Reign

Scene 3

"Let's not go to the Kirkland Inn tonight," Ann said, as she and Dennis walked from her front door to his car, a white Porsche that sat in her driveway like a glowing, friendly beast.

"All right. Any special reason?" he asked, opening the door for her.

"I'm too susceptible to old emotions at that place," she answered smiling, not telling him the real reason.

Terri had been quick to tell her that she was going out to dinner with Evan Hamilton that evening, and Ann strongly suspected that it was not because she was attracted to the boy, but because she thought it some kind of revenge for her mother seeing Dennis. It was stupid of Terri, but then Terri could be awfully stupid at times. If she had been clever, Ann thought, she would not have said a word, and when Dennis and Ann walked into the Kirkland Inn, as they would have if Ann had not had the advance warning, Terri could have been sitting there with Evan, waving pleasantly, even asking them to join her, making it a most uncomfortable and humiliating evening.

But instead she had tipped her hand and given the game away. Ann knew that Terri would talk Evan into going to the Kirkland Inn, so Ann would make sure that she and Dennis went elsewhere.

They ended up at a steak house two miles east of Kirkland. Although the restaurant was crowded, Ann saw Terri's smooth, short cap of red hair nowhere among the heads that bobbed over the plates. She breathed a sigh of relief and turned her attention where she had wanted it to be all along, to Dennis.

Though the ambience was more bustling than she would have preferred, the dinner was excellent, the steaks cooked precisely the way they had ordered them, the salads crisp and fresh, the dressing delicate, and the selection of wine was remarkably varied. Between bites, they spoke of inconsequential things, not mentioning the tragedies that had occurred in the theatre. By the time they ate dessert, a piece of blueberry pie for Dennis, a cup of custard for Ann, she was feeling relaxed, partly as a result of the wine, partly from the ease of being in Dennis's company again, and from knowing that there was no longer a wife offstage.

It was absurd, she thought, that she should be feeling guilty over not having to feel guilty. If she could have wished Robin alive again, she would have. But wishing would change nothing, and, circumstances being what they were, she thought she would have been a fool not to be glad to be there with Dennis, to have him across the table from her, their eyes meeting constantly, and her reading in his eyes things unspoken, things she longed to hear.

The meal finished, Dennis paid the bill, and they walked outside. The winter air was brisk, and their breath puffed out like amber clouds in the gleam of the lamps that lit the parking lot. She slipped her arm though his as they moved toward the car, and, after he unlocked her door, he turned to her, put his arms around her, and kissed her, a light and gentle kiss, made with no demands. They stood there for a long time, until she shivered from the cold in spite of her warm coat, in spite of Dennis's embrace. Finally he spoke.

"This feels so right. All those years ago, and it seems like only yesterday since I held you." He sighed, and she felt his warm breath against her hair. "I wish that time never would have passed. I wish we would be back there, that we had done things differently."

"I do too," she whispered. "It was a mistake. It didn't take me long to find that out."

"Mistakes," he said, "can be corrected."

They kissed again, and he opened the car door for her. When they were both inside, he started the engine, and heat rushed at them from the vents. "I don't want to take you home," he said.

"Whose home?"

She could see his smile in the semi-darkness. "Come to the theatre with me.”

“What show will we see?"

"A love story." There was only the trace of a smile now.

"Do you know how it will end?" she asked him.

"Happily. I pray to God, happily." Then he added, " This time."

She made a little gesture toward the night, the cold darkness. "Let's go," she said.

The other love story, the one that had taken place twenty-five years before, had not had a happy ending. That ending had come on a July night at a table at the Kirkland Inn, with a young man and a young woman seated across from each other in candlelight. They held hands, but as the words passed between them, the grips loosened, and soon there were two hands in the center of the table, barely touching. She withdrew hers first, into her lap, blinking away the tears in her eyes so that he wouldn't see. But he did, through the teary haze that warmed his own eyes. She loved him, yes, she admitted that, but it would not work. Her parents were against it, and she had never gone against them, simply could not. They wanted her to finish college, and she wanted to also.

Couldn't they write to each other, he asked, write and maybe he could come up to see her at her college on Mondays, when the theatres were dark, and the show wouldn't run forever, after all, it might even be a flop, so did it make sense to call an end to everything now?

She had to, she told him. She could not imagine being away from him, but it was her parents, and she could not disobey them.

Then you don't love me, he said.

But I do, she answered.

They were still young, barely past adolescence. They were in love with each other, but with their own lives as well, he with the theatre, she with her school, her friends there, and bound by her ties to her mother and father. They were confused, they were angry, they were hopeless and doomed to estrangement. After that night, they did not see each other again for twenty-five years.

And twenty-five years later, their children sat facing each other across that same table in that same inn. An onlooker who knew both their parents would have noted the resemblance. The boy's features were strong and clear, his red hair the shade of his father's before gray had touched it. Though her hair was cut short, and was similar in color to the boy's hair rather than her mother's, the girl bore Ann Deems's delicacy of features, the small mouth, the pert nose, the small but intense green eyes under gracefully arching brows. The hands of the two did not touch, though. Not yet.

"You expecting somebody?" Evan asked. "You keep looking around."

Terri smiled as though it hurt her. "No, not really."

They had finished their entr e e, and were waiting for dessert. Up to that point, the conversation had been neither sparkling nor provocative, so Evan was surprised when Terri asked him if he was a virgin.

He gave a little laugh. "Why?"

"Curious."

"The same reason you keep looking around?" She didn't answer. "No, I'm not. Is it your business?"

"It might be. A person can't be too careful these days."

"About what?"

"About their sexual partners."

He looked at her for a long time before he spoke. "What?" He knew it was a dumb thing to say even as he said it. He had heard her clearly, and realized the implication, but he was too distrustful of fate to think that it should drop something this desirable in his lap.

"Look," she said, and now her smile was not as pinched as before. "I know you find me attractive, and I think you're kind of a hunk in a strange way.”

“Thanks. I guess."

"And we're both unattached, so why shouldn't we?" She cocked her head at him. "Unless I've been reading you wrong."

"No, no, I think you're quite a… a hunkess yourself, you're right.”

“Hunkess? I didn't know there was a feminine form for that."

"So what are you asking?" he said, getting back to the subject that now hung over the table like a fleshy chandelier. "If I'm safe?"

"Basically. Oh, I mean, we'll practice safe sex anyway, but if you know that you're carrying something unpleasant, I'm sure you'd be gentleman enough to tell me.”

He had never, he thought, met a girl like this before. Not even in Honduras with the corps. "I'm not," he said. "I mean, I don't have anything."

"Good," she said, giving him a look that produced in him an instant erection. "I'm very glad to hear that."

"You, uh… you still want dessert?"

She smiled and shrugged. "We already ordered it, didn't we?"

Dennis pulled the Porsche into the small underground garage of the Kirkland Community Building shortly after ten o'clock. When he opened the door for Ann to get out of the car, she stepped directly into his arms and they kissed again, this time with more passion than before. "You don't think this will spoil it," Dennis said with a half-smile.

She shook her head. "I only wish it had been earlier. We've had to wait so long.”

“No longer," Dennis said, and kissed her again, lightly.

They walked, their arms about each other, to the elevator that would take them to the suites above. "Wait," Dennis said, as Ann was about to push the button. "Let's walk up. Through the theatre. I want to… to talk for a moment."

She didn't know what he intended, but followed him without protest through the shadowy corridors, up the winding stairs, and into the inner lobby of the theatre, then up the marble staircase that led to the balcony, across the mezzanine lobby, and finally up the ramp that led to the balcony. He took her hand and led her down to the first row of the loge, where they sat together, looking out over the dimly lit auditorium.

"I used to come and sit here," Dennis said. "Just sit here and look down at that stage and think about what's been on it, and what's going to be on it. Sit here and dream my dreams." He took her hand in his. "This project's so damned important to me. My whole career has been for me, but this is finally a way I can do something for somebody else, pay back the theatre for everything it's given me… all the good things, I should say.

"I've come up here several times since… Robin died. But I haven't thought about the dreams, about the things that'll come. I've just been remembering. Remembering that day. And I can't, Ann. I've got to stop. Go on. But I can't, unless I…"

He paused, and Ann felt that there was more he wanted to say, something he wanted very much to tell her, beyond dreams, beyond love. "What is it, Dennis? You brought me here for a reason. What is it?"

He turned and looked at her as frankly as he ever had before. "Robin wanted to kill you," he said. "She planned to push you off the catwalk, planned for you to go through the ceiling."

Her stomach twisted, and she wondered if she looked as pale as she suddenly felt. "She told me…” she said, remembering, “… she told me the ceiling was solid, that if I fell off the catwalk I wouldn't go through." Her hand tightened on Dennis's. "Why?" she asked in a pinched voice. "Why would she want to do something like that?"

"She thought we were having an affair."

"Dennis…”

"She knew about us – years ago. I knew she was jealous, but I had no idea how much."

"Did she… tell you? That she wanted to kill me?"

His pause made Ann uncomfortable. "No. No."

"How did you know?"

"I… I knew. But not until afterwards. I… put it all together. It was the only thing that made sense."

"But how did you -"

"I knew." He leaped to his feet, stood for a moment looking at the stage, then turned to face her, his hips against the low railing. For a moment she was frightened of the intensity in his look, but when he spoke again, his voice was softer. "She never told me, but I knew. I'm sorry. I just couldn't keep it a secret from you. You had to know."

She was about to speak when a movement from above caught her eye. It was up where the ceiling had been recently plastered over, up at that pale spot where Robin had fallen through, where she…

… fell through again.

As though in some dream without sound, Ann saw the ceiling break away, saw Robin drop through, hang for a moment, then fall as if in slow motion, saw her eyes, full of unmistakable hatred, turn full upon Ann's, boring into her with a malignancy she had never before known, then vanish in the middle of the air.

"Ann?" It was Dennis's voice, but it sounded as though it were under water. "Ann, are you all right?"

His face, as full of concern as Robin's had been full of fury, came between her and the theatre, blotting out the broken ceiling, the ghostly track in the air that marked the path of Robin's descent. Still, his sudden movement startled her anew, and she gasped.

"What is it?" he asked, grasping her shoulders.

Slowly she craned her head past him, saw nothing but the theatre in semi-darkness, the ceiling, patched but whole.

"Did you see something?" he asked, turning to look down at the stage.

"I… I thought I did. But I couldn't have." She shook her head in disbelief. "This place seems full of nightmares."

"I know," he said, still looking at the stage, "but it won't always. It's going to be a theatre again, with living performers and living audiences. It's going to be a wonderful place, Ann, the way it used to be. In spite of…” He broke off, and Ann thought his eyes too seemed to see something below that wasn't, that couldn't be, there. "In spite of everything," he finished.

"You'll do it, Dennis," she said. "You can make it live again. Make it sing."

He nodded, then looked back at her. "If you'll help me."

"I will," she said. "Any way I can."

He smiled at last. "Let's go somewhere else now. Together."

"Yes," she said, relieved to take his hand again, to find that it was still warm and soft.

They walked together to Dennis's suite, meeting no one on the way, seeing nothing strange or frightening. As the door closed behind them, Ann thought its solid sound of wood meeting wood was one of the most comforting she had ever heard. Nothing, she felt, could harm them now.

"I do love you," Dennis said, embracing her.

"And I love you."

"Would you like something to drink?"

"No," she said. "No, let's just go to bed."

He nodded, and led the way.

At the same time their mother and father were tenderly undressing each other, Evan Hamilton and Terri Deems were finishing their second bout of intercourse. Evan rolled off the girl, pushed his hair back from his sweating forehead, and rubbed his hands down his chest until he touched his groin. Then he sat up and began to peel off the condom.

"Worn out yet?" Terri asked, and Evan chuckled wearily.

"No," he lied. "Not yet. You'll have to give me a little time, though.”

“Fine. We can watch some TV, then fuck some more."

"Why do you say that?"

"Say what?" she said, stretching long and languidly beside him so that her leg rubbed against his.

"Fuck. Fuck some more."

"So what are we doing? I thought we were fucking."

Evan shook his head and looked away from her toward the candle that gave the room its only light.

"What's the matter?" Terri said. "You want me to pretend I'm a virgin?"

He gave a little laugh so as not to make her angry. Although the girl was turning him off in one way, she sure as hell turned him on in another. He didn't think he had ever been with a lover – or was that, he thought, a fucker? – who had done the things that Terri had done. Her legs moved and stretched like a contortionist's, and she had done things with the muscles of her vagina that sent ripples of pleasure through him, even with the sensory handicap of the condom.

"It's not that," he said, caressing the smoothness of her stomach, and feeling a tingling in his groin again. "I mean, I don't care if people say fuck. It's just that when you say it in reference to, well …”

"I see. It's a question of semantics. What do you want me to say – making love?" She said it with such a bored flatness that he could have hit her. "Evan, I'm not making love, okay? You've been fucking me, and I've been fucking you. Why try to turn it into Casablanca?"

He didn't say anything, and his hand slowly slipped from her stomach. He felt humiliated and embarrassed and as if he might be sick.

"Hey," she said, and he felt her hand on his arm. "Did I hurt your feelings?”

“No."

"I had fun," she said, and rested her head on his thigh, where she blew soft streams of air over his penis, chilling it. "I really did. And I want to have fun with you some more." She shifted her head so that she could take him in her mouth, and, impossibly, he felt himself beginning to grow hard again. "Mmm," she muttered, "great taste – latex and come."

He laughed in spite of himself, and let her take his hand and press it between her legs.

"So," she said. "You wanta make love? Or you wanta fuck me?"

His mouth felt dry. "I want to fuck you."

"Just what I wanted to hear."

"No, Dennis, wait!"

She pressed her legs together, trembled. Her hands bit into his shoulders, not in passion, but in fear.

"Ann?" He whispered. There was an urgency in his voice as demanding as the piece of flesh that pressed against her mons. "What is it? What's wrong? Don't be frightened…”

She tried to drive the image from her mind of the last time she had made love with Eddie, but she could not, and the vision terrified her, smothered her desire to finally consummate the love that she had felt for Dennis for decades. "I'm sorry," she stammered, tears coming to her eyes. "Wait. Please wait."

She felt him grow flaccid against her, and loved him all the more for his involuntary concern. "What is it, Ann," he said again, the breathless need gone from his tone. "Please tell me. If you can't make love to me, if you won't, it doesn't matter." She felt his hand touch her cheek. "It hasn't mattered all these years. I've loved you just the same."

She told him then. She told him about Eddie, about their making love, about Eddie's death. She even told him what she had never told anyone else. "When he died… when he collapsed on me… he, he came. He came inside of me."

"Oh God, Ann…"

"I knew he was dead, and still…" She was shaking uncontrollably now. "It seemed to go on forever, and it felt as though it was burning me, and I started to scream and scream and scream until

… until Terri came in."

"God… she saw it then."

"Yes. She saw everything. But she helped me. I think I might still be there if she hadn't helped me. She took over when I lost control, and ever since then she's been, I don't know, less of a daughter and more like a person I just live with.”

“It must have been hard on her too."

"Oh, it was. She went around in a daze for weeks afterward. Then her skin toughened up and never got soft again."

They lay there naked, their arms around each other, for a long time, until tenderness, warmth, and security took the place of apprehension and bitter memory. Finally Ann turned to Dennis, kissed his cheek, and began to make love to him again. No more words were spoken. This time when he touched her, she did not object, and finally the love story that had begun a quarter of a century before was told, the song sung.

From the corner of the room, in the dark, the Emperor watched, and listened, and smiled, waiting his turn.

Dennis dreamed of him again, of the Emperor and of Ann. The Emperor had her by the throat as before, but in his other hand was something long and thick and wet, and as Dennis watched in horror, unable to move, the thing became thinner, harder, and the Emperor's hand seemed to become a shell. But then Dennis saw that it was not a shell, but a guard from which extended a gleaming saber.

With one hand the Emperor held Ann higher in the air, her face white from lack of blood, and with the other he plunged the sharp blade into her, just below the heart.

Dennis screamed in silence as blood pumped out of her, as though she had been a balloon filled with it, and he, the Emperor, dying Ann, his dream were all awash in blood, and the whole world was wet and red, and the only sound was the Emperor laughing, laughing.

He did not wake from the dream, only entered a deeper darkness of sleep until the morning came, and he found her beside him, well and alive and asleep. He had little memory of the dream. Now it was just a blurred jumble of terrifying images. He lay there, wondering about the thing, the person, the doppelganger he had seen. Was it evil? If not, why then the visions, the dreams of violence and terror? Perhaps, he thought, the dreams merely mirrored his fear, his lack of understanding of what it was he had created. Perhaps they were not premonitory, but simply indicative of his mental state. He was a pragmatist concerning such things, which was, contradictorily enough, precisely why he believed in the reality of the Emperor. Dreams were one thing, his waking senses another.

His metaphysical musings were delightfully interrupted by Ann stirring next to him. Her eyes opened, and he saw for a moment that she did not know where she was. In a second, clarity came, and she sighed and smiled, then leaned over and kissed him.

"Good morning," she said.

"It is indeed," he agreed. "The best morning I've had in a long time."

"It was wonderful," she said, "to fall asleep in your arms. I didn't think it would ever happen, and in a way I always knew it would."

"I knew too. I love you, Ann."

"I love you."

She hugged him, and in another moment they were together, their bodies molded as one, and they made love again. This time there was less of the feeling of discovery that had added such a sweet sense of tension to their joining of the night before, but that was more than made up for by the sheer joy that now possessed them both. To wait so long and then find that their sexual coupling was so perfect, only a physical extension of the love that had remained all those years, was more than either could have asked. But it had been true, and it had been wonderful. In Dennis's arms, Ann was able to forget the terrors of her husband's death, and in Ann's arms, Dennis found the peace he needed as well.

Finally they lay, sweating and happy, the covers thrown back from the bed, looking at each other's bodies. "You look wonderful," Dennis said. "You look like a girl."

"You're an actor, but it's all right. And you look damned good yourself. How do you keep your stomach so flat?"

"A carefully designed program of exercise, diet, mental tension, pressure, and guilt. It works wonders. Now, how about some breakfast to fatten us both up?" He picked up the phone and pushed two numbers, then waited.

"Who are you calling?"

"Sid." Ann gasped, and pulled the sheet over her body. "Don't worry," Dennis laughed. "It's not a picture phone."

"But I don't want him to know that I'm -"

"That you're here?" He broke off and turned his attention to the phone. "Sid. Could we have two breakfasts please? Big ones… Yes, that's right. Two." Then to Ann, "How do you like your eggs?"

"Poached," she said, with a sigh of acceptance.

"Poached… sure, orange juice is fine. Thanks, Sid." He hung up the phone and smiled at her. "Sid is my right hand. He knows more about me than anyone else, maybe even me. He is also as circumspect as a clam."

"But, Dennis, I work with him. How will he act when he knows about us?"

"He already does. Now don't look so surprised. Over the years I talked about you a lot to Sid. There are a lot of lonely nights on the road when all you want to do is talk. And remember. He knows how I feel about you. He has for a long time."

"It's just that it's been such a short time since…"

"Since Robin's death. I know. But I can't tell my feelings to wait another two months. This is the 1990's, Ann. No one is going to criticize us for being in love."

She nodded, though her discomfort with the situation was evident. With all his heart he wanted to make her more comfortable, wanted to remove that look of doubt that wrinkled her lovely features. "And no one," he said, "is going to criticize us when we get married."

He didn't know what to make of her reaction, which began with wide-eyed surprise just short of shock. Then she laughed as if she had not believed what he had just said. "Married?"

"It's what we should have done twenty-five years ago. Things would have been very different for both of us. Better."

"Dennis, I -"

"Don't say no, Ann. You do love me."

"Yes, of course I love you…”

She paused, and in the silence he thought he could hear his heart pounding with dread. "I hear a 'but' coming."

"It's too soon," she said, and he thought he saw tears forming in her eyes. "It's just too soon. Oh, Dennis, I love you, how much I love you, but we can't get married now, not now."

"When?"

" Please, don't push me," she pleaded. "Sometime, I swear it. I want to marry you, Dennis. But it's too soon."

"Then you will?" he asked, touching her soft hair.

"You know I will."

"That's all I ask," he said. "It doesn't matter when. I've waited all these years, I can wait a few more months. And don't worry about what people will think. I can be as circumspect as Sid can. No one even has to know." He kissed her tenderly, and thought he had never tasted anything so wonderful as her mouth. Then he smiled. "We'd better get dressed."

Her face fell. "God, I'm going to look real businesslike in the dress I wore last night. So much for keeping secrets."

"Don't worry about it."

"I could call Terri… she probably hasn't left yet… ask her to bring…”

And then it hit her – Terri. She had realized, when she made her decision to spend the night with Dennis, that Terri would certainly know, but her need to be with Dennis had completely freed her mind of seeing her daughter afterward, that snide look of Terri's, the dry and bitter words that Ann tried not to hear in her mind. Perhaps, she thought, it would be better to call, ask her to bring a change of clothing. The girl could not be nearly as vicious over the phone as she could be in person.

"I'll get a shower," Dennis said. "Go ahead and call her if you like, but frankly I liked that dress last night." He kissed her again and vanished into the bathroom.

She steeled herself, pulled the covers higher over her body as if Terri could see her, and dialed her number, but there was no answer. Had she left already? Ann wondered. But no, it was only seven o'clock, and they never left the house before seven-thirty. It was possible that she had had breakfast out, but not likely. No matter how Terri criticized Mary, their live-in maid and cook, she had always loved her very English breakfasts. Ann hung up the phone, and waited for Dennis to finish his shower.

When Sid brought breakfast, she tactfully remained in the bedroom until he had gone, then joined Dennis in a breakfast nook that overlooked the plaza below. "Much cozier than the dining room," Dennis said, and Ann agreed.

"Do you eat this way every morning?" Ann asked, looking at the table filled with eggs, sausage, home fries, bagels and toast, and fresh fruit. "Your arteries must be as thick as cream."

"Not really," he said. "Robin always had big breakfasts, but she was able to work it off and not gain any weight. I usually just have a little fruit and some toast. But this morning calls for something a bit more festive."

The mention of Robin was disturbing. Ann could imagine her sitting across from Dennis where she was sitting now, eating like a trencherman, filled with life and happiness, at least before Ann had come along and unintentionally changed everything, making her jealous enough to kill, if what Dennis thought was true.

"I'm sorry," Dennis said. "I shouldn't have mentioned her."

She shook her head. "No, it's all right. It's a part of your life, like Eddie's a part of mine. Neither one of them will go away, not ever. But it's all right. I don't think we'd ever want them to."

"No," Dennis said. "They won't go away. But they don't have to come between us."

After breakfast, they sat and continued to talk, trying to make up for years of separation, and Ann knew that despite the guilt, despite her upcoming confrontation with Terri, despite everything, she was happy. At nine o'clock Ann told Dennis that she had better go down to the office.

"Do you want me to walk you down?"

"No," she said quickly. "I want to go in alone."

They decided to have dinner together again that weekend, and she kissed him at the door, then stepped into the hall. He waved, smiled, and closed the door rather reluctantly, she thought. She was glad of it.

But now she was alone, alone in the halls of the Venetian Theatre, and although she knew that Dennis would make good on his promise to bring it to life again, now, with the closing of that door, it once more felt full of phantoms. No matter how she struggled to shake off the feeling, the oppressiveness hung in the air like mist. She bit back her dread and began to walk the short distance down the hall to the elevator.

When the woman came around the corner, Ann nearly leapt in shock. At first, seeing the spare frame, the manly shoulders, she thought for a moment that it was Robin. But a second later the drawling voice, full of derision beyond her years, told her that it was even worse than a ghost.

"Well, not letting any grass grow over the grave, are you?"

It was a cruel and vicious and all too usual thing for Terri to say. "And what are you doing here," Ann asked, unable and unwilling to launch a rebuttal. "Same as you, I suppose. Like mother, like daughter."

Ann's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about? You spent the night here?" The girl nodded. "With Evan?"

"No, with Marvella. I've gone dyke."

"Terri -"

"Please don't tell me you're shocked, Mother. I hate to laugh so early in the morning. Of course with Evan. And how about yourself? Was it Curt? Or John?… no, I hardly think John. Sid? No, Donna's got him sewed up. Why…”Her eyes widened in mock surprise. "Could it be rather the grieving widower? Were you able to ease his sorrow?"

"All right, that's enough."

"How long has it been, two months? Maybe you could still use the funeral flowers for the wedding."

"Goddam it, that's enough from you!" Ann was trembling. "What have I done?" she said. "You tell me what I've done to deserve this from you? Go ahead. Tell me."

For once Terri was silent. Her face still wore its studied look of contempt, but she seemed quelled. Then she took a deep breath. "You have done nothing, Mother. You are innocent. Te absolvo. Things are between you… and your conscience." She gave a little wave before she turned toward the stairs. "Have a nice day."

I can have her now. I can have her any time.

She is so absurd. She thinks she is clever in her ironies. But instead she wears her heart on her sleeve. Her feelings are plain for all to see, yet her mother ignores them. The source of her anger, her pain, is so obvious. She wants what her mother has.

The little whore is jealous.

But she will not have to be for long. No.

I shall give her what she wants.

I shall give her the Emperor.

Scene 4

The following Monday evening, Terri Deems was working alone in the costume shop. She would not have had to, but she had fallen into the habit of avoiding her mother whenever possible, and knew that Ann would be home that night.

She simply could not abide to be in the same room with Ann. The previous week Terri had remained in her own room in the evenings, making excuses to take her own car to Kirkland rather than ride with Ann. The weekend hadn't been bad, because her mother had been away for most of it. Although she hadn't asked, and Ann hadn't offered the information, Terri assumed that she had spent it with Dennis Hamilton. Fine, she had told herself bitterly. Get it while you can. Besides, her mother was forty-three already, and her looks weren't going to last forever. Maybe if she married Dennis, Terri wouldn't have to see her again. Ann could live in Dennis's palace and give Terri the house. That would be fine with her. Mothers were a bitch anyway. At least hers was. A bitch and more.

She sighed and turned back to her sketching. She liked the costume shop, both the dry and calming presence of Marvella, and the utter silence when she was alone there. She was alone tonight. Marvella had taken Whitney to a birthday party for one of her friends from day care. At first she had been hesitant about leaving Terri alone in her domain, but the girl had been so excellent an assistant that she had finally agreed. "Don't get too fancy with anything," Marvella had warned her, "and make damn sure everything's put away when you're done – one thing I hate's coming in and not being able to find shit." Terri had smilingly agreed, since she didn't even plan to touch a needle that evening. Rather she was working on her designs for the chorus of Craddock.

It had been Marvella's idea for her to work up a few designs for the show. The principals' costumes, of course, would be designed by Marvella, but if Terri's designs were good, Marvella told her that some would be used, and she would get an associate costume designer credit, a title well worth having, particularly under the aegis of Marvella Johnson. If only, she thought, she did not have her mother to thank for having gotten her the job.

Damn! Thinking about Ann had made her extend a bodice too far. She erased the offending line and redrew it, her thoughts returning to her mother again.

What had she ever done to deserve Terri's contempt? Ann had asked in all seriousness. Nothing, mother, absolutely nothing, and perhaps that was the problem.

Ann had always been such a goddamned coward. Whenever Terri had asked for something, whether it was some extra spending money for clothes, her own car, or later, as a college freshman, for a signed permission slip so that she could start taking birth control pills (that one had been kept a secret from her father), Ann had always agreed, albeit with motherly cautions, such as the observation that the pill would do nothing to prevent AIDS. Her father had done very little parenting. Most of the time he was working, and when he wasn't he was either playing golf or parked in front of the television. Maybe, Terri thought, that was why she liked Marvella so much – because when she said do something, you either did it or else.

A movement at the door caught her eye, and she saw Cristina rubbing herself against the frame. "Well, hello, girl," she said to the cat. "You lonely tonight? You'd have to be to come and see me, huh?" She had never seen such a standoffish feline before. It wouldn't allow anyone except Abe Kipp to pat it, and if you tried to corner it to lavish some affection on its gray fur, God help you. It would just as soon savage you as look at you.

Nevertheless, Terri put down her pen, knelt next to her drafting table, and rubbed her fingers together. "C'mon, girl… c'mon, Crissie… puss puss puss…”

The cat, its itch apparently scratched, sat and looked at her, unblinking, as still as an Egyptian idol.

"Aw, come on," she said, "let me pet you, huh?"

"Like most of us," said a voice from above, "there are few people she loves."

(TERRI looks up at the loft and sees THE EMPEROR standing there, leaning on the railing. He is dressed in a V-neck sweater and navy slacks.)

TERRI

Jesus, you startled me. How did you get in here?

THE EMPEROR

I must have come in when you weren't looking. (His manner is gentle, very non-imperious. He descends the stairs through the following speech.) You'll find it quite an endeavor to get on the good side of Cristina.

TERRI

She's not very friendly, is she?

THE EMPEROR

No. Of course you never can tell with animals – or with people. One minute it seems as though they hate you… (Now at the doorway, he leans down and picks up the cat, cradles it in his arms. It purrs and nuzzles his hand.)… and before you know it, you discover that there is… some affection there after all.

What in God's name? Terri thought. That cat hated Dennis. Marvella had told her that in no uncertain terms, and she had seen an example of it once, when Dennis had rounded a corner and taken the beast by surprise. Cristina had leapt into the air, come down spitting, taken a swipe at his ankle, and run off. But now she lay there as gentle as. .. yes, goddammit, a kitten, purring and reaching up toward his face to lick it, as though Dennis was the kindest, most calming thing in the world.

It was a sensation she was uncomfortably aware of herself. Here was a man she was determined to despise, a man who had seduced her mother – perhaps not for the first time, in spite of Ann's denials – only a short time after his wife was in her grave, who, with his money and fame, simply bought everything that he desired. Yet she, like that sycophant of a cat he held in his arms, could not help but feel drawn to him, just as, she finally admitted to herself, she had been ever since she had first seen him on the stage.

THE EMPEROR

I think you can pet her now.

TERRI

I… I'd really rather not.

THE EMPEROR

She won't hurt you. I promise. When you're afraid of something, the thing to do is to grasp it, firmly but gently. That way you learn to control your fear. Your fear leaves, and you are left with fulfillment. (He brings the cat to her.) Here. Touch it. (TERRI reaches out a hand and pats the cat on the head. It continues to purr .) See? Listen to me, Terri. I'll never do anything to bring you harm.

TERRI

(Steps back, her temper rising) Maybe you already have.

THE EMPEROR

I don't understand.

TERRI

My mother.

THE EMPEROR

(Nodding solemnly) Ah. You're referring to our… spending the night together.

TERRI

And the weekend too, as I recall. (She waits) Well? You're not saying anything.

THE EMPEROR

(Sets down the cat) I don't know what to say.

TERRI

Do you love her? Is that your excuse?

THE EMPEROR

I loved her… a long time ago. And now I love what she was. Perhaps that seduced me more than I did her. (He looks at her intently and speaks slowly, weaving a web of words around her.) I love in her what I see in you now. You remind me so much of her, as she was then. She had that hard surface too, to protect her from the world. But I saw beneath it, to the tenderness that was there. (He touches her cheek She neither draws away nor responds, but simply looks at him, fascinated, trapped.) You ask for my excuse. Love needs none. It is enough in and of itself to excuse anything. Any deed, any pain.

(THE EMPEROR moves his hand behind her head and draws her face toward him. He kisses her passionately and she responds immediately. Still kissing, he lifts her as if she weighed nothing, and carries her to the pile of costumes on the floor, where they both fall, their arms about each other. From the corner, the cat watches.)

~* ~

She bled afterwards. She bled and hated herself for what she had done, what she had allowed him to do. But while it was happening she had felt powerless to resist. She had been swept away by him, by his passion, by his need for her, and had been unable to refuse anything that he had wanted of her. For the first time in her life, she had been used.

Her cheeks burned as she remembered. She had, at his direction, put her fingers into herself as far as she could, much farther than she had thought possible. She had fellated him, licked him everywhere, and finally he had thrust into her savagely from behind, surprising her by swiftly moving his penis from her vagina to her anus, something she had never experienced before with anyone.

The pain had been nearly unbearable, but after her first gasp he had ordered her to be silent, and she had not cried out, not even when he exploded inside her, and it felt, not merely warm, but hot, as if fire was jetting from him.

Afterward, when he left, only blood had leaked from her. There seemed to be not a trace of semen. Only the blood, which soon stopped.

The bastard, she thought. The son of a bitch. He had not even used a condom, and she had not even mentioned it. It had occurred to her, but by that time he was already in her, pounding away, and she was afraid, afraid to say a word. He had seemed so big that she thought he could actually split her apart if he became angry. Then, when he had finished, he had withdrawn so roughly that she had cried out despite his warning. She had fallen, exhausted, into the pile of costumes, her face buried in velvet, and had heard him say, "Love and pain. Ache, and remember me." When she had turned around, he was gone.

Why in hell had she done it? She had been attracted to him, of course, but to have actually fucked him, knowing that he and her mother…

Or maybe, she thought, that was exactly why she had done it – to get back at her mother. A cheap, quick, easy (if painful) revenge. But it would be useful only if Ann knew about it. Terri was sure that Dennis wouldn't tell her, so that left only one way for her to find out.

Love and pain, mother – a lesson I've been taught, a lesson you taught my father, a lesson for you to learn too.

When she dressed and left the costume shop, she walked past Cristina. The cat spat at her, then ran away.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Terri pulled her Jetta into the garage. Ann was not in the family room, so Terri went to her bedroom door, saw light beneath it, and knocked. "Terri?" her mother said, and she opened the door and went inside. "Is something wrong? You don't look well."

"Maybe something's wrong. I'll let you be the judge of that."

Ann put the bookmark in her volume and set it on the bedside table. "Sit down." Terri ignored her and remained standing, looking at Ann, who was wearing a long-sleeved nightshirt. Her hair was up, and she wore no makeup. She looked, Terri thought, every year of her age, and would look older once she heard the news. "All right then, suit yourself. What is it?"

"I saw your boyfriend tonight."

"My boyfriend." Her face remained expressionless, as though she was determined not to let Terri get to her.

"Dennis. Remember him?" Ann said nothing. "He paid me a visit in the costume shop." She waited for a moment, but was rewarded only by her mother's silence, by a total lack of emotion in her face. "We talked about the two of you for a while. And then – I wouldn't mention this unless I didn't think that you should know – he came on to me."

"He came on to you," she repeated flatly.

"Mmm-hmm. Tried to make me. To fuck me." She still hadn't cracked that damn facade. "And you know what?"

"You let him."

"Yeah. I did."

Ann picked up her book, opened it, and turned her attention back to its pages. "That's nice, dear. Sleep well."

"You don't believe me."

"I didn't say that."

"But you don't." Terri smiled crookedly. "What do I have to do to prove it to you?"

"Why would you want to prove it to me?"

"So you believe me."

She closed the book and look up at her daughter. "Is it that important? If it were true, what would you gain by telling me? Would you want me to do something about it? Should I go to Dennis and tell him that he should do the honorable thing and marry you? Or would just hurting me be enough?" She shook her head. "Honestly, Terri, I don't know what you hope to gain."

"He has a mole high up on his thigh," she said, then looked up as if trying to remember. "Now let me think…” She lifted her hands to eye level a foot in front of her face, spread her fingers, and turned her palms inward as though cupping imaginary buttocks. Then she opened her mouth roundly and let her eyes shift from hand to hand. "The right thigh, it would be." She dropped her hands. "I couldn't have missed it from where I was. How about you?"

God yes, Terri thought, that got her. Ann's chin was trembling now, her eyes had grown very hard, and Terri's satisfaction was replaced by a feeling of loss, of something irretrievably broken. Still, her pride made her tough it out. "I assume that you'll accept that as verification?"

"Just get out, Terri," Ann said in a choked voice. "I'm very tired, and I feel sick.”

“All right, Mother. I bid you good night."

"Get out." Ann reached over and turned off the light. Terri heard the book fall onto the floor. The pain coming out of the darkness was almost tangible, driving her through the door, and as she felt it she felt her own pain as well, and knew that this time she had gone too far, she had pushed her mother over the edge.

Pushed? No. She had pulled her. They were both going down, weren't they? Falling into an abyss of broken trust from which there would be no returning. God knew the times they had felt close, had laughed and joked together, were few enough, but now there would be no more at all. What she had done, what she had just said, had made them more than strangers. It had made them enemies.

In her room, Terri wept.

And Ann Deems wept too, wept knowing that what her daughter said could not be true, was not true, but doubting, and weeping for her doubt. She did not sleep well that night, and in the morning she called Donna Franklin to tell her that she was ill and could not come in to work. It was a cowardly thing to do, she knew. The best thing would be to go to Kirkland and confront the truth, whatever it might be. If what Terri had said was true, she would learn it quickly enough by the way Dennis acted toward her. If it was not true, she could learn that quickly enough too.

But either way she lost. If Dennis had not seduced Terri, then her daughter was a vicious liar. If he had, then the man she loved was not worthy of her love. It was a no-win situation, and one that she did not want to face. To move from such buoyant joy to such terrible doubt was more than she could bear.

So again, she thought to herself, she would take the coward's way out. She would avoid the confrontation. She would hide.

If she had known with what disappointment Dennis Hamilton heard of her absence, she would have been considerably cheered.

Dennis had begun the morning feeling radiant. He was to meet with Mack Redcay, a young set designer whose sprawling, passionate scenery had been the only thing the critics (and Dennis) had liked about the previous fall's "big musical," which, to everyone's amazement, was still running on the basis of advance ticket sales, but was rumored to be closing in early April.

Redcay had agreed to design Craddock, and had come to Kirkland that morning on a six o'clock commuter flight which Sid met at the Philadelphia Airport. Dennis, Redcay, and Curt breakfasted in Dennis's suite, and afterward they went down to the theatre to show the designer the stage. They were joined there by Evan, who had copies of the stage blueprints for Redcay, and by Donna Franklin, who had brought Redcay's contracts down from the office.

"Where's Ann?" Dennis asked her, as he had expected she would be the one to run that particular errand.

"She called in sick today."

"Anything serious?" he said, trying to sound only vaguely interested and failing miserably.

"She didn't say – just that she felt under the weather."

Dennis nodded and turned his attention back to Redcay and the stage, hoping there was nothing really wrong, and yet selfishly hoping that there was, for he could not bear the thought of Ann wanting to stay away from him.

The rest of the morning was spent touring the stage, exploring the flies (Evan, Dennis noticed, seemed reluctant to ascend), examining the area beneath, and endlessly going over the blueprints. Redcay seemed a quiet, almost sullen man, but his store of questions was endless, and before anyone realized it, it was time for lunch.

They decided to take Redcay to the Kirkland Inn, and were walking through the theatre lobby when they saw Terri Deems. She was carrying a small, green canvas bag that Dennis assumed held her lunch, and smiled at him knowingly when she saw him. "Dennis?" she said. "May I speak to you for a minute?"

Her sly smile indicated to him that she knew precisely what was going on between him and her mother. So what was this to be then? he wondered. A case of premature nepotism? He felt more than a trifle wary as he told the others he would only be a moment. "What is it, Terri?" he said softly, not wishing the others only a few yards away to hear.

She gave a little laugh. "I just wanted to make sure that, despite what happened last night, you don't think too badly of me."

What was she talking about? "I'm sorry, I… last night?"

"I'm not usually that easily… won over," she said, as though he understood perfectly what she meant. "I guess I've always had kind of a schoolgirl thing for you. And I was flattered that you'd feel that way about me."

"Terri, please… I'm not sure what you mean."

Now her laugh was marred with disbelief. "God, how quickly they forget. Last night? The two of us? In the costume shop?"

He shook his head, feeling as though he had been displaced in time. Was the girl insane? Had his affair with her mother somehow unbalanced her? "I wasn't in the costume shop last night – I didn't see you at all last night."

Now the look on her face was one of sheer exasperation. "Why are you doing this?" she said, raising her voice. "You get a kick out of playing with all the help?"

"Please, Teni," he said. "Keep your voice down. I have no idea what this is all about, but whatever it is, can we talk about it later?"

"I like this job too much to lose it," she said, her voice boiling with anger. "So if last night was what I had to do to keep it, okay. But don't look for a repeat performance, Mr. Hamilton, and don't think my mother doesn't know about this either. And if you try to have me fired, I'll have you in court on a sexual harassment charge so fast it'll make your head spin. And maybe I'll throw in rape for good measure."

"Look, Terri, please -"

"Because I have no pride, none at all – I think I proved that last night!"

She spun away from him and ran through the doors to the stairway, leaving Redcay and Curt puzzled, Evan furious, and Dennis stunned. He could only stand and stare, terribly confused, at the door through which she had vanished. The next thing he felt was Evan's arm on his shoulder, pulling him around to face his son.

"Looks like your reputation's spreading, isn't it?" Evan said in a harsh whisper, anger in his eyes. "Guess I'm not the only kid who's a little pissed about what his parent is doing." Then he turned and ran too, in the opposite direction from Terri.

Dennis, breathing heavily, saw Curt and Mack Redcay, their faces pale and uncertain. He willed himself to calm, and addressed Curt. "Before we go down to the Inn, give them a call, Curt, and tell them it will be a party of three today."

Lunch was not the disaster Dennis had feared it would be. Mack Redcay was a professional, and, outwardly at least, had dismissed whatever interpersonal relationships plagued the Venetian Theatre as none of his affair. The talk quickly returned to set designs and the capability of the theatre's stage to house the impressive ideas Redcay was considering. Dennis's attention seemed to be on the conversation, but he let Curt carry the weight of it. In truth, his mind was focused on Terri Deems and what he was supposed to have done with her in the costume shop the previous night.

At least Evan had not overheard the words, only the tone of Terri's voice, and had assumed that she was deriding Dennis for seeing her mother. Best to leave it at that. If the boy had even suspected that Dennis had done… what Terri seemed to be accusing him of doing, there would be no end to it.

But damn it, Dennis knew what he had done the previous night – he had watched the videocassette of Olivier's Othello with Sid, all two and a half hours of it, then had played a couple of hands of gin, said goodnight, and gone to bed. He had been nowhere near the costume shop. So what was the girl talking about?

It hit him as he finished his soup. Maybe, just maybe, Terri was telling the truth. Maybe it was the Emperor she had seen. It seemed so obvious that he was amazed he hadn't thought of it the moment she began to speak of things that could not be.

The Emperor. In the costume shop with Terri. And that meant that he was not an hallucination, not a mere figment of Dennis's imagination, but was real, real enough for another person to see him and speak to him and – what else?

But no, that would have been impossible. What he had seen was no more corporeal than a ghost. His hand had passed right through it. How could it have been capable of what Terri had implied?

Then the hardest thought of all struck him. What if The Emperor, like all good actors, was a liar?

What if, like all the characters ever created, he was, himself, a lie?

Scene 5

That evening, Terri Deems stormed into the family room, where her mother was sitting pretending to watch the huge television screen. "He's yours again, mother. I give him back to you."

"What?" Ann said weakly, in no mood to argue. Her day alone had been agony, and she had decided that the wisest thing would have been for her to go to work. There, at least, there would have been other things to occupy her thoughts.

"Your handsome, aging lover. You can have him back. I rescind all previous claims. He may have had my body, but he no longer has my heart, if he ever did."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked quietly. "Why do you keep playing this game?"

"Because it's no game – it's true – and you damn well ought to know what kind of person you've gotten yourself involved with. He denied all knowledge of what he and I did last night, pretended it never happened. I mean, the man is an absolute shit. I've learned my lesson, I hope you've learned yours." She sat down on the couch next to Ann and grabbed her by the shoulders. "It's the truth, mother. I swear to God, he screwed me last night. And boy, did he ever screw me today…"

Terri flopped back on the couch, looked at the ceiling, and closed her eyes. "I don't hate you, mother," she said in a quieter voice. "If I hated you, I wouldn't give a damn. I'd let you go on your merry way to hell." She sighed and stood up. "Just don't let what you think is love blind you to the ugly truth. Besides, he's not a very generous lay, is he? Or was your experience less sordid than mine?… Not talking? Okay then. Do what you want – maybe you can screw him to death too!" She ran out of the room without looking back.

Ann sat there for a moment, her eyes on the pastel images of the screen across the room, her mind filled to bursting. Screwed him to death? Eddie? Is that what she really believed, that her mother had killed her father? Is that what had come from that nightmare evening when Terri had burst into the bedroom in answer to Ann's screams?

It was a sick and ugly and horrid thought, and Ann realized that her daughter, in spite of the outward signs of maturity, was, in ways that mattered, really little more than a child. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to hold her little girl.

But she could not bring herself to go to her. She was too afraid, afraid of Terri's harsh words, afraid of even more rejection. "You coward," she whispered to herself. "Oh God, you coward…”

She had to prove to herself that she was brave, at least in some way. So she picked up the remote, turned off the set, and lifted the telephone handset. Dennis answered on the fourth ring.

"Dennis, it's Ann."

"Ann, how are you? I wanted to call you, but I've been tied up with Mack Redcay all day."

"I'm fine, Dennis." Far better, she thought, to get her own duplicity out of the way. "I didn't want to come in today, that's all." There was silence on the other end of the line, and she wondered, now what? Do I see if he'll run with the ball, or should I just tell him?

He took the burden from her. "Did Terri tell you about anything. .. something that happened last night?"

"Yes. She did."

"What exactly?"

"She told me that you had seduced her."

Ann heard him give a long sigh. "Honest to God, I don't know what she means. She implied the same thing to me today. Ann, I never even saw her last night." She didn't speak. "Ann, listen to me – I've waited for you for so many years, do you think I'd destroy it all by seducing your daughter? Even if I wanted to, which I don't. You know there'd be no way to keep it a secret. I would never be that stupid." He paused for a moment, then spoke more quietly, tenderly. "And I would never do that to you. Believe me. Please."

"I do," she said, and it was the truth. "I do believe you, Dennis. But Terri…" She was near tears. "What shall I do about Terri?"

"I don't know, Ann. I really don't. What if we both sat down and talked to her? Got everything out in the open, told her about the way we feel toward each other, what our plans were."

"No, Dennis, no. You don't know Terri. She's not ready to hear that. And I don't think she's ready to deny what she said." It was an excuse. The simple truth was that Ann was not up to another scene with Terri, not yet, particularly not with Dennis present. "Let's just give it some time."

"All right then. Whatever you think best. As long as you know the truth. And the truth is that I love you, and would never do anything to hurt you. Or Terri."

"I know that."

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Yes. I'll be there." There seemed nothing more to say. "Goodnight, Dennis.”

“Goodnight."

(DENNIS hangs up the phone and sits quietly for a moment. He sighs deeply, stands, and turns to see THE EMPEROR, dressed exactly as DENNIS is, standing stage left by the entrance to the hallway.)

THE EMPEROR

I'm afraid I've caused quite a little contretemps.

DENNIS

Jesus… you're here.

THE EMPEROR

And where should I be, if not near my creator? I owe you a slight apology. I'm afraid that I embarrassed you with the ladies.

DENNIS

Last night… with Terri. It was you.

THE EMPEROR

It was. Her loveliness quite overcame my better judgment.

DENNIS

But how could you… (He pauses, uncertain how to put it.)

THE EMPEROR

Seduce her, being intangible? I seduced her with words alone, my dear friend. No matter how desirous I might have been to possess her sweet young body… (He places his hand into the wall.)… it would have been quite impossible to do so. Much to my regret, I might add. So I was only able to make love to her with my tongue.

DENNIS

You can't… you mustn't do that. They think it's me.

THE EMPEROR

My apologies. But can you not understand? Is seducing this lovely creature not exactly what you would have done some years ago? You have always had an eye for beauty, no matter how cleverly disguised behind a mask of acrimony. And am I not, after all, my creator's child?

DENNIS

I… I told my friend about you – Sid.

THE EMPEROR

It is good to have a friend, a confidant, someone to whom you can entrust the secrets of your heart. You would be a lesser man without Sid, would you not? A weaker one.

DENNIS

Yes… I guess I would.

THE EMPEROR

One little knows how much one depends on others until they are gone. We draw strength from those we love, and from those who love us. That, I suppose, is one reason that I sought to establish a bond with Terri, to have someone true, someone loyal.

DENNIS

I can do that. I… created you. So I can be a friend to you. You don't have to… to go to anyone else.

THE EMPEROR

Ah, but one subject is scarcely enough for an emperor…

He was gone in an instant. There were no words of farewell this time. Instead he simply was no longer there. Only his words echoed in the air. One subject is scarcely enough for an emperor.

What did he mean? Dennis wondered. The implications were more frightening now than ever. What had he said to Terri? What had he done – or tried to do? And was it not, the creature had asked him, what he himself would have done some years before?

It was. Dennis had to be honest with himself. If a young and attractive girl like Terri had aroused him, and there was no Ann to complicate matters, he might have done exactly as the Emperor had – gone to her at night and seduced her.

But that had been years ago. He had not felt any urge to perpetrate such seductions for a long time. It seemed as though those particular emotions were simply not a part of him any more. But they were certainly, he realized an instant later, part of the Emperor.

The thought gave him pause, and he began to think about the other changes in his personality that had occurred over the past few months and years. He had heard people remark that he seemed more thoughtful and considerate, but he had attributed this to Robin's influence and to aging. But what, he thought, if it was due to something else?

What if it was due to his creation of the Emperor? What if this histrion, as it termed itself, had drawn from him those very emotions with which he had created it on stage and created the legend of Dennis Hamilton in his life – imperiousness, superiority, pride, a quick temper, and, yes, ruthlessness? He breathed a prayer of thanks that such a creation was incapable of interfering physically in his world.

And then another thought possessed him. If his theory was true, should he not, instead of fearing what he had made, be grateful to it? Might it not have, after all, drained him of his emotional poisons, making him truly a kinder and better person?

Dennis didn't know. He was certain of only one thing – that he had somehow created this creature, but whether he was cast in the role of Frankenstein or God he could not tell.

He remembered then what the thing had said about Sid, and knew that he had to talk to him about this immediately. The need for the presence of another human being – real, not ethereal – became the most important thing in the world to Dennis Hamilton, and, instead of calling Sid, he decided to go to his suite. Sid would know what to do. What the Emperor had said was true in one regard – he would indeed be a lesser man without Sid.

Sid Harper had knocked off early that night. He had driven Mack Redcay to the airport, served Dennis dinner, and was now lying in bed with Donna Franklin.

It was the first time they had made love in many weeks, weeks that had been filled with the activity of Robin's death and funeral, with everyone working at a feverish pace to try and banish the memories of tragedy, with Sid's departure to New York with Dennis and John, with work and worry and depression. Finally, when Sid had returned from the city, Donna had started her period. Her fastidious outward manner extended into her sex life only in one regard, and that was an absolute refusal to sleep with Sid when she was anything less than pristine. He had long accepted this condition, just as she had accepted the fact that Sid might be called from her side at any minute at the whim of Dennis Hamilton.

They had been interrupted during sex before, but the events of the past few months had made Donna even more high-strung than she usually was, and Sid was well aware that his lover's nerves were on a knife's edge. He had done all he could to calm her that evening, given her wine, held her tenderly, talked for a long time before taking her into the bedroom. But even with the preamble of concern, he still felt the tension, not only deep inside her, but also just beneath the surface, like a volcano about to explode. So when Sid's doorbell rang, she had stiffened beneath him and barked, " Jesus," in a way that made his penis shrivel instantly.

"I won't answer it," he said, caressing her hair.

"Sid?" He heard Dennis's voice, followed by more knocking.

"Oh shit," he murmured.

"Your master's voice," Donna said, rolling away from him.

"I'm sorry."

"Sure, you're sorry." Her voice was bitter.

"Look, I'll see what he wants, be right back."

She said something into the pillow that he didn't hear. The knocking came from the door again, and he rolled out of bed, threw on a bathrobe, and paced to the front door.

"Sid," Dennis said when he opened it. "You're in bed."

He managed a weak smile. "Not any more. What's up, Dennis?"

Dennis looked reluctant. "I, uh, I just wanted to talk to you about something. Um, alone. You… is Donna here?"

Sid nodded. "In the bedroom. I'll come over." He called toward the hall. "I'll be back in a bit."

"God damn it!" Donna cried from the bedroom. Sid turned to see if Dennis had heard, knowing full well that he had to, and saw that someone else was privy to her outburst as well. John Steinberg, his round face dour, was standing behind Dennis in the doorway.

"Is anything wrong?" he said.

"No, John," Sid replied. "Nothing is wrong."

Steinberg looked at him for a moment as though he didn't believe him, then gave a sharp nod, and proceeded down the hall on his way to his suite.

"I'm sorry," Dennis said. "I don't want to upset Donna."

Sid shrugged. "She's already upset. Let's go."

In Dennis's suite, Sid listened while Dennis told him about the confusion over Terri's accusations, of the conversation with Ann, and finally, of the return of the Emperor, and his admission of his verbal seduction of the girl. As Sid sat there, a great sorrow filled him. He could not help but feel that his friend was mad.

But when Dennis had finished his story, Sid sat for a moment, then nodded his head in sympathy. "This… thing sounds like nothing but trouble, Dennis," he said, trying to sound sincere. "I think you should try and get rid of it. As quickly as possible. Maybe I could help you."

Dennis frowned. "I don't know, Sid. It doesn't seem as if its intentions are bad. It acts the way it does because… well, because it knows no other way. It has the emotions that I gave it – the egoistic, childish ones. I can't really blame it for how it thinks. It's a child, a newborn, really. It's got… so much more to learn."

Dear God, Sid thought, he really has gone off the edge. "But, Dennis, you can't know what it intends. It could be bad – very bad. Maybe there's some way we could, I don't know, exorcise it or something. We could talk to a minister, or maybe… (Here goes, he thought)… a psychiatrist?"

Dennis looked at him for a long time, his eyes heavy-lidded and weary. "You still don't believe me."

"Dennis, I didn't say that, of course I believe you."

"This isn't something a psychiatrist can deal with, Sid. I honestly don't believe this is anything that anyone has ever had to deal with before."

Unique, Sid thought. I'd expect nothing less of Dennis Hamilton. "What'll we do then?"

"For now, nothing. I just had to talk about it, tell someone, and I knew I could trust you – if not to believe me, then at least not to tell anyone else. I don't want this… creation to be discovered, studied, examined, at least not yet. It trusts me, Sid, and I have to confess I feel… protective toward it. It is, after all, my child, for want of a better word. And in a weird way I actually feel a little proud of it." He paused, then chuckled. "With the small amount of pride it's left me."

Sid thought for a moment. "Then you think that this explains the recent changes in your personality. This histrion, as you call it, took the emotions of the Emperor away from you."

"Yes. And it could explain why my last performances, for the most part, weren't nearly as powerful as before."

"It makes… an odd kind of sense," Sid said, nodding. "But do you want to give those things up?"

"Maybe it's done me more good than harm. It's made me a kinder person. Hopefully a better one." He grinned. "When's the last time I barked ‘ scheiskopf ’ to you?"

"Well, yeah, I haven't missed that," Sid admitted.

"See, there's good in everything. Even…”

Sid stepped into the pause. "An emotional vampire?"

Dennis sobered immediately. "I wouldn't put it like that."

"No. I guess not. I'm sorry, Dennis, I didn't mean to be flip." He stood up. "Okay then, you don't want to do anything about this, talk to anyone else, right?"

"No." Dennis sat there looking at the carpet. He seemed, Sid thought, to have been drained of feeling, and he thought that his vampiric description of what was eating Dennis (from within only, he had no doubt) was apt.

"Well, goodnight then," he said, and let himself out, noticing, as he left, that Dennis didn't look up to see him go.

Back in his suite, Donna was still in the bed. When he climbed in next to her, she smiled at him apologetically. "I'm sorry," she said. "That wasn't like me. I feel so stupid."

"It's okay," he told her. "I understand." Instead of immediately resuming their lovemaking, he simply put an arm around her and let her cuddle against him. "This whole place is on edge. You should've seen John when he heard you yell."

"Ohmigod, John heard me?"

"Yeah. He was in the hall."

"It's going to be lovely to face him tomorrow."

"Not like he doesn't know about us."

"I know, but I don't think he's ever really approved. He still treats me like a daughter, even after all these years."

"Better like a daughter than like a slave to ole' massah Dennis. ..”

The last word fell off into such despair that Donna propped herself on her elbow and looked at Sid's face in the dim light. "What is it?"

"Dennis. There's something very wrong. Remember when you thought he was putting the moves on you upstairs?" She nodded. "Well, I don't think you were imagining it. I think he tried to – hell, maybe he even did – seduce Terri too."

"My God. John told me Terri was arguing with Dennis in the lobby. So that's what it was about. No wonder Ann stayed out sick."

"That's not the worst of it. Dennis has come up with this alter ego – his Mister Hyde who's doing all these rotten things. It's the Emperor."

"What?"

"The Emperor Frederick. The character. It's… split off from him, see? So when Dennis does something bad, like try and seduce you, or try and screw Terri Deems when he's seeing her mother, it's not him, but the Emperor who did it."

"He told you this?"

"He's got it all worked out in his head. It's scary as hell, Donna. I think he really believes it too. I don't know whether it's guilt over Robin's death or what, but something's driven him half crazy. Maybe all crazy."

"But when I saw him – upstairs – and he was in his costume, that was before Robin died."

Sid shook his head and sighed. "I don't know. I don't get it at all."

"Sid, you don't think… " She paused, as though she hated to say what was next. "You don't think Dennis could have had anything to do with the deaths, do you?"

"I can't believe that. There's another, more reasonable explanation for everything that happened-Tommy, Harry, even Robin. Dennis couldn't have been responsible for any of those. It was physically impossible. But, goddammit, there's something wrong with him, and he's my friend, and I don't know what to do about it."

"Well, I know one thing you can do – make sure the door's locked, huh?"

"It is, always. That's what comes from living in New York." He kissed her, placed his hand on her stomach, moved it up to her breasts, and was delighted to find that her nipples were hard. "Don't worry," he said, "no one's going to walk in on us. And no more interruptions either. Dennis – and the Emperor – will just have to wait until tomorrow."

They made love then, softly and sweetly, and when they were finished Donna nestled against Sid and went right to sleep. Sid, however, lay awake, thinking about Dennis and about what he might do for his friend. For they were friends, and had been ever since that first company of A Private Empire, when Sid, a chorus member only a year older than Dennis, was overjoyed with Dennis's transformation from a put-upon ingenue into the man who called the shots. At the end of the third week of rehearsals, by which time Dennis was feared by everyone involved with the show except Davis and Ensley themselves, Sid had gone up to Dennis during a break and said, "I like what you're doing – and not just with the role."

Dennis had looked at him dully for a moment, and then, realizing that someone had seen through his dual performances, grinned broadly. That moment began a collaboration and a friendship that had lasted a quarter century, and had been betrayed only once – by Sid in a poolside changing room with Dennis's first wife. It was a mistake Sid had regretted ever since, and ever since he had been unfailingly loyal to Dennis.

He would be loyal to him now. There was no way he could bring himself to share his knowledge with John Steinberg, who, although he loved Dennis too, would have unhesitatingly had him committed to one of those celebrity psycho/drugs/alcohol wards whose graduates graced the covers of People and the tabloids. John was practical enough to do it, and had the power to do it as well. If Dennis was the Emperor, then Steinberg was the power behind the throne. No, Sid would say nothing to him, and hope that Dennis was able to work his problems out for himself before Steinberg noticed anything strange about his sole client.

Ann Deems might help, Sid thought. It had been obvious that she had begun something with Dennis just last week. Coming so soon after Robin's death, it was a wonder that he had not tried to blame that on the Emperor as well. Still, he remembered liking Ann when Dennis had dated her years before, and from what he could see, she had become a good woman. Dennis had seemed in better spirits after having been with her, at least until this snafu with Terri.

And Sid would do what he could too, comfort Dennis, reassure him, be there when he needed to talk. He could work it out, get rid of this fucking inner gremlin or whatever it was that was busting his chops, making him do things that he probably didn't want to do.

Sid tried to drive the thoughts from his mind, and looked down at Donna's sleeping face. He kissed her cheek, then slowly shifted his body, moved out of her embrace, slid his feet onto the floor, and stood up. Then he pulled the covers over her shoulders, turned off the dim light, stepped into the hall, gently closed the bedroom door, and went into his kitchen for a snack.

He was invariably ravenous after making love, but always waited until Donna was sound asleep to raid the refrigerator, and was always back in bed with her before she awoke. Now he got some raisin bran from the shelf, poured milk over it, and sat down at the table. The wooden chair was cold on his bare buttocks, but the room was warm, and he was soon comfortable. He finished the bowlful in five minutes, then drank a small glass of juice, and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he went back into the bedroom, Donna was dead.

He didn't realize it at first. He lay down beside her in the dark, moving next to her for her warmth. She had rolled over onto her back, he noticed, so he put his arm around her waist, and his head next to hers so that her hair was against his cheek. It took him several minutes to realize that she wasn't breathing. There was no gentle, regular pulse against his arm, no soft sound of her breath drifting in and out of her lungs, although, in his own soporific state, he still did not equate this with death, merely with something being not quite right.

"Donna?" he whispered, still expecting to hear a slight murmur, but none came. "Honey?"

There was no response, and he knew that something was wrong. Now fully awake, he put his fingers to her face, to reassure himself that she was still breathing. But instead of touching her mouth and upper lip, feeling the blessed puffs of warm, damp air, he touched something soft, cold, only slightly moist.

It was her tongue, protruding from her gaping mouth.

Terror burned through him. He rolled away from her, tumbled onto the floor in a cocoon of sheets and blankets, scuttled wormlike to the wall switch, and flicked it on.

She lay there naked, the flesh of her body white, though her face was mottled blue and purple. A wreath of bruises encircled her throat, and her eyes bulged, as though they had been forced from their sockets.

Sid's mind filled with panic, horror, grief, and terror that whoever had done this thing was still in the suite. In an instant, however, anger had replaced his fear, and he grabbed a sword from where it hung on the wall. It was only a stage sword, one of the first Dennis had used in A Private Empire and had given to Sid, but it had a sharp point, and was longer than the arms that had strangled Donna.

Though he felt terribly vulnerable in his nakedness, he wanted to waste no time. He dashed out of the bedroom, ran down the short hall, across the living room, past the kitchen, and to the front door.

It was still locked. The deadbolt was closed.

Then whatever had killed Donna was still in the suite.

Good, he thought savagely. Good. Sid would find him, and run that thin, prop sword through him until he was nothing, until he was as dead as Donna, without spirit, movement, life…

"Donna…” he said, and choked back a sob. No, there would time to cry later. There would, he knew, be years to cry.

He looked in the small foyer first, throwing the closet doors open, his sword poised to strike. But they were empty, and he went back into the kitchen, then searched the living room, the bathroom, and finally steeled himself to go into the bedroom once again, where Donna lay unmoving, still dead, and the sight crushed him, for he had prayed and half expected that he might have had a dream, a nightmare, one of Dennis's hallucinations, and she would still be alive, waking to ask him what he was doing. But no. Donna was there, and Donna was dead. Donna, whom he had made love to and loved for years and never told how he felt. Donna, who he could never tell.

"You bastard!" he cried to the night, to the death that had come. He ran to the windows, only to find them all closed and locked from the inside. "Where are you!" He ran from room to room, weeping, shrieking for the coward Death to appear.

Only silence answered him.

Finally he went back into the bedroom, sat next to Donna, dropped the sword, and took her hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I love you. I have always loved you."

Her eyes did not turn to his, her fingers did not grasp his own, her face did not come alive with a look of love received and returned.

Donna Franklin stayed dead.

Someone knocked at his door. He sat next to her until he heard voices calling his name. Then he got up, padded naked and shocked to the door, unbolted and opened it. Dennis, John Steinberg, and Curtis Wynn stood there, Dennis pale, Steinberg florid, Curt looking as he always did, his sole concession to the disturbance a hint of concern that furrowed his eyebrows.

"We heard you shouting," Dennis said. "What is it?"

Sid tried to tell them, but his lower lip began to quiver, and he was soon sobbing uncontrollably, his eyes blinded with tears, clinging to Dennis with all his strength. He heard Curt and John move past him into the suite, heard John's startled cry, then returning footsteps, felt a hand on his shoulder pull him away from Dennis, and now he looked into John's angry face.

"Did you…" the man began, then seemed to grasp control. "Who?" he said in a hollow tone. "Who, Sid?"

Sid shook his head. "I… I -"

"Was it you?" John asked, his voice as empty and lifeless as before.

Sid answered with only more sobs. A second later he felt John Steinberg's open hand slash across his cheek.

" Was it!"

" No! " The pain gave him words. "No, John! Jesus, I loved her, I'd never hurt her!"

"Who then?" Steinberg asked in a voice whose fury dwarfed his own earlier rage.

"I don't know – the door was locked, bolted, and the windows… Jesus, I don't know…"

"Curt," Dennis said, "get him his robe."

"And call the police," Steinberg added. When Sid looked up at him, he was surprised to find that the man's eyes were filled with tears, and the loose flesh of his face was trembling as if with a life of its own.

What a lesser man you will be without Sid. And without Donna. Even your loyal Jew shows signs of failing. Coming closer now, Dennis. Taking away your loved ones, wearing you away bit by bit. Remember the song we sang together? -

"And though the minutes wear away the years,

Time can never dry up all my tears.

And every tear that falls, as long years roll,

Like rain on rock, does wear away my soul."

Not Davis's best, was it? But fitting, quite fitting.

A suitable epitaph.

The king is dying. Long live the Emperor.

Scene 6

"This time there's no doubt," Dan Munro said. "It's a case of homicide." He smiled grimly at Dennis Hamilton across the top of his littered desk. "We're going to have to recheck Mr. Harper's alibis for the other deaths as well. It's very possible that he's the one who's given you all this trouble."

"No," Dennis said. "You're wrong."

"Really?" Munro tilted his head, trying not to act too cocky. "You think this was a suicide too?"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. I mean that it wasn't Sid who was responsible… if anyone was."

"And what makes you think that?"

"Because he… well, he just wasn't. Sid couldn't have had anything to do with those things. There's not a mean streak in him."

Munro sighed. "Mr. Hamilton, face the facts. Harper's suite door was bolted from the inside – not just locked, but bolted. All the windows were locked, there was nobody in the suite but him and the victim, and I've got three witnesses, and you're one of them, who say that the two of them had an altercation just an hour or so before you went over and found them. So what's the logical conclusion to draw?"

"I still tell you that Sid didn't do it."

"The man had the means and the opportunity, Mr. Hamilton, and I have no doubt we'll find a motive as well." Munro stood up. "Thanks for your cooperation, sir. Harper will be transferred to the county prison in the morning, and a judge will determine if bail can be set."

"Do you think it will be?"

"In a case like this, I doubt it."

John Steinberg came into Munro's office next. After going over the ground that he had on the scene, Munro asked Steinberg if he knew of any reason why Donna Franklin would be angry at Sid Harper.

Steinberg cleared his throat and looked toward the ceiling. "Sometimes Donna would get upset when Dennis required Sid's services at… inopportune times.”

“Like when they were in bed together."

"Yes."

"How long had they been lovers?"

"Years."

"Did that bother you?"

"No." Steinberg, Munro thought, had paused just a bit too long.

"Were you ever involved with Miss Franklin?"

Steinberg fixed Munro with a look of withering scorn. "In what way?" The words dripped acid.

"Romantically."

"No. Never."

"But you were close?"

"She was very much like a daughter to me." Steinberg's voice grew softer. "I did love her in that way."

"Were you happy with the situation between her and Harper?"

"My happiness had nothing to do with it. It made Donna happy. That was sufficient."

"Did they quarrel much?"

"Not that I ever knew of."

"Could there be any possibility that Miss Franklin wanted a permanent relationship and Harper didn't?"

"I don't know."

"Was there any indication that she could have been pregnant? Morning sickness? Whatever?" 1

"That's highly unlikely. Miss Franklin had a tubal ligation several years ago.”

“Oh. Oh, well, the autopsy will turn that up." Munro sat for a moment shaking his pen, trying to decide what to ask next. "Mr. Steinberg," he finally said, "Mr. Hamilton sincerely believes that Harper is innocent." He waited, but Steinberg said nothing. "Just between us, what do you think?"

"I really don't know. I thought that's what the police were for."

"You know the circumstances. You see any other possibility?"

"That's not what I am paid for. It's you, I believe, who gets a check from the town. Do you have any other questions? It's very late," Steinberg said, glancing at the wall clock, whose hands read one-thirty in the morning.

"No. Not right now."

Steinberg stood up. "Robert Leibowitz, who will be Mr. Harper's attorney, is flying down from New York. I trust that he will not be questioned further until Mr. Leibowitz arrives."

"Of course not." God damn, Munro thought, I wish I didn't feel like a kid in the principal's office around this guy. He stood up as well, thanked Steinberg, and was left alone with his thoughts and a feeling of triumph.

He knew it. He knew all along that there was more to that fucking theatre than met the eye. Accidents, bullshit. He had known that it was only a matter of time before a flat-out obvious-as-hell murder took place. But now the question was, had Harper done it all? Did his original alibis stand up? And if they didn't, why had he done the nasties? Other than the crime of passion/lovers' quarrel that had killed the Franklin woman, the other deaths didn't fit into any pattern that he had ever heard of. Serial killers didn't coolly and methodically snuff their coworkers over a period of months – that was stupid. It would be impossible to evade capture. If you had a lust to merely kill people, you offed strangers. Hell, you could do that for years and not get caught – the Green River killings were proof of that.

As for a highly motivated series of killings, Munro could understand why Harper might want to kill Hamilton's wife, but why the assistant stage manager? And for crissake, why a janitor? Just to throw the attention off the intended victim? That was right out of Agatha Christie, and as improbable in reality as it was clever on paper.

Still, with all the doubts, one thing was for damn sure – he had the guy who killed Donna Franklin. Locked doors, caught with the corpse, no doubt about it. He had even fucked her before he killed her, if the wadded towel in the bed was any indication. Hell, maybe he'd even done it again while he was strangling her. The State Police lab could determine that.

The son of a bitch was caught with his pants down, all right. It would take more than a fancy New York lawyer to get him out of this. Yeah, Donna Franklin's killer was safely under lock and key, and the royal bastard would stay there.

Scene 7

What a horribly vacillating thing the mind is, Dennis Hamilton thought, lingering over the breakfast he had made himself. His thoughts had swung between two poles innumerable times that morning. At one moment he was certain that the Emperor had killed Donna Franklin, and at others he believed that it might really be Sid.

In his way Sid had loved Donna, and to Dennis's best knowledge he had never committed a violent act in his life. Still, the unpleasant and newly discovered truth remained that anyone was capable of murder. What Robin had planned to do to Ann was proof of that.

But not Sid, he thought anew. Not Sid killing Donna. That was unimaginable.

What remained then, behind locked doors and windows? Only a creature to whom doors and windows meant nothing, because he was incorporeal. The Emperor. But he could not have killed Donna, could he, for the very reason that he was incorporeal.

Then that left only Sid, but Sid could not have killed Donna because…

And on and on it went. He welcomed this inner debate, as inconclusive as it was, for it kept his mind busy, kept the terrible depression at bay. It seemed that the people on whom he depended, the people he loved, were being taken away from him. We draw strength from those we love, the Emperor had told him. God, how true that was. And when those we love are gone, how empty our lives can become. Robin, Donna, Tommy, and yes, even simple Harry Ruhl, who had brightened Dennis's days with his sweet, innocent charm.

And now Sid was gone too, Dennis's right hand for over two decades. It seemed callous, and he felt guilty as he realized it, but he would miss Sid most of all. Dennis had not always treated him kindly, but Sid had always stuck by him, and Dennis loved him for it. He would do everything he could, short of perjury, to prove Sid's innocence.

Dennis put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, then went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. Last night Steinberg had suggested getting someone to replace Sid for the time being, but Dennis had declined. He would do for himself for a change. He felt the need to be alone, with only one exception to his solitude, someone he desperately needed to see and talk to.

Dennis waited for Ann Deems outside, under the marquee. The cold air bit his lungs as he breathed it in, and the sensation pleased him. The pain proved he was still alive.

Terri Deems arrived alone at eight-thirty, and Dennis went back into the theatre lobby and waited in the coat room until she passed, then went back outside. Ann arrived just before nine o'clock. She was bundled in a maroon coat and a gray cloche, and looked, Dennis thought, absolutely wonderful.

She saw him as she began to cross the street from the parking lot, and her steps slowed. He walked across the empty street toward her, and she took his arm. Tears hung in her eyes.

"I heard," she said in a choked voice. "I heard on the radio this morning. Dennis, is it true? Did Sid?…”

"No," he said. "It looks that way, but I don't believe he could have. I told you how he felt about Donna."

"And I know how she felt about him. It wasn't so much what she said as how she acted when he came into the office."

They walked inside and sat, still in their coats, on an upholstered bench in the lobby, where he told her everything that had happened the previous night. Ann cried in his arms over the loss of Donna, and they sat in silence for a long time. Finally he spoke.

"I wanted you to know something – about what Terri told you. This may be hard to understand… but maybe no harder than a lot of other things that have been happening."

He took a deep breath and looked down at the dark, swirling colors of the giant Oriental rug. He had to tell her. He could not let her think Terri a liar. "I'm afraid that she may have been partially right about the other night. Not that I seduced her – I didn't. That's the truth. But I may have said some things that… may have given her the wrong impression. I've been having lapses in memory, in judgment too, I'm afraid. These deaths, these… losses have hurt me, weakened me. It's as though I'm… not myself sometimes." He gathered the courage to look at her. "Can you understand that? And can you forgive me?"

"I can always forgive you," she said, taking his hand. "I know you, Dennis. I've known you for so long, and I know that you're a good man. Terri is… well, she's confused. I think it would be easy for her to misunderstand what might be only a sign of approach, of affection, for something else."

"I'm glad you believe me, Ann. I needed you before, but I need you more than ever now."

"You have me. For as long as you want."

"You may regret saying that," he told her, with the hint of a smile. "What do you mean?"

"I don't want this to sound callous, but we're going on with Craddock. John and I talked it over last night – poor man, I think it was harder for him than it was for me. He treated Donna like a daughter for years. But we decided it would serve no purpose to delay the show. That's why Donna and Tommy and… and Robin were here. And I won't leave the area anyway – not as long as Sid's in jail. It won't be an ideal situation. It'll be harder than ever for the show to come off on time, but we can do it. If we have your help."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Take over Donna's position. You know the job, you know everything that it would take someone else months to learn. Donna was irreplaceable, we all know that. But if anyone can come close to what she did, it's you. And John agrees with me."

He had feared she would hesitate, claiming ignorance or inability, but she did not, and love and admiration surged through him as he saw her nod, heard her say, "All right. I'll do it. If you and John think I can, then I can. I only have one request.”

“And that is?"

"I want to move in here. Into the building, in one of the vacant fourth floor suites."

Dennis felt ice in the pit of his stomach. "No, Ann. No."

"Dennis, I have to. I've seen what Donna's job was like. She had to be accessible to John at all times."

He sought for an excuse to keep her out of the building. "But what about Terri? You want her to live alone?"

"I never see her now as it is. I think we'd both be more comfortable if we were apart for a while. Maybe that's a coward's way out, but I just can't bear any more confrontations with her."

"No. It's too dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

" Yes. There have been four deaths in this building."

"And they all have explanations, Dennis. Tommy and Robin's deaths were both accidental, Harry, as impossible as it seems, had to be a suicide, and…" She trailed off.

"And Sid killed Donna? Is that what you think?"

"What else is there to think, Dennis? After what you told me about the two of them being the only ones there? I agree, it seems incredible that Sid could do such a thing, but what other explanation is there? I like Sid too, and if you could give me another possibility I'd grab onto it."

"He didn't do it, Ann."

"You say that as his best friend, but do you really believe it?"

Dennis thought about Sid and Donna and the Emperor's hand going through the wall, his own fingers feeling nothing but air where the Emperor stood, thought about Terri's accusation, thought about how real artists' creations could be. "I don't know," he said. "I really don't know."

"I'm moving in, Dennis. That's the only way I'll agree."

"Then you can't agree," he said, calling her bluff. "You cannot move in here. In fact, Whitney's moving out tomorrow – Marvella's daughter finally found a place that's suitable. But even if she hadn't, I'd have the two of them put in a hotel, whether Marvella kicked and screamed or not."

"All right, Dennis. I'll stay at home then. But I think you're being too cautious.”

“I don't," he said. "Trust me."

~* ~

Little work was done in the Venetian Theatre offices that day. Robert Leibowitz, Sid's attorney, spoke with Steinberg, Dennis, and Curt for hours, then spent nearly as much time in Sid's suite in the company of a policeman. By late afternoon, Dennis felt exhausted, and when Steinberg asked him to join him for dinner, at first he declined.

"Come on, Dennis," Steinberg said. "It'll be good for you to get away from the building for a while. Besides, your own cooking could be fatal, you know." So he agreed to meet John at six-thirty, when they would walk together to the Inn.

When he arrived in the lobby, he saw Whitney sitting on a chair, swinging her short legs back and forth. When she looked up, her expression was far removed from her usual childish glow of wonder. "Hello, Whitney," he said, smiling at her, but she did not smile back.

"Hello, Mr. Hamilton."

"Waiting for your grandmother?"

She nodded. "We're going to McDonald's. Then we're gonna work in the shop tonight. I'm gonna help."

"Ah. Are you excited about going home?"

"Yeah," she said. "It'll be okay." She looked down for a moment, then said with juvenile candor, "Mr. Hamilton, is it true about Sid? Did he really hurt – kill Donna?"

"I don't know, Whitney. I'd rather believe not."

"I don't think he did," the girl said. "He loved her too much to hurt her. He never hurt me, and he got mad at me sometimes."

Dennis smiled, blessing the trust of children, wishing that it remained in himself. "I think you may be right, Whitney. I hope so anyway."

"Then did someone else do it?"

"I… I don't know. It could be, I suppose."

"I'm not afraid. Grandma'll take care of me."

"I'm sure she will." As if on cue, the elevator doors opened, and Marvella stepped out. "Hello, Marvella."

"Dennis," she said, and nodded to him. She looked as though she had been crying. "Awful thing, awful thing."

He nodded back, and without another word she took her granddaughter's hand and they left the building.

Dinner was mercifully bereft of any discussion of the killing, but it was there all the same, a ghostly presence, impossible to ignore, that sat at the table with them over each course, that ingratiated itself in every bite of food, every word they spoke.

"You didn't eat very much," Steinberg observed as the waiter cleared away Dennis's half-eaten dessert.

"Not much of an appetite."

"You need exercise. When's the last time you had a swim?"

"Weeks ago. I feel too tired."

"That's precisely when you should exercise. Let's have a dip when we get back."

Though a swim was the last thing that Dennis wished for, he felt incapable of refusing. It was somehow easier to go into the locker room, change into trunks, and join Steinberg in the pool. Dennis marveled at the man's grace in the water, heavy as he was. Steinberg swam laps, dove from the high board, and went for great lengths underwater, breaching the surface and taking in great lungfuls of air that Dennis felt would have burst him in two. Dennis, on the other hand, paddled without much vigor back and forth across the pool, resting often, his arms on the cool tile of the pool's edge.

After twenty minutes of exertion, Steinberg pulled himself out of the water for the last time. "Well, I'm sufficiently exhausted for a good night's rest, even after the events of the past day. Join me for a nightcap?"

Dennis shook his head. "No thanks. This feels good. I think I'll just stay in the water a bit longer."

"You'll be all right alone?"

"Why, you think there's something here?" He said it before he even realized it was out of his mouth. It was the lassitude the water caused that made him careless. Steinberg's eyes narrowed. "Something? What do you mean, something?”

“I… don't know. I guess I'm spooked, that's all."

"There's nothing here," Steinberg said with more force than Dennis thought was necessary. The three words implied a multitude of sentiments, chief among them that Sid was safely in jail.

"You think he did it?" Dennis asked Steinberg. It was the first time either of them had spoken of it that night.

"Yes. I do. There is no one else." Without another word, Steinberg turned and walked into the locker room, leaving Dennis alone in the pool.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against his arms. "No," he whispered to himself, unable to believe his friend had done what everyone except he and a trusting child thought he had. Even the attorney had seemed dubious that anyone else could have conceivably murdered Donna.

As if to escape from his thoughts, he twisted backward into the pool, immersing his head beneath the water, diving down, down, until his fingers touched the smooth surface of the pool's bottom, then came up again, his eyes still closed against the chlorine, against what he himself was beginning to think was the truth.

But when he opened his eyes, he saw that he had been right after all, saw that Sid was innocent. When he opened his eyes, he saw the Emperor standing by the side of the pool.

He was holding out a towel.

(THE EMPEROR wears his full dress uniform. His skin shows no signs of perspiration from the humidity of the pool. Smiling, he holds the towel toward DENNIS, who, treading water, seems stunned, and afraid to swim any nearer.)

THE EMPEROR

Not ready to come out? It won't wash off, you know. No matter how long you stay in there.

DENNIS

What… won't wash off?

THE EMPEROR

The blood. Your friends' blood on your hands.

DENNIS

You're… you're holding it.

THE EMPEROR

The towel? Oh yes. I'm quite capable of corporeality now, no small thanks to you. (He swings the towel about in demonstration.) I owe you a great deal, oh creator of mine. I owe you my very existence, of course, but you knew that. What you don't know is that I also owe you lives. Lives that I, in my imperial power, have taken.

DENNIS

(He is growing tired, continually treading water.) You killed Donna.

THE EMPEROR

I did.

DENNIS

Why? For God's sake!

THE EMPEROR

Why? Surely not for God's sake, but for the sake of the Emperor. You see, my friend, you no longer have the strength of will, the force of character required to hold such high office. It is time, my dear fellow, to abdicate to a higher power. Me.

DENNIS

No! It's a character, just a character! There is no emperor!

THE EMPEROR

(He spreads his arms) There is now.

DENNIS

Why did you let me think you were… harmless?

THE EMPEROR

It amused me to play such a game, to pretend, to perform. After all, was I not born of performance? Born of an actor? Born of artifice? Yet, in a way my… harmlessness was true. My corporeality grew slowly, like a child learning to walk. I pulled the pin that dropped the curtain on that scheiskopf of an assistant stage manager – my first physical act, and it exhausted me. There was no way I could physically destroy one of your sycophants – not then – without great care and happy coincidences. But I could be seen, and I could move objects, were they small enough. (He grins) Like the servant's knife.

DENNIS

Harry… Harry Ruhl…

THE EMPEROR

Yes. The physician was correct, you know. He did perform those.. . surgeries upon himself. But at my direction, and by my will. He had practically none of his own. His brain was like butter. Your wife, I had hoped, would prove a worthier subject, but she was not. I had merely to drop the suggestion that she destroy your mistress, and she was off like a hound on scent.

DENNIS

You told her to kill Ann?

THE EMPEROR

Nothing so crude. I only opened the portal – she rushed through it. A few subtle clues, a hint of perfume, overheard voices, a lost handkerchief – had she never seen Othello? – and vengeance quite o'ertopped her thoughts. I little cared which one perished, though I hoped that only one would, so as to save a treat for later. (He shakes his head.) I had no idea you felt so deeply for the girl. After her death my strength was increased fivefold. More than enough to throttle the woman last night.

DENNIS

Oh my God…

THE EMPEROR

You have no idea of the pleasure of it – to actually hold a life in your hands, and make it ebb away. The strength I felt, the power, the… reality.

DENNIS

Everything then. you've done everything.

THE EMPEROR

I have indeed. Including the peccadillo with the young wardrobe person. That brought you more than a little grief from your aging mistress, I vow. It was an interesting sensation, but all in all I prefer execution more. Mating is only… a little death.

DENNIS

(Near tears) Why? Why have you done this?

THE EMPEROR

For a simple reason – self-preservation. I wish to live, and to keep growing in my existence. In order for all things to grow, they must derive strength from something. And I derive my strength from my creator. As your spirit ebbs, mine grows stronger. Each loss undermines the structure of your life, and makes my dais more solid, my throne more permanent. Soon everyone you love, everyone upon whom you depend, will be taken from you, and Dennis Hamilton will fade away, leaving only the Emperor. And on that day, as Dennis Hamilton became the Emperor, so will the Emperor become Dennis Hamilton.

DENNIS

(In a voice filled with fury) You're a liar.

THE EMPEROR

I beg your pardon?

DENNIS

(Desperately) You're a liar. I don't know what else you are, but I do know that. I don't even believe in you. Sid was right. You're nothing but a figment of my imagination. Maybe you're a part of me, but you're a part of my mind, nothing more.

THE EMPEROR

You know that's not true. You're only denying a reality that you're afraid of, that you feel ultimately responsible for. I can't blame you. It's such a human trait, but one that, under these circumstances, can accomplish nothing.

DENNIS

You don't exist.

THE EMPEROR

So I must prove it. Dear me. (He looks upward, as though hearing something.) Very well then. You wish proof? You shall have it. The little girl. Get out of the pool. Run and see. By the time you arrive it shall be done. Do not think to arrive before me, for you take the high road, while I take the low. (THE EMPEROR vanishes. The towel he has been holding falls to the floor.)

Dennis did not stop to dress nor to dry himself. Barefoot, dripping, clad in bathing trunks, he ran around the corner into the hall, and savagely pushed the button for the elevator. He had thought of running up the stairs, but the elevator would take less time than a trip up the labyrinthine, curving stairways.

He jabbed the button again, and realized that nothing was happening. He heard no whirring of gears, no whine of cables. The bastard! If he had been able to turn the lights on and off with whatever strange powers he possessed, the elevator should be a simple thing to stop.

Dennis cursed, whirled away from the elevator door, and ran toward the steps, his wet feet slapping the carpet beneath. He reached the stairs to the lobby and began to run up them, when the lights went out.

"No!" he shouted, but heard only his voice echoing through the building. One hand in front of him to ward off whatever barrier he might strike, the other clutching the banister, he climbed up the steps in the deep blackness that only cellars can exude. The banister came to an end, dim light was visible, and he knew he was in the first floor hall. In the light that shone through the glass doors from the street lamp outside, he made his way to the door to the lobby, shambled across it, and pushed open the door to a small storage room where, among other things, the ushers' flashlights were kept. He snatched one up, flicked its switch, and ran on, preceded by a weak, yellow beam that he prayed would stay alive.

Up the winding stair he ran to the second floor, then to the third. As he labored up the narrower stairway to the fourth floor, he noticed that the strength of the flashlight's beam was diminishing, and ran faster, so as to beat its imminent failure.

He was not successful. The light winked out just as his foot touched the last step. Surprised, he tripped, banged his shin, stood up, kept moving down the hall, knowing that the costume shop was ahead, that if he kept going straight he would run right into the door. Right hand against the wall, left hand out, Dennis scuffled along, expecting at any moment to bump into the door he sought.

But it did not come, and he thought that perhaps he had taken a wrong turn, or was on the wrong floor, or was trapped in the Emperor's world, in the skewed reality of a mad thing's mind, and that the hall went on forever into the darkness, that there would never be an end to it. Sobbing in frustration and fear, he pushed on, expecting at any moment to feel the floor fall away beneath his feet, plunging him down, down into some nightmare even worse than the one he now inhabited.

And just when he thought he could not bear to move another step, just as he was on the verge of falling, shrieking, crying, surrendering to whatever the Emperor was, his bare toes battered against a wall, and the pain flung him backwards, down, and he fell hard on the floor, hurting, but thinking he was there, oh Christ, he was there at the end, at the door, and he scuttled on his knees to it, fumbling for the door knob, ignoring the sharp pain of his aching foot, finding the knob, turning it, pushing in, the door opening, and the light going on as if on cue, as if someone had been waiting to illuminate the scene.

In a large and chaotic pile of clothes, Marvella Johnson was sitting like a Buddha, rocking back and forth, tears cutting a trail of ice down her black cheeks. Whitney lay in her arms, unmoving, her face turned away from Dennis, buried in Marvella's wide breast. A soft, irregular, grunting noise came from between Marvella's parted lips, and slowly her massive head came up, looked at Dennis.

"Oh, Dennis," she said, in a soft and dreamy voice he had never heard her use before. "Oh, Dennis, she's dead…"

He walked over to the pair as if in a dream. "What happened? Marvella, what happened?"

She shook her head, and it seemed as if she could not stop. "She was playing in the pile of clothes, tunneling through, she's done it lots of times. I went into the bathroom, just went into the bathroom for a minute, and when I came out I looked over and I didn't see her, and called her name. Then I saw the pile moving, but she didn't say a thing, and I thought she was down under, playing a trick on me, and. .. and God help me, I went back to my work. I looked over again, and saw the clothes still moving.

"And I knew that it wasn't her moving them. They were coming up from the sides, like a… like a sponge or something, like something living, and I shouted her name, and went over, and started pulling the clothes off her, but they kept moving back into the pile like crawling things, like arms of an octopus or something, and when I got 'em all off, when I got to her…”

Marvella gave a choking sob and held the girl to her breast. "I did everything I knew. I gave her CPR, mouth to mouth, I had the courses, but she wasn't breathing, and I called 911, and they're coming, but it's too late now, too late. Oh, my little precious…”

"Marvella…”

"Then the lights went off, and I thought – I hoped maybe I was dying too. I hoped so, Dennis. Oh God, oh God save her sweet little soul…”

Dennis trembled from the cold, and from the fear. He heard a sound then, a low chuckle from above, but Marvella did not look up from her granddaughter's still face. Dennis looked, upward to the loft where the old costumes hung like empty shells of men and women, and saw what the Emperor wanted him to see.

Tommy Werton stood there, his severed head suspended in the air, strands of meat and gristle dangling over his neck, open like a bloody chimney, his half-closed eyes staring at Dennis. The features shifted, and Tommy became…

… Harry Ruhl, standing gutted, crimson letters streaked on his flesh, until the letters faded, and Harry melted into…

… Robin, his Robin, like a broken doll, neck twisted, back bent, her ruin of a mouth forming silent words over and over again in a litany Dennis heard in his soul – You Royal Bastard… Royal Bastard… Royal Bastard…

… and now her clothing vanished, and Donna, her face blue, her tongue black, ogled Dennis with eyes like eggs, until her flesh grew red, turned to cloth, ribbons, medals, braid, the dark tongue lost in a red beard, a devil's grin, bright blue eyes…

… to the Eniperor, who beamed down on Dennis Hamilton, as if proud to show his own creations to his creator, giving a crisp and military salute before he faded into the grief filled air.

Dennis's gaze hung in the empty space, still seeing the faces of the dead, and that final, most hideous face of the never alive. He whispered to the night, whispered so that Marvella could not hear, but knew that something else would -

"I created you. And God help me, I will destroy you."