his rear, a dazed, drunken look on his face. "This is better than an interview," Peach said, raising his camera.

He never took the picture. John Steinberg swung him around and threw a right hook that caught him on the side of the head and felled him like a tree. The camera fell from his hand, and Steinberg brought his right foot down hard on it, shattering the lens and breaking the case so that the film was exposed to the bright daylight.

"You son of a bitch!" Peach yelled from the sidewalk. "You can't do that! Freedom of the press, you motherfucker! You'll pay for this!"

"I certainly will," Steinberg said, and removed a wad of twenties from his pocket.

"Buy yourself a new toy, but don't bring it back here to play with." He tossed the bills next to Peach's shattered camera, then helped a groggy Dennis to his feet.

"I'm gonna have the cops on you!" Peach said, pushing himself erect.

"If you do," Steinberg replied, "I'll file charges against you for harassment and assault."

"He hit me first!" Peach cried, for all the world like a child in a schoolyard. "That was scarcely what I would call a hit. Besides, it's your word against ours – and who will the police believe? Us, or a piece of slime who makes Morton Downey look like a bastion of good journalistic taste?"

"You're gonna be sorry – I'm gonna find out what the hell is going on around here!"

"If you do," said Steinberg, unlocking the door, "please inform us. We'd love to know."

"Yeah!" Peach yelled as the door was drifting closed. "You're all dying to know, aren't you? Dying to know!"

Dennis sat on the padded bench in the lobby, told John Steinberg that he would be all right, told him to go to his office, watched him go, thought to himself:

I wore a mask. For all those years I wore a mask to make myself strong. But it was a lie. Masks are weak. Only reality is strong. And now reality is the Emperor. Now I am weak, but he is strong, and yes, Jesus loves me, oh Christ.

He was weak. His rage at that reporter had been only false rage, his blow barely thrown. There had been a time when he might have waded into the man with both fists, broken his nose, turned his face into a smear of blood. But no more. He was weak. How had it happened, oh God , how?

He felt as if he knew nothing, as if all the laws of life, things he had accepted for years, had suddenly been proven false, and that he existed in some other world, where those laws were perverted, broken, turned into cruel lies.

Lies. Lies and truth. Acting and reality. Artifice and emotion. Had he gone too far down the former path? Had he, by ignoring his true emotions and living false ones, lost his soul?

He rose unsteadily to his feet and started the long walk to his suite, his head full of thoughts and contradictions.

He wanted to tell someone, wanted to talk. But to whom? Sid, his sole confidant, was in jail, permitted no visitors except his attorney, and Steinberg was too practical to ever believe such a story. Then Ann? But even Ann, who he loved, and who loved him, might not believe him, might even think that he had constructed a vast charade to disguise his own guilt. He did not think he could bear to see disbelief and doubt in her eyes.

He pushed open the door of his suite and entered, his mind on Ann. He decided that he must be the one to tell her about Whitney. It had been his fault, and was his responsibility. He picked up the phone.

"John – when Ann comes in, tell her to come up here right away. Don't tell her about Whitney. I want to do it… yes. Thanks."

He would tell her about what had happened to the little girl, but that was all. He would say nothing more. And then he would take her away from this theatre. He would take everyone away from this theatre, this place of death and terror, this terrible, dreadful empire that he had unwittingly and unwillingly created. And maybe, just maybe, the thing could not follow him.

The thought held him for a moment, and he explored its possibilities. It had said that its strength came partly from Dennis and partly from the energy stored in the theatre. What then if he left the theatre? Might it not wither away? Fade away into nothingness? If it had nothing on which to feed, Dennis thought, might it not starve to death?

"Hardly likely, my dear fellow."

~* ~

(THE EMPEROR stands as before, by the fireplace, his arm resting on the mantel. He wears his full dress uniform.)

THE EMPEROR

My demise is not so easily accomplished as you think, Dennis.

DENNIS

You monster…

THE EMPEROR

I am what you made me.

DENNIS

How could you do that? Kill that little girl?

THE EMPEROR

You did not believe in my reality. I had to prove it to you.

DENNIS

But not that way! Killing a child? No one human could do that.. . (He stops, as if suddenly realizing.) The Emperor couldn't have done that. That character… he became imperial, commanding, yes, but never cruel, never… evil. (DENNIS shakes his head.) You're not the Emperor at all. Are you? You're something else.

THE EMPEROR

(Magisterially) I am the Emperor Karl Frederick Augustus.

DENNIS

No. No, you're not. You're the cruel and selfish parts of him.. . of me. That's all you are. You took the hatred and anger from my heart, didn't you? That's what gives you life, that and the energy in this theatre, energy from years and years of emotion.

THE EMPEROR

I am the Emperor Karl Frederick Augustus.

DENNIS

You're a liar. You're a proud and cruel bastard is what you are. But no more of you. I'm going to leave this place. Everyone is. And we'll see how strong you are then.

THE EMPEROR

Leave. You'll return soon enough. Return or die.

DENNIS

(A pause) What do you mean?

THE EMPEROR

I mean I have too much of you already. You're withering away, my friend. And you'll continue to do so. You see, something's been taken from you, something that you cannot live without. But you no longer have the strength to take it back. So I shall simply take more, and more, until there is nothing left. As they say, you can run, but you cannot hide.

DENNIS

I'll destroy you. I'll destroy you yet.

THE EMPEROR

No. On the contrary, I shall destroy you. And everyone you love. .. who remains alive, of course.

DENNIS

You're insane…

THE EMPEROR

No. Just different. Superior. Unlike you, I have no false morality to prevent me from reaching my goal. And my goal… is your soul. Davis and Ensley could have made a lovely lyric out of that, couldn't they? But run, Dennis, if you like, if you feel it can do you good.

DENNIS

I will. For all I know, you're lying now, telling me that it'll do no good so I'll stay. But I won't. I'm leaving, and everyone else will leave with me. You'll be here alone. All alone.

When Ann Deems came up to Dennis's door, she raised her hand to knock, then decided to simply walk in if the door was unlocked. She had been crying in John Steinberg's office for some time.

When he had told her to go up to Dennis's suite right away, she knew there was something wrong from the expression on his face, the pinched quality of his words, as though he was holding something back. She asked him what had happened, and he just shook his head. But she asked again, and he told her that Whitney had been smothered in a pile of clothes. She gasped in horror, and then began to cry. "I don't know how it happened," Steinberg said. "No one does. But Dan Munro thinks it was murder, that there's someone… stalking us." She shook her head, not knowing what to believe, only knowing that she had to see Dennis, had to be with him.

And now she pushed open the door of his suite, and heard voices, both of which she identified as Dennis's. What was he doing? Talking to himself? Acting? Reading a script aloud? One of the voices was sneering and silky, the other louder, angry, and then she began to hear the words, and when she grasped their import, a flame of steel swept through her with the searing knowledge that Dennis was mad.

Ann stepped across the foyer and into the living room. Dennis turned to look at her, and his eyes went wide with surprise, as did Ann's a moment later when she saw the other person in the room.

Dennis's exact duplicate was standing by the fireplace. He was wearing the same costume that Dennis had worn in A Private Empire, but his face had none of the warm kindness of Dennis Hamilton. Instead he stared at her with undisguised loathing. Never before had she felt such malignancy from another being, and the force of it made her incapable of motion, unable to back away from him as he started to slowly walk toward her, as his hands came up, reaching for her. She could neither move nor speak nor scream, but only watch as if in a dream, as this nightmare, this Dennis yet not Dennis, advanced upon her.

" No," said a voice that she knew belonged to Dennis, the real Dennis, her Dennis, and she felt his arms around her, and now he was standing between her and the thing that wanted to harm her. "No, damn you. No."

The features of the Dennis-thing quivered, but whether in rage at being thwarted, in fear of Dennis, or something else entirely, Ann did not know. "You'll see me again," it spat, and then vanished as quickly as a light bulb turning off.

Ann buried her face in Dennis's chest then, afraid to look up, and felt his arms holding her to him. "It's all right," he whispered. "It's gone now. It's gone."

"Oh, Dennis," she said, looking up at him, "what was it? Was it you?"

"I think it's… a part of me. A part that got away somehow."

Then he told her all about the Emperor, about its appearing to him for the first time and the times since, about its confessions and explanations of how it had killed, about its seduction of Terri, and finally, about its disappearance of the night before and Whitney's subsequent death.

"It killed her," Dennis concluded, "just to prove to me that it was real. I can't comprehend that. Killing a child to prove a point. And not even that, really. It knew that I believed in its existence, even though I tried to deny it. It just killed her because… because it likes it, and because it took one more person away from me and made me that much weaker. It's… a monster. As far as it's concerned the only thing human lives are – all Whitney was, all Robin was – are just ways to whittle me down…"

Then the thought occurred to him at last, and it was so overwhelming that he voiced it. "All those lives might have been spared… if mine had ended. And how many more might be spared now

… if I would die?"

"Stop it, Dennis," Ann said, and her voice was low and steady. "Don't even think about that. For all you know, that could be just what it wants – your death."

He had been so lost in his thoughts that he had almost forgotten she was there. Now he looked at her gratefully. "You believe me."

"Of course I believe you. My God, I saw it. It may be something born of your mind, but it's not an hallucination. Hallucinations can't kill." She clutched his arm. "What are we going to do?"

"We're going to do what I said I would. We're going to leave."

"But, Dennis," John Steinberg said, "Munro said that it wouldn't do any good to go away, that this… person would just follow us."

"Munro's wrong."

"How do you know that?"

"I just do. We're putting the show in mothballs, John. The show and the theatre. I want everyone out of here. We'll stay elsewhere tonight. Try to make reservations at the Kirkland Hotel. And tomorrow we'll go back to New York."

"And what do I tell the investors?"

"You won't have to tell them much at all. They read the newspapers. Call it a production delay, I don't care. If anyone wants their investment back, give it to them."

Steinberg scratched his head. "Marvella's gone back already with Whitney's body, so there's only you and I, Evan, and Curt. What shall we do about Ann and Terri? Let them go?

"Just Terri. Keep her on the payroll, but there's nothing for her to do until we get underway again. Ann's coming to New York with us. I've already asked her and she's accepted, if that's all right with you."

"Of course." Steinberg cocked his head and looked deeply at Dennis. "Will we get underway again?"

Dennis stood up and looked out the window of Steinberg's office. "Yes. This is only a truce, John, not a surrender. This project has been my dream for a long time, and I'm not going to give it up." He turned back to his friend. "But for now I want us all to pack today – get everything out of the suites we'll need in the city. Curt and Evan can finish doing whatever they need to do on the stage – pull the electrics, whatever's necessary – but I don't want either of them alone down there at any time. Understood?"

"I'll take care of it. By the way, Leibowitz just called. He's arranged it so that you can get in to visit Sid now. You may want to do that before you go.”

“I will this afternoon. I'll take Ann with me, if that's all right."

"Go ahead. I can get everything thrown together here. Most of it's on disk anyway. When are you going to pack?"

"I'm already packed. It didn't take long, because I didn't take much." Dennis smiled grimly. "I'm planning on coming back."

Scene 2

Sid Harper was of two minds about seeing Dennis Hamilton. Dennis had been his friend for many years, but at the same time, Sid had come to the conclusion that it was Dennis who had killed Donna Franklin and possibly the others in the theatre. He had thought about little else in the few days he had been incarcerated, and could come up with no other conclusion. As unlikely as it seemed, Dennis was the only one who was not accounted for during several of the deaths, and if anyone had access to keys, it would be the man who owned the building. The motives were a puzzle, but perhaps, Sid thought, the only motive needed was madness.

For Dennis was mad. He had proven that with his seemingly constant sightings of this psychic double he had told Sid about. Sid had not believed the story, not for an instant. There were no such things outside the limits of Dennis's mind. Sid did believe, however, that Dennis thought this creature was real. He had created it out of guilt, out of frustration with his life, out of God only knew what else. At any rate, he had brought it into being in his mind, and Sid firmly believed that it was Dennis as "The Emperor" who had killed Donna.

How he had gotten past him, whether he had come through a window or a door or a goddam secret passageway, Sid didn't know. All he knew was that these deaths had to be the work of a maniac, and, as much as he hated to admit it, there was only one person whose behavior put him close to that category.

So when the guard came up to his cell and told him that Dennis Hamilton was there to see him, he didn't know how to feel. He got up stolidly, left the cell, and followed the guard to the visiting room, where Dennis sat on the other side of a heavy glass window. Sid sat down facing him, and waited for him to speak through the microphone.

"How are they treating you?"

Sid shrugged. "It's jail. It's pretty much like the movies. Not too bad."

Dennis sat for a long time before he spoke again. "There was another death last night."

Sid could hardly take it in. "What?"

"It was… Whitney." Dennis swallowed heavily. "She suffocated. In a pile of costumes."

Sid's face grew hard even as he felt tears come to his eyes. "Jesus, Dennis. Jesus." He would not cry, dammit, he would not. The girl's face came into his mind and he forced it out. Now was not the time for more tears. "Whitney?" Dennis nodded. If there had been no glass between them, Sid felt he might leap at the man and try to strangle him. "And do they have… a suspect?"

"Munro thinks it's a celebrity stalker."

"But you know it's not."

Dennis nodded. "That's right. I know who it is now."

Sid nodded as well. "The Emperor."

"Yes. The Emperor."

Sid jerked his head away. He could not, he felt, look at Dennis any more. Before he had felt mostly pity toward the madness of his friend, but now he felt only hate. Whitney. Dear Christ, how could he have killed Whitney?

"And what about me, Dennis? Do you think I'm safer in here than I would be out there? Do you think… the Emperor would kill me too?"

"I don't know, Sid. I think he might try."

Sid looked at Dennis. His face was still blank, seemingly devoid of feeling. "You hate me that much too?"

Dennis shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I think you'd try to kill me, Dennis. Not the Emperor. I don't believe in the goddamned Emperor. What I believe in is you."

Sid's words were pouring out in a desperate torrent. "Why don't you tell them, Dennis? You need help. Do it now before you… before somebody else dies. Because you know you'll do it again."

"It's real, Sid. Ann saw it. She heard it."

"Then she's just as crazy as you are. Come on, Dennis, please, God, you've gotta stop this!" Sid had his hands on the glass now, trying to reach through, to reach Dennis, to make him stop – Donna, Robin, now Whitney, for Christ's sake, all of them, all of them…

Then he felt a guard's hand on his shoulder, a voice saying, "All right, that's enough, come on now…” and he swung around.

"It's him," Sid told the guard. " He's the one who did it, not me … it's him! Make him stop!"

" Sid." Dennis's voice bit through the air. "I'll get you out of here. Don't worry. Trust me. Believe in me."

Sid laughed all the way back to his cell. When the door closed behind him, he began to cry, and did not stop for a long time.

That afternoon, back at the Venetian Theatre, lunchtime had come and gone, unnoticed by Curt and Evan, who were trying to put the theatre and all its systems in mothballs by five o'clock. They were both subdued by Whitney's death, coming so fast upon the heels of Donna's murder and Sid's imprisonment, and both of them, though they did not mention it to each other, were glad to be leaving Kirkland.

If it had not been for Curt's desire to have everything in its place, they could have been finished in an hour or two. Safety dictated that only the electrics needed to be disconnected, but Curt insisted that everything else be stored away where it had been originally, and all backdrops and curtains flown to their original height. Since three days before they had lowered everything to inspect the ropes and battens, they worked from eleven to one putting most of the flown scenery aloft, and when the last teaser was airborne, Curt said that he was hungry. "Want a sandwich?" Evan offered, pointing to the paper bag with his lunch.

"No, I made one, but I left it upstairs. You, uh, want to come up with me? John said we shouldn't be alone."

"To get a sandwich? How long's that going to take?"

"I don't think it's smart for anybody to be alone."

Evan heaved an irritated sigh. "So you want me to schlepp up all those stairs with you while you get a sandwich? You were alone this morning."

"I wasn't thinking of myself. I was thinking of you alone down here on the stage."

"I'll be fine. You'll be gone all of three minutes, right? Look, I'll sit right here on the edge of the stage in front of the proscenium so nothing can fall on me, okay? Besides, I was a goddam Marine."

Curt nodded. "All right. Don't go anywhere."

Evan made himself comfortable on the edge of the stage. There was no danger of falling, for the orchestra pit, raised to its highest level, was only four feet below. He watched Curt trot up the aisle, then settled back on his elbows, thinking about how this was the last time he would see this place.

He had had enough of the Venetian Theatre. The place had become a haunted house. All the deaths had been bad, particularly Robin's, but Donna's had hit him worst of all because of Sid's imprisonment. And then, last night, the little girl… it was no wonder his father wanted everyone out. Evan thought he might have evacuated the place a helluva lot earlier.

He looked out over the hundreds of seats. Yes, he had had quite enough of this theatre, and of his father, and of Terri Deems, who had been the main reason for his remaining there as long as he had. Ever since they had spent the night together, she hadn't had a kind word for him. Now was the perfect time to leave.

Maybe he'd go out to the west coast. He had some friends there, and the place seemed fresher, sunnier than Pennsylvania or New York. Whatever happened, he wasn't going back to Manhattan. He didn't want to be anywhere where there were theatres. They were fine when they were empty, wonderful open spaces that comprised a whole world. He had loved empty theatres when he was little, and he loved them still. The problem was that they didn't stay empty.

Evan shivered as he thought about audiences, those vast, featureless masses of people with one great, demanding face. With the thought alone came the first drowning sensations of his asthma, constricting his windpipe. He forced the thoughts away, made himself relax, and soon he was breathing easily again. He chuckled bitterly as he thought about the Marines and his feeble attempts at command. All he had needed was for a squad to look at him, and the nightmare began. How could you command when you couldn't even breathe?

No, it was the west coast for him, maybe up on the coast of northern California. He had visited school friends there his senior year, and had been impressed with the life style. Maybe he could become a carpenter. He liked working with his hands. Hell, he thought, even a house painter would be fine. Something to get him out in the weather, away from theatres, from the memories of all the faces…

Then the lights went out.

He felt panic for only a moment, then realized that the darkness had a natural explanation. After all, they had pulled electrics all morning. Perhaps the circuit that the remaining lights were on had overloaded. Or a fuse had burned out, that was all. In a minute Curt would be back, would see what had happened, and would come on stage with a flashlight. Everything would be fine.

Still, Evan was uncomfortable enough to pull his feet back from over the edge of the pit. He didn't like the idea of them dangling into darkness.

But was it completely dark? Usually a theatre's darkness was like that of caves – total and unrelenting. You could not even see the deeper darkness of your hand in front of your face. But Evan thought that there was light coming from somewhere, and he called out.

"Hello?… Hello, is anyone there?"

There was just enough light now to make out the great curves of the loge and balconies above. But where was it coming from?

Then he became aware of a sound he had not heard in years, a dull drone, as of some giant hive filled with huge bees, punctuated by an occasional higher-pitched tone. When he realized what it was, his bowels turned to water.

An audience.

The murmur went on and on, its sound terrifying him with the knowledge that out there in the dark were people, people sitting and facing him, and only that blackness, once feared, was what kept their eyes from him. He wanted to get up, to run off the stage, but his legs refused to move, his arms would not push him erect. And then, from high up in the booth, the light started to grow, one light, bright as flame, blinding him as it must have blinded Tommy Werton before the curtain fell on him, but Evan would not step back, even if he had wanted to. He was incapable of motion.

And now the sound, that doleful buzzing of the hive, diminished slowly into a flat silence, and he knew they were looking at him, at him alone, staring with their thousand eyes, listening with their thousand ears, waiting for him to speak or scream.

But he could not scream. Only a thin whistling sound escaped from his throat as he struggled to take in the air that refused to enter his terror-filled lungs, the air that would not go to his screaming brain, the air whose absence brought a dark and blessed curtain down over Evan's consciousness, but not before the light began to grow on the audience as well, and he could see them, thousands of them, filling every seat in the vast theatre, from the first row not ten feet away up, up to the soaring reaches of the balcony where they became lost, coalesced into a single distant mass of flesh and clothes and eyes, for that was all there was to their faces – no mouths, noses, cheeks – only eyes, staring, waiting. And the horrible buzzing began again, and he wondered, just before he fell into the pit of their need, how can they speak without mouths?