Reign

Scene 3

Dan Munro, with three of his officers, had come to the Venetian Theatre to perform their search of the premises. When they entered the auditorium, they found the work lights on and Evan Hamilton lying unconscious on the floor of the stage. The officers, all of whom were trained in CPR, immediately went to work on the boy, while Munro ran to the backstage phone and called 911 for an ambulance, which arrived only five minutes later. The medics found Evan breathing, and correctly diagnosed his condition as a severe asthmatic attack accompanied by a state of shock. They lost no time in bundling him into the ambulance and transporting him to the Kirkland Medical Center.

While the ambulance pulled away from the theatre, sirens screaming and lights ablaze, Dan Munro talked to Curt, who had returned with his lunch as the officers were laboring to keep Evan's breath flowing. "I couldn't have been away for three minutes," he said. "I don't know what the hell happened. He was fine when I left. And now… oh Christ… is he going to be okay?"

"I think so. Unless there's something else wrong they didn't spot," said Munro. "You didn't see anybody in here?"

"No, no one." Curt gave a bitter laugh. "There aren't that many of us left."

John Steinberg called the prison before Dennis's visit with Sid was over, and informed Ann about Evan's attack. When Dennis came out of the visiting area, she took his hand and told him that Evan had been taken to the medical center. "John said not to worry. They think he'll be fine."

"What was it?" Dennis asked, his face drawn.

"An asthma attack. Pretty bad. He said he was in shock too." They drove, neither one of them speaking, to the hospital. Dennis pulled the car up to the front entrance, and ran into the waiting area, where Curt and John were sitting.

"I want to see him. Now," Dennis said.

Steinberg collared a nurse, and in another ten minutes Dennis was in Evan's room. The boy was breathing quickly and shallowly, his eyes closed, but his brows were pressing down in an uneven tempo, as though he was trying to block something from his mind's eye. Dennis pulled up a black plastic and metal chair and sat next to him, taking his moist and clammy hand in his own.

"Evan," he said softly. "Evan."

But the boy neither opened his eyes nor spoke. He only panted like a dog on a hot day, his eyes jerking convulsively behind their lids.

"Evan," Dennis said again, and continued to say the name, a litany, a prayer to bring his son back to him. "Evan."

He sat there for an hour, ignoring the visits of the doctors and nurses, sat there until, just before four o'clock in the afternoon, the boy opened his eyes with a start, looked about him, and saw his father sitting by him, holding his hand. "Dad?" he said weakly.

"Evan. Hello." He knew it sounded foolish, but after chanting the boy's name for so long, he did not know what else to say. "Are you.. . all right?"

Evan took several deep, shuddering breaths, then closed his eyes again. Dennis was afraid the memory of what he had seen, for he was sure that the attack was the Emperor's doing, was driving his son back into the mercies of unconsciousness, but Evan opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling.

"Did you see something?" Dennis asked. "Something in the theatre?"

Evan nodded slowly. His mouth was open, and he was breathing loudly through it.

"What was it? Was it… me? Some one that looked like me?"

He shook his head. “… people," he whispered. "Full of… people… all eyes… watching me…"

"The auditorium," Dennis ventured, "was filled with people?"

"Yes." Evan closed his eyes and began to cry, a terrible, silent crying that made Dennis fear he had lost his breath once more, but in another second the boy sucked in air and let it out again with a wet, bubbling sound that made Dennis picture boiling wells in hell.

"It's going to be all right," Dennis said. "You don't have to go back there. You don't ever have to go back. We'll go to New York. I'll take you to New York. You sleep now, just sleep."

Dennis placed his hand upon his son's forehead, and Evan closed his eyes. In time, his breathing grew less frenzied, and in a while he slept. When Dennis was sure the boy could no longer hear him, he said, "I love you, Evan," and left the room.

He did not rejoin his friends immediately. Instead he stepped into a dimly lit stairwell, sat on a step, and thought for a long time about what to do next. Then, when he had made up his mind, he walked to the waiting area.

Steinberg, Curt, and Ann were still there. "He'll be all right," Dennis told them. "He's sleeping now. John, Curt, are you both packed?" They nodded. "Good. I don't want anyone to go back to the theatre today, but tomorrow Abe Kipp can get our bags. You'll leave Kirkland first thing in the morning. Ann and I will follow you when Evan is fit enough to travel. But we'll come back. We'll come back to do a show."

Steinberg nodded. " Craddock."

"Yes, Craddock. But another show before that. I'm going to take your advice, John. We're going to do A Private Empire. One performance. The final performance."

Steinberg frowned. "I thought you didn't want to -"

"I changed my mind. I want to do it. In the Venetian Theatre. As quickly as we can put it together."

"It'll take time," Steinberg said. "Three months, maybe."

"No. That's too long. Half of that, if not sooner."

"My God, Dennis, you're talking about staging a major production.”

“You said before that it would be easy."

"With time, yes. But doing it so quickly – it would cost twice, three times as much as it would otherwise."

"I have the money. I'm not concerned."

"There's not much room for profit."

"I don't care about profit, I just want to do it." Dennis spat the words out, and Steinberg seemed to recoil before them. "Do I still run this business, John?”

“Of course you do."

"Then don't fight me. Just do what I ask." He turned to Ann. "I'll take you back to your car, Ann." He turned and walked down the hall. Ann followed.

"Why, Dennis?" she asked him on the way to the parking lot. "I know there must be a reason."

"There's a reason," he said. "It's killed the people I love, and it showed Evan something, something that terrified him, that nearly killed him. I have to destroy it, Ann. If not destroy it, then bring it back into me, at least those parts that it stole from me. I have to fight it. It's the only way to stop it, the only way to… to get back my soul."

"But doing the show – A Private Empire?…"

"I lost myself playing the Emperor. And I think that playing the Emperor again is the only way I can get myself back. If I can somehow

… revive those emotions, maybe I can weaken him instead of his weakening me."

"But you don't know," she said, standing by his car. "It could be just what he wants – for you to be the Emperor again. Maybe there's some sort of psychic link there. Maybe, if you become the Emperor again, he'll just become stronger as a result."

Dennis sighed, and pulled up the collar of his coat against a light rain that had just begun to fall. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm playing right into its hands. But it's the only thing I can think of. All I know is that it came out of me, and that it's part of me, and that this is what I think is the right thing to do. I think my strength can destroy it. And I think I can be strong again." They got into the car and sat there for a moment, the only sound the patter of raindrops on the roof.

"My outburst at John just now," Dennis finally said. "I'm not proud of it, but I haven't gotten angry at him for a long time, not him or anyone. And maybe that's a sign, an indication that I still have the emotions that fuel the Emperor. Or that I can get them back from time to time."

He thought for a moment. "I wonder," he said quietly, "if when I get angry, or when I feel deep emotion, he loses something." The tempo of the rain had gradually increased until Ann could barely hear him as he said, "I wonder, if I felt enough, if he would lose… everything."

When they arrived back at the theatre, the rain was driving down. Dennis drove next to Ann's car so that she was able to step directly from one to another. She had promised to go to New York with him, and he told her he would call her the next day to make arrangements.

He didn't want her to see him go back into the theatre, so he waited until she had driven away before he pulled his car up in front of the main entrance. As he did, Dan Munro and his men came out the door. Dennis joined them under the marquee. Rain spat down around them, and Munro nodded in greeting.

"How's your son?"

"He'll be all right," Dennis said. "A severe asthma attack. I'm glad you were there to help. Thank you."

"I'm glad we were there too." He gestured toward the theatre. "We've been through the whole place, top to bottom. All the suites, all the rooms upstairs, even the closets. We went into the ceiling, down in the cellars, everywhere, and the only thing alive in there was the cat. I think if you change those locks you'll be a lot safer."

"Thanks, Chief," Dennis said. "I appreciate the search, and I will have the locks changed. While we're away."

"You're leaving?"

"We're going back to New York for a while. We'll rehearse a show there, then come back in a month or two. I just want to get a few things, then I'll lock up.”

“All right, Mr. Hamilton. Be careful, huh?"

"I will." Dennis watched as they crossed the street and got into their car. Then he entered the building, locking the outer door behind him, and walked into the lobby.

Even inside, Dennis could hear the sound of the rain, and distant thunder. Even inside, in the warmth, he shivered. He had come back to see the thing one final time before he went away. Though it had destroyed those he loved, he had to see it again, had to speak to it, had to watch and listen and learn if it had weaknesses of which he was not aware. It was his last opportunity to find out, for when he returned, there would be no time to learn, only to fight.

He had no fear, however, that it would harm him now. It needed him too much to do that. He was its food, its source of life. Somehow he felt that it was still a child, not yet ready to be on its own, to become Dennis Hamilton, if indeed it ever would be, if it were truly more than some demon sent to torment him.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and walked across the lobby toward the doors to the theatre. If it would be anywhere, it would be there on the stage where it had been given birth. He pushed the doors open gently, and saw that the work lights were on, bathing the stage in a dim glow. He stepped into the inner lobby and saw the cat, Cristina, sitting, its tail wrapped around it, at the head of the aisle. For a moment it watched him with an eerie intelligence, then turned and padded down the aisle, past the orchestra pit, and up the steps to the stage. There it walked regally to the exact center, and sat once again.

And the Emperor was there. There was no slow appearance like a ghost coming into view. One moment he was not there, and the next moment he was. It was startling, and Dennis's breath caught in his throat.

THE EMPEROR

Good evening. (He smiles smugly.)

DENNIS

(Walking slowly down the aisle) What did you do? What did you do to my son?

THE EMPEROR

Merely had him follow in his father's – or purported father's – footsteps. I gave him an audience. They were appreciative, but he had a bad case of stage fright. Has he recovered?

DENNIS

Yes. He'll be fine.

THE EMPEROR

Ah. A pity. I thought he would die. And he would have had it not been for his timely rescue by the police. Still, it is of no importance. You grow weaker by the day, even with your… son alive .

DENNIS

Why do you say that? What did you mean, my purported son?

THE EMPEROR

(Mock surprise) You mean that you didn't know? That the bad news must come from me? (Sighs) So be it then. Little Evan is not your offspring. He's Sidney's son. Sidney, you see, fucked your wife.

DENNIS

That's a lie.

THE EMPEROR

It's not.

DENNIS

Evan looks exactly like me.

THE EMPEROR

A remarkable coincidence, is it not? And a quite fortunate one for Sid. I'm sure that his grandfather must have had red hair.

DENNIS

Say what you want. I don't believe you anymore. Everything you say is a lie.

THE EMPEROR

Much was. But I have no reason to deceive you now. (He pauses, eyes DENNIS appraisingly) You're leaving, aren't you?

DENNIS

Yes.

THE EMPEROR

But you'll be back too, won't you? You won't be able to stay away, you know. If you do… you'll die. Actually, it will be worse than death. Just a deterioration of your personality, day by day, until there is no you anymore.

DENNIS

Don't worry, I'll be back. I'll come back and I'll destroy you.

THE EMPEROR

I have no doubt that you'll be back, but that you'll destroy me? ( Laughs) Very unlikely. But go. Take your time, muster your resources, though I think you'll find them rather faltering as time passes. When you're ready, come back. And then we'll see. Then we'll see who the real emperor is. Yes, we'll see who is real.

DENNIS

I'll beat you.

THE EMPEROR

No, you won't. You're already too weak to even fight. And you'll just grow weaker. Whereas I… (He picks up the cat.)… grow stronger, for I have none of the weaknesses that human flesh is heir to. I have no sympathy, no compassion, no love. (Pets the cat) This creature, on the other hand, loves me, I don't know why. But does that stop me from doing this? (Casually he strokes the cat's head, then grasps it and twists, breaking the neck. He drops the dead cat, not once looking at it.) Can a cat look at a king?

(DENNIS turns and stumbles up the aisle, retching. He runs into the lobby, out to the doors, fumbles with the key, unlocks the outer door, and steps outside into the pouring rain, where he vomits on the pavement. The storm roars overhead. Thunder crashes. Lightning illuminates Dennis's pale, sweating face. Over the sound of the storm, DENNIS hears gales of laughter. He weeps, but his face is wet with nothing but rain.)

Scene 4

Dennis slept fitfully that night. In the morning, he called the hospital, and was told that the doctors wanted to keep Evan for one more day of observation. After he hung up, he met Curt and John for breakfast in the Kirkland Hotel's coffee shop, and told them to call Abe Kipp and tell him to bring their luggage down from their suites. "I don't want either of you going into the theatre again," he said.

"What about Kipp?" Steinberg asked. "You feel he's expendable?"

Dennis sighed. "No one's going to do anything to Abe. I'm not close to him. There's no way his loss would hurt me."

"Maybe," Curt said, "this stalker of ours would just do it for fun."

Dennis ignored the comment. "I'll join you in the city after Evan gets checked out of the hospital. That should be tomorrow. Now, John, what about Terri?"

"I called her yesterday morning after Ann had left their house, and told her what had happened, and not to come in until further notice. She's still on the payroll, as you requested."

"All right. We won't take her to New York unless Marvella wants her there." Dennis paused. "Do you think Marvella will do the show?"

"I spoke to her before she left yesterday afternoon. By the way, the funeral's on Monday – I'll be there, but I don't think you should go. Marvella understands. As far as Empire goes, all she told me was that she wouldn't go back to the theatre again. Not ever. But we can live with that. She can design and build in New York. It will cost more, but -"

"Damn the money, John, I don't care about that. Whatever she wants is fine with me. I just want her on the project. I want everything the way it was, all the people we can get – Dex, Quentin, everyone. Anybody who was in the revival and we can get back, I want them, you understand?"

Steinberg examined his coffee cup thoughtfully, while Curt sat silently, watching the two men. "Today's Friday. I'll call our casting people right away, and I can be back in the city by noon." He glanced up at Dennis. "Do I have a budget on this?"

"Unlimited. Take it through the roof if you have to. I don't care how much it costs, John. To the rest of the world, this is a New American Musical Theatre Project fund raiser, but between us, this is my project. I want it done the way I want it done, and I don't care if it costs ten, twenty million dollars."

"Twenty million dollars," Steinberg said, as though angry at the mere thought of such wanton expenditure. "For one performance."

"Yes. For one performance."

Steinberg's mouth was pinched, his tone arid. "Do you mind very much if I ask you why?"

"Yes. I mind. It was your suggestion in the first place, John. But it's my decision." He looked past his friends, out the window toward the town which housed the theatre. "And it's my show. God damn it all, it's my show."

Dennis arrived at the hospital at ten o'clock to find Evan sleeping. "He kept waking up with nightmares," the duty nurse told him. "We sedated him about three in the morning. He should wake up soon."

Dennis pulled the plastic covered hospital chair next to the boy's bed, and sat waiting. He watched Evan breathing gently, his chest rising and falling regularly, without a hint of the spasmodic wheezing that had plagued him as a child and still tormented him as an adult. Then Dennis examined the boy's features, the facial lineaments that so closely resembled his own, the hair so vibrantly red that it dazzled the eye.

My son, he thought. Are you my son?

The patient chart was at the foot of the bed where the morning examining physician had left it. Dennis picked it up and looked for the secret.

It was there. They had typed him. B.

Dennis was type O. Evan's mother had been type A.

He didn't know Sid's type. And he decided he didn't want to know.

Dennis set down the chart, sat back, and looked at his son again. For, despite the evidence of letters, he knew Evan was his son. Family was not blood. Family was feelings and emotions and bonds, even bonds that were stretched from time to time, even bonds that had been broken.

When Evan awoke, he saw his father's face.

~* ~

Fine fiddle-fuckin' thing, thought Abe Kipp, walking down the street in front of the Venetian Theatre. Get the bags, shut things down, put the whole damn building in mothballs until further notice. He sighed as he rounded the corner. Damned if he wasn't going to miss the place, even after all the bad shit that happened there. But orders were orders and he would be paid just the same as if he were inside dusting and cleaning and goofing off. Still, the place had been his lavish home away from home for so many years that he didn't really know what to do with himself. Sit around the bars all day? He didn't feel like drinking the way he used to, and there was nobody around he wanted to tease…

No, that wasn't it, was it? He just didn't want to tease anymore. He didn't want to tease anyone, not like the way he had teased Harry Ruhl. He would sit around his apartment and watch television, maybe go to some movies, maybe spend some time in the library, even buy a VCR and rent things he had always wanted to see. They'd call him back when they were ready to start again, or when somebody was ready to do something with the building. You didn't just desert a piece of real estate like that.

The thought crossed his mind of just going in to the building every day anyway, and puttering around the way he'd always done before, but he dismissed the thought quickly. He didn't mind it when there were other people there, but now that the place was empty, he wasn't sure. It had never bothered him before, but now as he slipped his key into the lock of the stage door, opened it, and stepped into the darkness, he felt funny, as though for the first time in years there was something bad, really bad, in the place, something a lot worse than the ghosts he had scared poor Harry Ruhl with.

He put his hand unerringly on the switch on the wall that turned on the work lights, and pushed it up. The lights flickered on, illuminating the stage, bare except for what looked to Abe like a pile of rags lying near the footlight panels. "What the hell," he muttered as he walked toward it. It was not until he was a few yards away that he saw that it was not a pile of rags, but rather the corpse of Cristina the cat, her neck twisted, her open eyes filmed over. Wastes had come out of her to stain the wood of the stage.

"Aw," Abe said softly as he knelt next to his pet. "Aw, hell.. .” He gently stroked her fur, then pressed his fingers into it to feel the accustomed warmth, but the small body was stiff and cold. "Who'da done this," he asked himself. "Who'da done this to a little cat…” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and cradled the cat, carrying it to the back of the stage wall, where he placed it in a cardboard box. Then he took his mop and bucket and cleaned up the urine and feces, snuffling as he worked. When he was finished, he went upstairs, got the suitcases from the four suites, wheeled them down to the stage door on a trolley, and set them outside, softly crying all the while. Then he picked up the box, walked to the edge of the stage, and looked up and out at the auditorium.

"Whoever did this," he said loudly, "is a motherfucker!" He paused, then went on, louder than before. "Whoever did this…” He thought for a moment. “… is a son of a bitch!"

He looked out over the empty seats, waiting for an answer, a challenge, a voice, but none came.

"Now you know," he said, softer but with no less venom. "You know what you are. Now you goddam well know."

He turned, took his cat out of the theatre, and began to wait for Curt, who would come for the luggage.

That afternoon, Curt and Steinberg went back to New York, Abe Kipp buried Cristina in a wooded area outside of Kirkland, and Dennis Hamilton, after having lunch with Evan and spending the early afternoon by his bedside, did some banking.

He went back and had dinner with his son, and they watched the news and Jeopardy! together, answering questions along with the contestants. Dennis was impressed with the large amount of information the boy had picked up, despite the lack of a college education. When the show was over, Dennis knew the time had come to talk to Evan about what would happen next, but could not bring himself to begin. He was relieved by a doctor who came in, examined Evan, and told them that he would be permitted to leave tomorrow.

When the boy opened his eyes the next morning, Dennis was sitting there next to him. "Good morning," Dennis said.

"Hi."

"Feeling okay?" Evan nodded. "No dreams?"

"None I can remember."

"How's the breathing?"

Evan took in a draught of air, expelled it. "Good."

"Ready to go?" Evan nodded again. "I have something for you then." Dennis reached into his coat pocket and took out a thick envelope. "There's five hundred dollars in cash here. And a checkbook. I opened an account in your name. There will be three thousand dollars a month put in it, which gives you a decent annual income until you decide where you want to go, what you want to do." Evan began to speak, but Dennis held up a hand. "Please, let me finish. Let me say what I need to say, and then you can talk. You can yell if you want to." He looked down at the dull orange carpet of the hospital room floor. "I tried to run your life, Evan, and I'm sorry, I really am. What I'm sorry for the most is that I never got to know you well enough to know what your life should – could – have been, to learn what you wanted out of it, and not what I wanted for you."

Dennis sighed, and rubbed his temple with his fingertips. "This isn't a payoff. This isn't given out of guilt, but out of love. I want to help you be what you want to be, do what you want to do, what's right for you."

Evan was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. "You said that you wanted to take me to New York with you."

"I was wrong. I was being selfish again. I want you to go where you want. You talked about California…” He trailed off.

"Do you want me to go there?"

"It doesn't matter what I want. It's what you want." When he looked up, Evan was staring at him hard.

"Someone's after you, aren't they?" Dennis didn't, couldn't answer. "What you said… I remember now, when I woke up. You asked me if I saw someone like you. Someone who looks like you? Is that it? Is that what all this is about?"

"I… don't know, I -"

The boy's speech was fragmented, as though he was trying to assemble sentences of great semantic complexity. "When I saw you – did you – when you were up – on the catwalk – was that you?"

"Slow down, slow down. When?"

"Weeks ago. I had… gotten mad at you. About Ann. You grabbed me on the catwalk…"

"I didn't."

"… almost threw me over…"

"Evan, I didn't. I would never do that."

"But you did."

"Have I ever done anything to you like that before? Did I ever even spank you?”

“But my God, my God, Dad. Who was it?"

Dennis took a deep breath. "It's going to be hard to believe. But it's the truth. It's the Emperor."

Dennis told Evan everything he knew, everything except what the Emperor said about Sid being Evan's father. "He's done everything. Everyone who died, he was responsible for. He killed them all."

Evan's eyes were dull, as if the truth was too impossible to accept with a clear mind. "That can't be. He can't have done everything you said. Disappear? Make me see… what I saw?"

"I've seen him vanish. So has Ann."

"Hypnosis then. Maybe he hypnotized me too, made me see those things and then made me forget that I ever saw him."

"No hypnosis. He has powers, Evan. Terrible powers. He's been sucking my life away." He looked sharply at his son, as if to impress the truth upon his mind by what little ferocity he could muster. "I made him. I gave him life. And I think the only way to destroy him is the same way I created him. That's why I'm going to play the Emperor again, one final time. To beat him at his own game, get back what's mine, kill him for killing the others."

"How? I don't see how."

"By being a better emperor than he is. By being so real that he has no choice but to consider himself make-believe." He nodded, trying to convince himself that it was all true. "And then he'll die. Then the bastard will die." Dennis sat, exhausted from the emotion he had expended.

Evan said something then, but so softly that Dennis could barely hear him. He looked at him curiously, and the boy repeated it. This time Dennis heard. "I'm coming with you."

"Coming with me? Where?"

"To New York. To wherever you'll do the show, wherever you'll be the Emperor. I've been wrong too, about a lot of things. I'm coming with you. Maybe I can help."

"There's…” Dennis cleared his throat. "We'll be coming back here. Back to the theatre to do the show. That's where he… it is."

"That's all right. I don't know if I can go into the theatre, but I'll do what I can. I want to help. Whether this thing is human or.. . or what you say it is, I want to help catch it."

" Destroy it," Dennis corrected, and Evan, looking, his father thought, like the Marine he had been, nodded.

"Destroy it," Evan said.

~* ~

Early that afternoon, Ann Deems finished packing to go to New York with Dennis. He had called just before noon, and told her that he and Evan would pick her up in his car around three, and that they should arrive in the city that evening.

Ann had just closed the latches of the last suitcase when she turned and saw Terri in the bedroom doorway. "How is he?" she said.

"Who?" They had barely exchanged two words in as many days, and her response was more insecure than curt.

" Evan," Terri asked with studied patience.

"He's fine. Dennis says he's fine now."

Terri nodded. "I'm glad."

Ann looked at her daughter strangely. "I thought you and he were. .. on the outs."

"I don't have to be in love with someone to be glad they're all right, do I?”

“No. No, I'm sorry." Ann lifted the suitcase and set it on the floor.

"Marvella called me last night," Terri said. "She wants me to come to New York and help her costume Empire."

"She's going to do it then."

"Yes. She told me that it's all she has left now. At first she thought she'd give it all up, go somewhere else, the west coast maybe. But then she said she realized that…” Terri paused, spoke more softly. “… that Dennis's little entourage is all the family she has left." Terri shook her head and gave a little snort of embarrassed laughter. "She says she thinks something's wrong, that something or somebody is after Dennis, after all of us maybe. She thinks that whoever it was killed Whitney. And she says she won't be scared off."

"What about you?" Ann said. "Are you scared?"

Terri looked at her mother levelly. "Shitless," she said. "But I want a career."

I want something else too, she thought. Evan. She had nearly died herself when she heard about his attack, and had to restrain herself from jumping in her car and driving to Kirkland to see if he was all right.

He had stuck with her, no matter how she tried to drive him out of her head. After the night they had spent together, she had kept him at arm's length, refusing to go out with him again, going out of her way to avoid him, being unresponsive when he spoke to her, leading him and apparently her mother to think that they were indeed "on the outs."

She had told herself that the only reason she had slept with him in the first place was to annoy her mother and make her relationship with Dennis all the more complex. But there had been more to it than that. Evan was not at all what she had expected. Instead of being a celebrity brat, he had been kind and sweet and thoughtful. In bed he had been more interested in her feelings than his own, and though she had tried to tough it out, to pretend that all she wanted to do was fuck, by the time she went to sleep she knew that they had been making love. She was embarrassed when they woke up and he had his arm around her. She was not used to being cuddled, being held, and although she liked it, that was not what she was there for. She had disengaged herself and dressed before he was even awake. She had refused his offer of breakfast, and had left with barely another word.

But she did not leave so easily. His behavior toward her stayed with her, his initial shyness, then his tenderness. Still, she tried to get him out of her thoughts, her memory, telling herself that her concern for his well-being derived only from compassion. But she knew better. She had never before known love, and now that it had come to her, she feared it even as she desired it.

She hoped he would go to New York. She had almost lost him on the haunted stage of the Venetian Theatre, and she did not want to lose him again.

“… are you going up?"

Her mother's words intruded upon her thoughts. "I'm sorry?"

"When are you going? To New York?"

"I don't know. Sometime next week, I guess. After the funeral. Marvella says I can stay at her place. It's just a few blocks away from the costume shop.”

“Do you… would you want to go up with us?"

"Us?"

"Dennis and Evan and me. They won't be here until three. You'd have time to pack."

Terri shook her head, remembering Dennis in the costume room. "No. Not with Dennis."

"Terri," her mother said, taking her hand. Terri looked down at her hand and her mother's in surprise. They had not touched for a long time. "I'm going to tell you something. And when I do, I just want you to remember that I've never lied to you before."

Ann told her then, an extraordinary story about a double of Dennis Hamilton, an imposter who had been responsible for the deaths, a man who Ann had seen with her own eyes while Dennis was in the same room. "If you were seduced," Ann closed, "that was the man who did it. Not Dennis." She let go of Terri's hand. "Do you believe me?"

Slowly she nodded. "If for no other reason than that no one would tell that involved and crazy a lie." She sat down on the bed. "You know, when I talked to him the next day… he didn't seem to know a thing about it. I thought he was just acting, but maybe he wasn't."

"No. He wasn't. He was terribly upset about it."

"But why didn't he tell someone? Why didn't he tell the police right away?"

"He didn't know at first. The police know now. They're treating it like a celebrity stalker case. And they're right. Someone's trying to destroy Dennis. By harming the people around him."

"Then Sid… and Donna?"

Ann nodded. "This… person killed Donna. Even though the evidence points to Sid."

It was too much to fathom. "My God. My God."

"Come with us," Ann said, a hand on Terri's shoulder. "I don't want you to be alone. You can stay with me at Dennis's suite until after Monday."

She felt unmoored, drifting on a sea of confusion and unreality, but her mother's hand was solid and real. "All right," she said. "All right. I'll go with you."

Dennis and Evan drove into the Deems's drive just after three o'clock in the spacious Lincoln they had rented for the trip, and were surprised to find both Ann and Terri waiting with their luggage. Terri smiled stiffly at both men, as if afraid the expression might crack her face. While Evan helped her take her luggage to the car, Dennis looked questioningly at Ann.

"I told her," she said.

"About the Emperor?"

"Just about a double. She knows it wasn't you who… that night."

He nodded. "Evan knows too. But he knows everything. He's coming along," he said with parental pride. "To help."

"That's good," Ann said. "Things are getting better."

Still, they spoke little in the car. Ann sat up front with Dennis, and Terri and Evan were on either side of the wide back seat. Mostly they discussed A Private Empire. "It'll be a race," Dennis said, "to get it ready in time. You and Marvella will have quite a job on your hands, Terri. The Empire costumes were disbanded after the last show, so you'll be starting from scratch. Except for my costumes."

"I, uh, don't know," Terri said. "That might be a problem."

"A problem?"

"Your dress uniform? The red one? It kept getting misplaced," Terri explained. "Marvella would find it on one rack, then another, and now… we can't find it at all."

They stopped for dinner at a cafeteria on the New Jersey Turnpike. No one recognized Dennis. They spent a half hour backed up at the Lincoln Tunnel, and finally arrived at Dennis's East 85th Street apartment building just before nine o'clock. Dennis had not been there since before Robin died, but John Steinberg, with Dennis's approval, had had Robin's clothes and most of her personal possessions put in storage until her will was administered.

When Dennis walked into the foyer of the apartment, the others behind him, he was struck as never before with Robin's presence. The apartment had been as much hers as his, and he was reminded of her wherever his glance turned. There was the vase with the pussy willows she had bought in Paris, the Picasso etching she had given him for his birthday four years ago. She was everywhere. Her clothes may have been gone, but Robin, poor seduced Robin, whose only sin was loving him too well, was still there, an inescapable and ineffable spirit of the place. He could not help but feel that bringing Ann there was a betrayal.

Still, he ushered in his guests, and asked Evan, whose own room was still filled with his boyhood things, to show Terri to Sid's room. He took Ann to a small guest suite. "You may stay here until Terri leaves, if you'd rather," he said, taking her hand.

"That would probably be best," she said, nodding. "It won't be long. Besides, we've got all the time in the world."

He smiled and kissed her, then went to the spacious and memory-haunted bedroom he had shared with Robin, and lay awake for a long time. Robin's sweet and suffocating presence was part of it, but it was also excitement that would not let him sleep.

He was getting ready, his little army was behind him, no one had deserted. John, Curt, Marvella, Ann, Terri, even Evan, thank God, even his son. And most of them knew, if not the specifics of the creature they would help him fight, at least that there was a creature worth fighting, worth destroying for what he had done to so many they all loved.

When Dennis slept, he did so without dreaming. But when he awoke, and his eyes opened to the bedroom wall with its airy bamboo bookcase next to the small O'Keefe watercolor, his sleep-drugged mind assumed that it was years before, before everything bad had happened, and he turned toward where Robin would naturally have been, to hold her and kiss her good morning.

He cried softly when she was not there, when he had to remember all the things that had come after their last embrace in that bed. Even the thought of Ann did not stop his tears, and when the last of them had been wiped away, he whispered to the Emperor, "There, you bastard. I can still cry. I can still feel, can't I?"

It was Sunday, and after a breakfast made by Evan and Terri, he sent them and Ann outside and into the park to observe the signs of approaching spring, while he took down the battered set of sides of A Private Empire, and began to review his lines.

They were as familiar to him as his own name, his address, his social security number, and were nearly as dull. God, he thought, how can I make this alive again? I thought I was done with this, done with it because, let's face it, it didn't mean much to me anymore, because I felt my performances slipping…

And they were, weren't they? Slipping away to that bastard, to the Emperor. Slipping away from me because I had made him.

No. Get it back. Read it. Aloud.

He stood, struck the immaturely imperious pose that had caused millions to chuckle, and began.

" God! This is your servant, Prince Karl Frederick Augustus, soon to be Emperor Karl Frederick Augustus. And still, of course, your servant. I suspect that, of Europe's other monarchs, very few – if any – are praying at this moment. Therefore, since kings rule by divine right, as the more superstitious of us are apt to believe, I ask you to shut your ears to the peasantry and give me your undivided attention. It will not take long. Please.'"

Call on God indeed, thought Dennis. It will take at least God for me to bring life to that line. How many times have I said it? Hundreds certainly. Thousands undoubtedly.

He had never figured out how many performances of A Private Empire he had done, but the weight of them over the years sat heavily on him now, an infinite accumulation of words, songs, gestures. He tossed down the sides and sat down at the piano, picking out the introduction to "The Awful Thing About a King," his first musical number, a humorous patter song in which the soon-to-be emperor sings about his concerns, not over ruling a country, but taking a bride.

It was the first time he had sung in many months, and his voice sounded, he thought, weak. The low notes were tentative in tone, the higher ones unsure of pitch. His facility as well had suffered greatly from the lack of practice. Perhaps Dex Colangelo could help him as he had helped him before. Yes. Of course he could. The voice was rusty, that was all. With work, with practice, it would come back as strong as it ever was. And so would the acting. Everything would come back. Everything.

Everything except Robin. And Donna. And Whitney, and Tommy, and Harry Ruhl.

"Oh, you bastard," he whispered, bringing his hands down on the keyboard to produce a brash and angry cluster of notes. "I will beat you, you bastard."

At nine-thirty the next morning Dennis went to the building on Broadway and 54th where John Steinberg still retained an office for use when he was in the city. Steinberg's expression was weary, there were dark pouches beneath his eyes, and his suit was unaccustomedly rumpled. The first thing he said when he saw Dennis was, "Did you bring Ann along?"

"Not right now. But she's here in the city. Why?"

"Because I need her. I am up to my bulbous ass in work, Dennis, and, although I've accomplished a great deal by making phone calls all weekend and thereby annoying a great many agents, I have still more to do."

"Call her," Dennis said. "She's at my place."

"Excellent. Now, I suppose you'd like to know where we stand." He leaned back in his leather chair, steepled his fingers, and smiled. "We begin rehearsals at the Minskoff in two days."

"Wednesday?" Dennis said, amazed.

"Wednesday. It is indeed remarkable what an unlimited budget can do. I posted the bond with Equity Friday afternoon, the principals are all cast except for the villainous Kronstein. The way things worked out, they're all people who have done the show with us before, either here or in one of the road companies. And Dex and Quentin are putting the chorus together. They got half of them over the weekend."

"Who's playing Lise?"

"Kelly Sears. Pleased?"

"Delighted. I always thought she was the best of them. But no Kronstein.”

“No. Sam Reynolds is on tour with Me and My Girl, and Harry Barnes is about to open in the new Lloyd Webber show at the Kennedy Center."

"What about Andy Sims?" Dennis said.

Steinberg frowned. "Andy died. Three weeks ago. AIDS."

"God. I didn't even know he was sick."

"He kept it quiet. And we've had our own crosses to bear."

"So what will we do about a Kronstein? Audition?"

"Yes. Tomorrow afternoon. The agents know that he has to bear a striking resemblance to you. You wouldn't happen to have a twin I don't know about, would you?… What is it?"

"Nothing."

"You went pale for a moment," Steinberg said.

"I'm fine, fine." Dennis cleared his throat. "How did you get a studio at the Minskoff on such short notice?"

"Well, I've given you the good news, now it's time for the bad. There was, as I'm sure you realize, no space available. Not at the Minskoff, not at Bennett's, nowhere. There was, however, a show rehearsing that was, shall we say, in financial straits. So I made the producers a proposition. In exchange for their delaying their show for three and a half weeks, which is our required rehearsal time here in the city, we would help to finance their show to the tune of… well, perhaps I should give you the figure later. It's rather depressing, particularly when you realize their show is a musical version of The Divine Comedy. Overreaching, in my opinion. They welcomed the hiatus, in fact. I believe they want to give the book a bit of a polish. So we have both studio rooms they were using – one for chorus rehearsals, the other for principals."

"I didn't think you could do it so quickly, John. You're wonderful."

"I am indeed. And now it's your turn to be wonderful. Starting Wednesday.”

“How did people react," Dennis asked slowly, "when you asked them? I mean, was there any hesitance because of what's happened? All the tabloid stories and everything?"

Steinberg shook his head. "Not a bit. Everyone seemed very happy to be doing the show again, and not just because of what we're paying them. Now my job is to fill the house. But even if I do, it's a losing proposition. This is costing you a fortune, Dennis. Please note that I didn't say a small fortune. I mean a regular sized, Swiss bank account type fortune. No less."

"It doesn't matter." Dennis thought of the funeral then. "Are you still going to Whitney's funeral?" Steinberg nodded. "Did you send flowers from us?"

"No, a contribution to a children's hospital in lieu. A generous one. I did hear, however, from Marvella's daughter's lawyer on Saturday. He's thinking of bringing a wrongful death suit against us. Apparently because of our lack of security."

"That's the least of my worries," Dennis said.

"What's the greatest of your worries, Dennis?" Steinberg said.

Dennis sat looking into his friend's face. "Too many to enumerate, John," he finally said.

They found their Kronstein, the Emperor's bastard half-brother, at the next day's auditions. His name was Wallace Drummond, although he preferred to be called Drummy. At his agent's urging he had flown up from Florida, where he was playing Curly in a dinner theatre production of Oklahoma, and sang Kronstein's big number, "Take What Is Mine," in a fine baritone voice. Dex approved of him vocally, and he read well. Quentin felt his dancing was "less than terpsichorean perfection," but since Kronstein did not have to dance, other than a waltz with Maria, his mistress and the Emperor's intended bride, he had no real problem. "He's a mover-weller," Quentin said. "I can get him into shape."

Drummy's appearance was his main selling point. Although he was slightly older than Dennis, he was approximately the same height and build, and with his hair dyed red and makeup covering the crow's feet, the resemblance would be close enough on stage. And when the false beard and moustache were put on in the final scene, when Kronstein tries to announce to the populace the Emperor's betrothal to the evil Maria, the expected success of the subterfuge would be believable enough. It was, after all, a show.

Terri moved out of Dennis's apartment and into Marvella's flat at the Dakota on Tuesday evening, and that night Ann slept in Dennis's bedroom. The windows overlooked Central Park, and when they woke in the morning, Dennis pushed a button by the bed and the curtains opened silently on smooth tracks, revealing a bright, clear morning.

"It's beautiful," Ann said. "An omen for the first day of rehearsal?"

"Maybe," Dennis said, holding her tight, afraid to get up, afraid to go to the studio and try and perform and direct. "Maybe." He had never believed in omens before, but there were other things that he had not believed in either, and he knew now that they were real. Perhaps, he thought, he should believe in good omens too.

Rehearsals began at ten o'clock. The chorus and dancers were in the larger studio A, the principals in B. The studio was much as Dennis remembered it, large and white, ballet bars running down the wall of windows that looked across at the buildings in the next street. On the opposite wall was secured an unbroken expanse of mirrors. Several formica-covered pedestal tables sat here and there, as did twenty or so folding chairs. Curt had the lines of the stage floor laid down with masking tape, and tape numbers ran across what represented the front of the stage, with 0 at stage center, and 1 through 8 on either side of center.

The part of Act I, Scene 1 with Rolf and Inga had been scheduled for blocking from ten to eleven. Dennis guided the actor and actress through the scene, using the stage directions from the old prompt book that had served them through the revivals and several tours. Curt remained by his side, deciphering some of the directions that had been penciled and red-penciled into near obscurity. When they reached the song, Dex played, and Rolf and Inga, who had both performed their roles before, sang the song, using the actions they vaguely remembered from their past performances.

When the song was over, Bill Miley, the actor playing Rolf, shook his head. "Dennis," he said, "we did some comic business in the second verse that never got into the prompt book. Do you remember what it was, something about her sitting on my lap, and my hand's there, and she jumped or something?"

Dennis licked his lips, looked down at the stage floor and tried to remember. Something funny, but what was it? He recalled the audience laughing somewhere in the song, not too long a laugh for fear they would miss the lyrics, but a laugh…

"No, I… I don't remember."

"Maybe we could come up with something," Miley said.

It was a plea for direction, and Dennis paused, trying to think of something funny, but nothing would come. He stood there for what seemed like hours, before Dex finally spoke.

"I think it was halfway through the second chorus, Bill. It was on the line, 'And bump, with a thump, all the sparks fly.’”

Miley snapped his fingers. "Right! I remember – it was a little pat right when she…"

They worked it out while Dennis watched. He felt lost as they blocked it, confused when they laughed at how the action went with the music. Was it funny? he wondered. Had he ever laughed at that before? Had he ever, he wondered sadly, laughed at anything?

Later in the morning Kelly Sears arrived. It was the first time Dennis had seen her since Robin's funeral. She kissed him, then pulled out her copy of the sides, ready to work. They began rehearsing Act I, Scene 3, in which Lise first meets the Emperor in the forest without knowing who he really is. Curt called the blocking as they went, and Kelly glanced only occasionally at her set of sides, remembering her lines of many months before. Dennis, on the other hand, kept his eyes glued to his sides. Although he had played the role thousands of times, the words seemed only mildly familiar now, and he stammered several times per page.

Dennis knew that his reading was flat and lifeless as well as hesitant, yet he could do nothing about it. The more he tried to put emotion and life into the lines, the duller they sounded. He noticed with dismay that Kelly, who had begun the rehearsal with the perfect touch of feminine boldness that the character of Lise, the bright and lovely peasant girl, demanded, was now responding to his mood, and by the time the scene was blocked, both of them were murmuring their lines as though they were on Quaaludes.

Dex played the introduction to the song, "Someone Like You," but Dennis waved him to silence. "Let's break for lunch," he said, and the cast slowly filed out. Kelly put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it lightly. "A little rusty?"

"Rusted shut," Dennis said with a weak smile.

"Don't worry. It comes back."

"I hope so. But do something for me, Kelly."

"What?"

"Don't hold back. Don't go flat to try and make me look better. Because that way we both look like shit."

"Dennis -"

"I know what you were doing, and I appreciate the thought. But the only way I'm going to come to life is if you and the other actors do. So don't patronize me. Challenge me."

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm sorry. You're right. But you'll pick up, old bear. You always have."

"Kelly," Dennis said, "tell me something. The last year of our tour. Was I as good as at the beginning?"

Her face seemed to narrow as she thought. "You were different," she said. "Your voice was as good as ever, and your scenes with me were fine. But at the end of the first act, and later, after Kronstein and Kruger kill Lise, there wasn't as much…”

"As much strength?"

She nodded. "Maybe. Or 'command' is more like it. I mean, your sensitivity played fine, just like always, I really felt that, and sympathized. But where you're supposed to become the Emperor – in the scene with Count Rinehart? – it was the words more than your manner that offended him, and it has to be both for the scene to really work." She gave a self-conscious smile. "I'm sorry, old bear, but you asked me."

"I did. And I value your telling me the truth so much that I'm taking you to lunch."

"If I tell you your singing stunk, will you take me to dinner?"

Dennis had two drinks with lunch. They relaxed him enough so that he didn't try so hard that afternoon, and his readings were better, although nowhere near performance level. Kelly, true to her word, let out all the stops, and her believable display of constructed emotion seemed to spur Dennis on. Three more scenes were blocked that afternoon. Although what Dennis did could have generously been called acting, he did very little that could have been called directing.

That evening he poured out his frustration to Ann and Evan as they sat at the table in his dining room. "I couldn't seem to feel a thing," he said. "And as far as directing went, there wasn't a thing I could offer. What was funny, what was sad, what movements, what gestures to use – the well was dry."

"You can't worry about it," Ann said. "It'll be there when you need it to be.”

“I need it to be now. I'll never be able to… face it otherwise."

"Then get mad," Evan said.

"What?"

"Get mad. That's what my drill instructor tried to make me do when I was supposed to head my squad. I guess he figured that if I got mad, then I wouldn't be afraid."

"The Marine equivalent of whistling a happy tune, eh? Did it work?"

Evan shook his head. "I couldn't do it. Not with all those eyes on me. I tried to get mad, mad at them, mad at myself for being such a. .. such a wimp. It didn't work. I'd get the attacks. Couldn't talk, after a while couldn't breathe. But it might work for you."

"It might," Dennis agreed. "If something would make me mad. I don't think I can do it on my own."

On Friday afternoon Ann and Evan came in to the rehearsal to see if Dennis's performance in rehearsals was as bad as he had thought. They quickly discovered that it was. During a break, Dennis went to the larger studio where Quentin and Randy, his assistant, were rehearsing the chorus. Dennis signaled to Quentin, who called a five and went with Dennis into the comparative privacy of the hall.

"I want you to direct," Dennis told him, "not just choreograph."

"Why?"

"Because I can't. You've sat in, you've seen the scenes. I can't bring a damn thing to them, Quentin. Can you do it?"

He thought for a moment, then nodded. "Randy can bring the chorus the rest of the way. But first I want you to do something for me." He put a hand on Dennis's shoulder and looked at him with sad and ancient eyes that had seen too much weary death. "I want you to see a doctor."

Dennis gruffly shook off Quentin's hand. "I don't need a doctor, there's nothing wrong with -"

" Listen to me. I have seen friends by the dozens wither away and die, Dennis. And Christ knows I hate to say it, but they started the same way you are – pale, tired, as though the life's being sucked out of them. Now are you keeping something from me?"

"Are you asking me if I have AIDS?"

"Maybe. Or maybe something else. I do think you're sick. Now I know Phillips at Mt. Sinai, and she's the best internist in the city. I want you to have every fucking test known to man, and I want to find out what's wrong with you."

"There's nothing wrong with me. Nothing physical."

"Then prove it to me."

Dennis looked at him for a long time before he nodded. "All right. Set up the appointment. They can take all the blood, shit, and piss they want. They can stick tubes up me and X-ray me until my hair falls out. Just direct this show. Now."

Quentin immediately walked to the pay phone down the hall, made a brief call, and returned. "Monday," he said. "You're in at seven, be there most of the day. All right?"

Dennis shrugged. "I'll do as much good there as I will here. You've got a cast waiting for you."

After Quentin explained the situation to Randy, he followed Dennis into the studio in which the principals were rehearsing. Dennis said only that Quentin rather than himself would be directing the show, and offered no explanation. As he had assumed, none was necessary, and the day wore on.

At four o'clock Terri arrived at the studio to take Kelly Sear's costume measurements. She smiled at Evan as she came in and again as she went out. He followed her and found that she was waiting for him.

"I wanted to see you," she said. "I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. For being such a bitch." She smiled. "Did I need to add that?"

"You were a little… aloof. I didn't know what I did wrong."

"You didn't do anything. I was a little confused, that's all. I was mad at you for something that… that wasn't your fault. And I just wanted to apologize."

Evan nodded. "Apology accepted. How's Marvella doing?"

"She's fine. I don't think she likes having a roommate much, though. She's really depressed about… what happened to Whitney. It might have been better if she was alone for a while."

"I doubt it," Evan said. "Staying busy will be good for her. Help her forget.”

“She'll never forget." For the first time Evan saw tears in the girl's eyes. They seemed out of place there. "None of us will."

He held her then while she cried, and her body molded itself into his. "What's happening?" she whispered. "What's happening? Who's doing these things? And why?"

"I don't know, Terri. But we'll get him. We will."

Scene 5

Everyone involved with the show welcomed Sunday like a lover. They slept late, dined late, tried for several hours to banish the thought of the Empire of Waldmont and its fictions from their minds. Then some picked up sides and studied, or sat down at pianos in their apartments and plunked out tunes, or pushed back chairs and reviewed steps.

Evan Hamilton and Terri Deems had lunch together and then went to the new Woody Allen film. John Steinberg woke up, watched John Ford's Red River on his VCR while he ate a large and nourishing breakfast, then spent the rest of the day reading the Sunday Times and a T.V. Olsen western novel. Curtis Wynn and the young woman he had been dating on and off for several years woke up at noon, made love again, and went back to sleep. Marvella Johnson went to church in the morning, had lunch with some friends at their apartment, and then went back to her place, where she turned on the television and stared at the screen for several hours. If anyone would have asked her what she had seen, she would not have been able to tell them.

That afternoon, Dennis and Ann walked arm in arm through Central Park. There was a light drizzle, and they huddled together under a wide umbrella, more for the human contact than to keep the thin sheen of rain off their heads and shoulders. The air was warm for March, and here and there crocuses pushed from between the rocks by the side of the paths, their bright purples and yellows like miniature torches in the gray mist.

Dennis slowed down as they reached a bench. "Let's sit down a minute," he said.

Ann wiped the moisture from the wood with a handkerchief. "You're tired.”

“A little." They sat and Dennis lowered the umbrella. "It's stopped raining.”

“How do you feel? Really?"

"Terribly tired. I have no energy at all. All I want to do is just lie down and sleep. It's draining away, Ann. My life. The son of a bitch is taking it. He's back there in Kirkland, but somehow he's still taking it."

"You could be sick, you know," she told him, almost wanting to believe it. At least sickness was something that could be either fought or accepted. At this point, the Emperor allowed for neither. "We'll know better tomorrow."

"They won't find a thing," Dennis predicted. "My blood will be fine, there will be no tumors, no sites of infection. Blood pressure will be normal, and there will be not a trace of cancer. The test for AIDS antibodies will be negative." He smiled crookedly. "I won't even have so much as a cold."

He put his head back. The rain had begun again, a fine mist, and he closed his eyes and let his mouth fall open as if, she thought, he was about to receive some communion from the heavens. Then he closed it and, still looking up, said to her, "They can't see sicknesses of the soul."

He was right. They could not. The following day, after an evening in which he fasted and a night in which he purged himself with castor oil and Fleet enemas, he submitted himself to the ministrations of the doctors. Despite his apathy, some of the procedures were painful enough to make him cry out, and he welcomed the pain, welcomed anything that could make him feel, react, show an honest and unforced emotion.

At the end of the day, when he was dressed and feeling only dull aches, the weak memory of pains suffered rather than their sharp reality, the doctor told him that neither she nor all the vast machines of Mt. Sinai could find anything physically wrong with him, and suggested therapy to see if his condition could be of a psychosomatic nature. He declined the offer.

On Monday the rest of the cast had rehearsed in Dennis's absence, and now that he had returned, they still rehearsed in his absence. Dennis was there, they all felt, in body only.

He grew paler and thinner as the days passed. Those who had lunch with him saw him eat, but could see no trace of the nourishment in his flesh. Even his singing voice, that wonder of regularity whose lack of failure had never caused him to miss a performance, was growing weak. The notes were always there and on pitch without cracking, but their fullness had diminished to heard shadows of what they had been. Kelly and the others who shared scenes with him tried desperately to draw the Emperor of old out of him, but with no success. They worked around him.

Many of them had rehearsed shows like this before, star vehicles for music theatres in which the lead, usually a TV celebrity, came in for the final run-through, and was represented in early rehearsals by an assistant stage manager who carried the book, read the lines lifelessly, and walked through the movements like a trained zombie. It was little better than acting with a puppet. Only in this case the puppet was a performer who had won two Tony Awards and the applause and respect of the theatre world.

Ann Deems did what she could for Dennis. She encouraged him, admonished him, seldom left his side, lived with him, made love to him, and loved him. His reciprocating love, she thought, seemed the only real thing about him anymore.

When she met him at the studio at the end of the day's rehearsal, he showed more life than he did at any other time. Still, she thought

"He's dying, John. I really think he is."

Steinberg quickly looked up from the papers they had been about to go over, as if surprised at the unexpected comment. "They said he was all right at the hospital.”

“But he seems so weak, and getting weaker."

"I know. But too, I know Dennis. I've known him for a much longer period of time than you, my dear, despite your recent relationship. And there were times he was absolutely dreadful in rehearsals – disinterested, bored, lifeless -"

"But ever as bad as this?"

Steinberg sat back in his chair, folded his hands upon his generous lap, and looked up at the ceiling, as if his memory dwelt there. "No," he said. "I'll concede that. No. But the situation… all the deaths, the loss." He sighed. "Robin… Whitney… Donna …”

Steinberg sighed, and Ann knew that he was remembering the woman who had worked with him for so many years. Their own relationship had improved considerably in the past month, and she thought that Steinberg might be trying to turn her into a replacement for Donna.

Steinberg jerked his head down. "He'll change once he gets on a stage. And when he finally has an audience… well, you'll see. We'll have the old Dennis back again. We'll have the Emperor, by God." A shiver ran through her at the intensity of his grin. "But enough of this. I can only say don't worry about him. You're good for him, Ann. He needs you. And he'll be all right. Now our job is to make sure that the evening of the performance is everything that he wants it to be."

She nodded. "I'm sorry. Sometimes it just gets to me. I worry that he won't… have it."

"He'll have it. And we'll have one hell of an audience. I've got the donations to date here. At $5000 a seat, we'll be filling the Venetian Theatre to capacity.”

“John, that's incredible!"

"Not so incredible when you think about it. Only about half of these names are our prior investors. The others are all from news services, magazines, television stations… both Geraldo and Sally will be there."

The truth hit her then. "My God, because of what happened… and -“

“Because of what might happen again, yes, you're right. The vultures are out in force, hoping for a show beyond the show."

"You can't let them, John."

"I can't stop them, Ann. Their money is as good as anyone else's. But understand, nothing will happen beyond the show. Backstage will be filled with cast and crew, and we will have security people en masse. There will be no opportunity for what happened to Tommy Werton. These news hounds will see a musical, nothing more. And the publicity this will bring the project is something that no money can buy. I confess I hadn't thought of that angle when Dennis said he wanted to do Empire again."

"But it seems so ghoulish…”

"What's ghoulish about playing A Private Empire? Some people may have a morbid reason for coming, but that's their problem. They'll soon learn that if they want to see Grand Guignol, they had best go to Paris. They won't see it here. No, Ann, the only thing they will see on that stage is the, shall I say, transformation of Dennis Hamilton." Steinberg's eyes got very small, and he leaned across the desk toward her. "Why is he doing it, Ann? He hasn't told me."

"Maybe he thought you were right about it, and changed his mind."

"It's not that. It happened after Evan had his attack. Why does he want to do it? What good does he think it will do?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

"I won't do that. I have never… pried into his affairs. He's told me much without my asking, and I don't want that to change."

"Maybe he thinks," Ann said slowly, "that this is something you'd have trouble accepting."

"Perhaps I would. But I would try."

"I'm sorry, John. Just know that he believes that it's for the best. And I believe it too. If it works, if what's supposed to happen happens, it will change things. End things."

"The killings."

She paused. Had she said too much? John was such a materialist, how could he believe in the reality of the Emperor?

"Is he trying to… draw this person out?"

"In a way," she said. "Or maybe drive him away."

"If what Chief Munro thinks is true, that could be very dangerous.”

“It could be more dangerous for Dennis to do nothing."

"Ann, I want to know -"

" John," she said, interrupting him, "please. I can't tell you any more." And she did not.

In the middle of the last week in New York, Sybil Creed dropped in to the rehearsal. By now, the chorus was working together with the principals, and Quentin was directing Act II, Scene 7, the last scene, in which the Emperor Frederick, having slain Kronstein in a duel, speaks to his people, telling them that if he is killed leading his army against Wohlstein to restore the usurped King Fritz to the throne, the people of Waldmont should be his heirs and rule through a democracy.

When the speech was over and a five was called, Sybil walked up to Dennis, who smiled and dutifully kissed her cheek. He had not seen her since the night of Tommy Werton's death, as she had been in Europe for several months running an acting seminar.

"That was shit, son," were the first words out of her mouth. Dennis gave a small laugh. "And that laugh," she went on, "should be called self-deprecating, because if I've ever seen an actor with a reason to deprecate himself, it's you today."

"Do you want to continue to lambast me here in front of my cast," Dennis said, "or would you rather take me outside to the woodshed?"

"How long is your break?"

"Only five, but they're doing a scene I'm not in."

"Fine," said Sybil. "Take me out for a drink. After seeing the garbage you were just spewing, I need one."

"All right," Dennis said, taking his jacket from the back of a chair and waving to Curt to let him know he was leaving. "But please don't hesitate to tell me what you really think."

Sybil's sharp line of a mouth curled. "Very good. Was that irony? God knows there was more spark in it than in that watery speech you just gave." She offered her arm, Dennis took it, and they walked out.

When they were comfortably settled in a booth at Joe Allen's, with drinks in front of them, Sybil took Dennis's right hand in both of hers and squeezed it. "I heard about you," she said, "but I didn't believe it. You're the talk of Broadway, Dennis dear. The only performer living whose talent has not only deserted him, but has apparently sued for alimony as well. Rumor has it that you've had to sign over half your brain cells. True?"

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like you're some goddamned apprentice at the worst non-Equity dinner theatre in South Dakota, for Christ's sake. What is the matter with you? Did you forget how to fool the nice people?"

He shrugged. "Did I ever know?"

"Of course you knew, don't be fatuous. You could never fool me, but you fooled the others well enough. And I hate to see a charlatan lose his skill. You may have to actually learn to act, Dennis." She threw back half her drink and shuddered. "Now that I've bawled you out for no longer being able to do what I always felt you shouldn't anyway, let me tell you how sorry I am over everything that's happened. You have had a hill full of crosses to bear." She put back her head and looked down the long bridge of her nose at him. "I assume that's what's been the cause of this… performing debacle?"

"In a way."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"Try to… find it again. The performance."

"And where might you be looking? Outside? All around? In the movies? Under cabbage leaves?"

He shook his head. "Inside."

"Inside. Will wonders never cease." She shook her head in mock amazement, then plunged it toward him like a hawk attacking a vole. "Well, you'd damn well better find it, my friend. Because you are no more than an object of pity right now. You've got how long till the big night?"

"A little over two weeks."

"I'd recommend some sessions, but I don't think you'll have time. So perhaps you wouldn't mind if I gave you some advice?"

"Sybil, at this point I'd take acting advice from Vanna White."

"Oh, thank you so much for the compliment."

"You know what I mean. I've always admired your work, even when I haven't agreed with the principles behind it."

"Meaning that you do now?"

His only reaction was a shrug.

"It's hard for an old dog to learn new tricks, isn't it, Dennis? But I'll tell you what I think, and you can take it for what it's worth. Maybe it'll help you. Maybe you'll decide that you do want to try being a tree and letting your branches blow in the fucking wind." She took another sip of her drink. "I've said it before and I'll say it again. All your life you've been afraid to drop the mask and confront yourself. You've worked with technique alone, and in that way you've protected yourself from the truth – both bad and good – about Dennis Hamilton. Your emotions have been only constructed artifice, and it's only when you confront your true emotions, emotions expressed sincerely, that you will give a truly great performance. Working with a series of constructs, as you've been doing for your entire career, is not the way to bring real life to a character."

Dennis began to laugh. It started out slow and soft and gentle, then increased in volume and became a series of rattling bursts that filled the room. His eyes squeezed shut and tears emerged from their inner corners. The attack slowly diminished to weak, panting sobs, and he waved his hands in the air feebly in apology.

"Well," Sybil said in a voice as chilled and dry as her martini, "I'm glad you still find my beliefs so amusing."

"It's… I'm sorry, it's not that, Sybil, I just… things have been stranger than you can imagine, and…”He paused. There was no way he could tell her the truth. "I'm sorry. Really. I won't laugh again."

"Do," she said, getting stiffly to her feet. "At least it's an emotion, and it's real." She spat her curtain line, "And that's more than I've seen from you in years," and left him sitting alone.

God damn it, he thought. She was so close in one way, so far in another. Despite what Sybil said, it was precisely the strength of his dramatic constructions that had brought his character to life, and to a hateful, violent life at that. But she was right in that it was only by the strength of his own emotions, at least those he still had left, that he would bring those he had lost to the Emperor back again.

And make his soul complete.

Scene 6

That night, after his calamitous discussion with Sybil Creed, Dennis had a variant of the Actor's Nightmare. He was standing on the stage of the Venetian Theatre, dressed in the full regalia of the Emperor Frederick. Richard Reynolds, the actor who played the role of the Peasant Leader in the 1966 production of A Private Empire, was with him on stage. Dennis knew that he had just pardoned the man from being a spy and made him a retainer, for Richard said:

– Would to God my Emperor were as decent as you. I'll serve you well, majesty. My life for yours -

And then he turned and left the stage, leaving Dennis with the knowledge that he was in a dream, for Richard had been dead for fifteen years, beaten to death by a burglar.

In reality, Dennis would have known his lines, his lyrics, his movements, but in the dream, and knowing that it was a dream, he did not. That knowledge did nothing, however, to lessen his panic. All he knew beyond the fact of the dream was that he did not know. He heard the music begin, and remembered dimly that the song was called "A Land Where We Can Love," but could recall none of the lyrics, did not remember how the song began, where he should be on the stage.

The introduction seemed to bubble on forever, pushing him closer to that moment when he would be expected to open his mouth and sing, and in desperation he crossed the stage, slapping his hands behind his back, wondering if he was past the point in the show where that gesture was first used. Striding to the stage right curtains he peered into the wings in hopes of seeing the prompter, but saw not even the dim light that guided the actors off stage. There was nothing there but darkness, a thick, inky blackness that seemed even more terrible than his fate were he to remain on stage until the time came for him to sing the song he did not know.

The introduction was finally coming to its end, and Dennis turned back toward the audience, his dream-self trembling. The upbeat was coming, and he opened his mouth, thinking that perhaps if he just began to sing, the right words would come out. After all, he had sung them thousands of times, they should, damn it, be there. They were not. The accompaniment of the unseen orchestra below him in the pit droned on, and he stood there, his mouth opening and closing, no words coming out, no song filling the air. The music got softer and softer, making his failure all the more obvious. What must they think of him? he wondered. They must think him a fool. And then, as if in universal agreement, they started to laugh.

Dennis recognized the laughter. It was the laughter of thousands laughing with one voice.

And the voice was that of the Emperor.

Then all the stage lights exploded into brightness, and in their glow Dennis saw row upon row of Dennis Hamiltons, of Emperors, of himself and of the beast, going back and out and up into the air, and the rows had no end, the theatre had no ceiling, and the world was girdled with images of himself, images with madness in their eyes, madness that seeped into his soul even as they stole that same soul away.

He woke up sweating, his stomach a churning pit of fire, his spine a rope of ice, and remembered waking up next to Robin after the other nightmares. But he wasn't next to Robin now. He was next to Ann, and the sounds of his awakening had not pierced the armor of her sleep. He listened to her breathing softly in the dark, the sound coming around the edges of the pounding of his own heart.

He thought he must have woken up quietly then, without a cry or a sudden motion. Of course. A cry would have taken emotion, wouldn't it? And though he felt it, it seemed as though his days of expressing it were far behind.

Lying in bed then, after the nightmare, he decided to call Ally Terrazin. She was the only person he knew who was serious about what the rest of his friends and acquaintances had regarded as silly. Perhaps, he thought, smiling inwardly as his self-perceived foolishness, Ranthu or Ramcharger, or whatever that damn thing's name was, could help. Dennis's skepticism toward the occult had taken a terrific beating.

He called her the next day at the lunch break, hoping she would be up by nine o'clock Pacific time. She was.

"Hello, Ally?"

"Dennis? Is that you?" Ally sounded, Dennis thought, just as perky and bouncy and unrelievedly west coast as she always did.

"Yes."

"God, how are you?"

"I'm… all right."

"Dennis, I'm so sorry about everything. I sent you cards, did you get them?"

He didn't know whether he had or not. "Yes. Thank you."

"I would've written, but I had two films back to back, just finished the second one. It shot in Spain. So how are you?" she asked for the second time.

"Fine, Ally. Listen, I wonder if you could give me some help."

"Sure. Oh, hey, I can't come to your show, though. I start another movie on the 24th, isn't that great?"

"I'm glad to hear you're keeping busy. But look, you remember when we talked about… was it Ranthu? The night… Tommy Werton was killed?"

"Ranthu, yeah?"

"Well, I might have a job for… Ranthu. I want him to find out if, well, if there's anything in the theatre when we go back next week."

"Anything. What, you mean like a presence? Like energy?"

"Yes. I guess so."

"Well, that's really not something that Ranthu handles. I mean you need like a psychic for that. And Bob – he's Ranthu's channeler – he doesn't really do that sort of thing. I think you'd want somebody like Bebe Gonsalves."

"Who's Bebe Gonsalves?"

"Just the best damn psychic in L.A. You want her number?"

"You know her?"

"Oh yeah."

"Are you busy next week?"

"No, why?"

"Would you be willing to bring her to the theatre? Saturday's our last day of rehearsal here before we go back to Kirkland. I could meet you at the theatre on Sunday before rehearsals start down there. Could you fly Ms. Gonsalves out here and stay with her? I'll pay you all expenses plus whatever you want."

"Expenses are fine, but I'll come just to see you again. Besides, you're gonna pay through the nose for Bebe. She doesn't come cheap." She paused for a moment. "Dennis, what is it? What do you think is there?"

He lied. "I don't know, Ally. But I've exhausted all human explanations. So maybe there's a supernatural one."

They talked for a while longer, and then hung up. Dennis felt stupid speaking seriously of psychics, and particularly of Ranthu, but a year ago he would have felt stupid speaking of doppelgangers. He just didn't want to go back into the theatre blind. He had no idea what the Emperor had in store for him. Would it be stronger now? Or would all human absence from the building have weakened it, perhaps even to the point of nonexistence? Was his inability to act the result of the Emperor's draining away his strength, or was it purely psychological?

They were questions that had to be answered, questions that were plaguing him now even in his sleep. "Inquiring minds want to know," he said softly to himself, then headed back into the studio.

The Kirkland Hotel was barely prepared for the onslaught. Fifty cast members, fifteen crew people, and assorted spouses and lovers began to check in on Saturday evening and continued to do so until after midnight on Sunday. The original thought of lodging them in the Venetian Theatre building had been abandoned, as there was no time to prepare the largely unfurnished rooms and suites for occupancy, and, even if there had been, many of the party were nervous enough about rehearsing and performing in what they held to be, if not cursed, then at least a haunted theatre.

Dennis, Ann, Evan, and Terri drove down together Saturday after the last New York rehearsal. The route to the Kirkland Hotel did not pass the theatre building, for which all four were grateful. It was dark by the time they drove up the winding road to the hotel, a large Victorian hulk of a building that had originally been a sanitarium where David Kirk's mineral water was the main remedy. It sat on a hill overlooking the town, and when Dennis got out of the car he could not help but look down and see the complex that housed the Venetian Theatre. The lamps that lit the parking lot tinted the building with red, so that its dark spine of a roof shone through the evening mist like that of some giant, gleaming beast waiting to come to life, to rise and to strike.

When they entered the hotel, there was a message from Ally Terrazin at the front desk. She and Bebe Gonsalves would arrive at the theatre at eleven o'clock the next morning, and hoped Dennis could meet them there. Exhausted and apprehensive, he fell asleep in Ann's arms. If he had dreams, he could not remember them in the morning.

By the time he and Ann had a small room service breakfast and read the Sunday Times, it was time to meet Ally and Bebe Gonsalves. On their way through the lobby, they ran into John Steinberg, who asked them where they were off to. When they told him they were going to the theatre, he frowned.

"Do you think that's wise? No one's there yet. The crew doesn't go in until one this afternoon."

"We're meeting someone there, John," said Dennis. "An investigator.”

“Oh. Now a detective. Don't you think you could have told me?"

"It isn't a detective, John. It's…” Dennis cleared his throat. "It's a psychic investigator."

John did not respond. He only stood there looking at Dennis, his expression as unreadable as granite. "Psychic," he said at last, then nodded gravely, and continued on his way.

"I've been working with him for months now," Ann said, "and I've never seen that reaction."

"I have. It's meant to imply utter contempt." Dennis smiled in spite of himself. "When someone brings up something which John thinks isn't even worth discussing, since talking about it would mean that he's actually taking it seriously, he merely grunts a repetition, like, 'flying saucers,' or 'seances,' and then walks away." He took Ann's hand and gave it a squeeze. "You see now why I didn't want to tell him about the Emperor without having physical proof to show him. I swear to God, he'd have me committed."

"Maybe we'll have proof," Ann said.

"I hope not," said Dennis, leading her outside. "The thing I'd really like is to have that damned theatre as empty as an ingenue's head."

Bebe Gonsalves was not at all what Dennis had expected. He had thought to find a short and wide woman bedecked with eyeblinding prints and gaudy if authentic jewelry. But the woman who stood next to Ally Terrazin under the Venetian Theatre marquee was as striking as any actress he had ever met. It was only when he came near enough to see the thin web of wrinkles in the corners of her eyes that he knew she was, like himself, over forty. She wore a beautifully tailored top coat that was opened to display an even more perfectly cut suit beneath. She looked more like the owner of an upscale cosmetics firm than a psychic. Her hair was the blue-black of dark nights, and her skin a rich olive shade. Her only jewelry consisted of two small diamond earrings that seemed to catch the sun even on such a cloudy day.

Ally introduced Bebe Gonsalves, and Dennis introduced Ann, and together they walked to the theatre door, which he unlocked.

"Your hand is shaking, Mr. Hamilton," Bebe Gonsalves said. "It is a cold morning."

"I'm afraid I'm a little nervous," Dennis said.

"At what you may find? Or what you may not?"

Now what in the hell, Dennis thought, did she mean by that? At last the recalcitrant lock clicked, and Dennis ushered the others inside.

"Before we proceed," Bebe Gonsalves said, "I think it would be best if you tell me what it is that you think is here. I know of the things that have happened here, so you need not tell me of them, or if you think that what we are in search of has caused them. Just tell me what you think is here."

Dennis swallowed heavily, then spoke slowly and distinctly, not wanting to be misunderstood. "I don't think there's any name for it. It's a double, in a way. But it's not what they call a doppelganger. It's more like… part of me that got away. A bad part. And I need to get it back. Because on its own, away from me, it takes the energy that's stored here…” He glanced at Ally.

"The psychic energy," she explained. "From that catharsis thing?”

“I see," said Bebe Gonsalves. "Go on."

"And it… and it does bad things with it, with the power. It wants… I don't know what the hell it wants – to be me, maybe, to replace me."

"It's real," Ann added. "I've seen it – it and Dennis at the same time.”

“I don't doubt what you say," the psychic told her.

"I went away," Dennis went on, "hoping that being away from me it might grow weak, maybe die. I thought that you might be able to tell, to… feel something, see if you think there's anything here."

Bebe Gonsalves pursed her full lips. "Theatres are difficult. There are so many things, so much activity, that it's hard to pinpoint any one phenomenon. But I'll try. Now. Where is the creature the strongest? Where have you seen it?"

"The stage, I suppose," Dennis said. "On the stage."

He led the three women into the inner lobby, fumbled about at the wall switch, and turned on the house lights. The interior of the Venetian Theatre was just as they had left it. They walked down the aisle onto the stage, and Dennis noticed that Ally looked overhead nervously, as if expecting the curtain to come crashing down on them the way it had on poor Tommy Werton.

"It's here," Dennis said. "I think it's here that it's strongest."

Bebe Gonsalves's face seemed to shimmer in the dim light, as though possessed of an infinity of unpleasant emotions. "It is very bad here. Not from the presence you seek, but from the act, from the man who died, the one last fall. His pain and shock, the horror of those who watched – I feel it all. It makes things muddy." She put a long-nailed hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. "It will take a moment to dispel these thoughts. They must go before I can seek the entity you dread. Please, be quiet for a time."

The four of them stood, all of them believing, and trembling. After three long minutes, Bebe Gonsalves gave a quick intake of breath, and whispered, "There is something." Her eyelids fluttered. "Something that wishes… or wished… to start a… a dynasty, or rather… an empire. A dark, dreadful empire. But it is very weak, very weak. Near death. It suffers. It is being drained away. It lives in fear…"

She shook her head. "It is gone," she said, turning to Dennis. "It may still be here, but I can sense it no longer. I would advise you to have no fear, Mr. Hamilton."

"Then you think… it's harmless?"

"If what I felt is the entity of which you spoke, I think it is indeed harmless." She shrugged. "Pitifully so. It will not live long, and while it does, it is impotent. Ignore it," she said, and smiled for the first time. "And it'll go away."

Ally and Bebe Gonsalves declined Dennis's offer of lunch, and drove away in their rented car, but not before Ally had kissed Dennis on the cheek and whispered to him, "Hang in there, buster. You got over me, you can get over this," which made him smile, but not laugh.

When they were gone, Dennis stood with Ann on the sidewalk under the marquee. "Do you believe her?" Ann asked, putting her arms around him. "Do you think she has those… powers?"

He held her. "After what's happened to me, I don't disbelieve in anyone's powers anymore. As for what she said, I think she might have felt something. Something that had dreams, something that's weak, that's dying. Something that won't be here for long."

"But isn't that good?"

"I don't know," he said. "It depends on who it was that she was sensing. The Emperor?" He looked down at her. "Or me?"

He felt her muscles stiffen. "Don't say things like that."

"I've got to face the facts. I don't have much left in me."

"It'll change now. You're back on a stage again. Your stage."

"Mine?" He turned and looked back through the glass doors into the shadows of the lobby. "Is it?"

"Yes. It's your building, your theatre, your stage. It's your character."

"No, Ann. They'll be mine when I take them back again, back from him. Not before."

"Then do it, Dennis. Reach down inside you and do it."

He did not answer. He had nothing to say. He felt horribly old, unbearably weary, as though the battle had already been fought and he had lost. "Let's go back to the hotel," he finally said. "I'm tired. I'd like to rest."

At one o'clock that afternoon, the techies went in. Curt Wynn supervised as two assistant stage managers taped the stage, the props people prepared the tables stage right and left, and the crew set furniture for the first scene to be rehearsed the next morning. The set itself, the original road show design by the late Kinsey Holworth, was still being reconstructed in New York scene shops under Mack Redcay's demanding eye, and would be transported to Kirkland on Wednesday. The designer had been disappointed at the delay of Craddock , but the money that John Steinberg offered did much to assuage his regret at having to supervise the rebuilding of another man's design. Still, there was no time for a new one.

Thorne Wilson's lighting design was also to be repeated, and Wilson, a big, hearty man with a penchant for using as many lighting instruments as his budget would allow (and often more), was delighted to recreate his former triumph, even if only for one performance. He scurried about the theatre, using the lighting board in the rear of the theatre as his home base, always on his walkie talkie to his minions above, those on the tall platform ladders called cherrypickers, and those in the ceiling, who were hanging and focusing the instruments.

Though Thorne Wilson was happy to be back with A Private Empire, Marvella Johnson did not share his enthusiasm. She had remained in New York, working in the costume shops and rental houses to recreate as closely as possible the show's costumes, many of them now sold, scattered, or rebuilt. Terri Deems had done most of the legwork, and Marvella rewarded her with the title of Costume Coordinator, and she would appear as such in the playbill directly under Marvella's name. That Sunday afternoon Terri worked in the fourth floor costume shop with three female seamstresses and one male, a flighty gay who got on her nerves, but who was a master of organization and could stitch a seam as quickly as the best of them.

Some of those who had never before been in the Venetian Theatre were wary at first of the place's reputation, and for the first hour or so were constantly glancing overhead or over their shoulders. But hardly any of them had never worked in a theatre that did not have some dark history of a violent death or a ghost or two, and when no one was strangled by a roll of adhesive tape, smashed by a falling counterweight, or skewered by a stage brace in the first hour of work, they began to relax, and brought to their jobs the attention and professionalism that had gotten them hired in the first place.

But neither Curt Wynn nor Terri Deems were quite so cavalier as their blissfully ignorant charges and co-workers. Although Curt had seen only the eerie and possibly hallucinatory revenant in the cellar, he firmly believed that a killer was stalking Dennis and Dennis's theatre, and had told everyone that if they saw any person in the theatre building they could not identify, to come to him immediately and tell him about it.

Now, as he walked about the stage, in the wings, in the dressing rooms, he could not banish the feeling that he was being watched. It was not, however, the sensation of being observed secretly, but rather of being watched quite openly and appraisingly. Every time he turned around, he expected to see the nemesis standing there unconcerned. But he saw nothing, not even from the corner of his eye.

Terri, on the other hand, had a more realistic knowledge of what stalked the Venetian Theatre. She had, after all, been with the imposter, spoken with him, touched him and more. If he had not actually raped her, the bastard had at least pushed her past the point of consensual sex. Still, when she thought of what he might have done, and what he had done to the others, she shuddered with the horror that such a man had had her. She felt unclean, and horribly used, and wished that she might see him again, captured and bound. She would spit on him then.

But now, surrounded by other women and one ineffectual male, she wanted nothing less than for the monster to come through the costume shop door. Still, she did not think he would come among so many, and she did not intend to be alone in the theatre, or be alone anywhere, for that matter.

She and Evan had adjoining rooms in the Kirkland Hotel. They had slept in each other's arms last night, and would, by mutual consent, continue to do so. Though she had grown to like him before, it was when they were together in New York that she thought she had begun to love him. He was the only boy she had ever known who made no demands on her, and although he had not gone to college, an omission that he was now planning to correct, he was one of the brightest people she had ever met. But more than that, they had fun together, and the last time Terri could remember having fun with a boy had been long before she had discovered sex and the power she was able to wield with it.

She missed him as she worked in the shop, and wished that he were nearby, down on the stage with Curt. But he would not come back to the theatre, and after he had told her what he had seen the day of his attack, she could not blame him. That it had been an hallucination she had no doubt, for such a vision as he had seen could only have come from the imagination of someone who, like Evan, seemed terrified at the mere thought of standing in front of an audience. "I might go in," he told her, "but not now, not yet. My gut cramps when I think about it."

"But if you weren't alone," she told him. "If you were with people …”

"I know. I will. I think I will. Maybe later this week. But not now. Not yet."

So he remained in the hotel, looking through the college catalogues he had obtained in New York. She hoped he would choose Columbia or N.Y.U. That way they could stay close to each other, even stay together.

Stay together. God, that was just too good to be believed. Something would have to go wrong, she thought with the fearful pessimism of the jaded young. She had no right to be that happy.

The following morning at nine-thirty, John Steinberg was once again in his office at the Venetian Theatre when Robert Leibowitz called and told him that Sid Harper's trial date had been set for the last week in May. There was no new evidence, and the lawyer was not at all certain that he could persuade a jury to free Sid.

If Leibowitz used the "mystery man" defense, claiming that one individual had been responsible for most if not all of the deaths that had taken place in the theatre building, the jury might rationally assume that if circumstantial evidence indicated that Sid was responsible for Donna Franklin's murder, he might just as well have been responsible for the others, except for Whitney's, of course.

"Doesn't the fact that Whitney was murdered," Steinberg said, "indicate that this `mystery man' exists?"

"Possibly," Leibowitz answered. "But the prosecuting attorney might be able to make those wounds on the girl's lips and the broken nose look self-inflicted -struggling to escape suffocation. I'd feel a lot better if it was a more obvious murder. But if we ignore the mystery man, the jury might just as rationally decide that it was Harper and no one else who had murdered Miss Franklin and Miss Franklin only. Our only hope is that something comes up before the trial begins."

"Like what?" Steinberg asked.

There was a long pause. "Like another murder," Leibowitz said. "A murder that couldn't be anything else."

Now it was Steinberg's turn to pause. "Well," he finally said to Leibowitz, "I'll see what I can turn up."

He hung up just as Ann came in. "Leibowitz needs another murder to free Sid," he told her. "Would you please canvass for volunteers among the cast and crew?"

Ann ignored the comment. "What shall I do, John? Do you have letters?”

“Of course. But before we get to business, how's Dennis?"

"Dennis is… very much the same."

"Your psychic did nothing to allay his concerns?"

"I don't know, John."

"No one seems to know much of anything. I assume the purpose of this… alleged psychic was to try and visualize our house terrorist?"

Ann paused just a moment too long. "Yes."

"And did he have any visions?"

"She. It was a she. Her name is Bebe Gonsalves."

"Ah. And does she predict with fruit on her head?" He waved a hand. "I take it back. A racial slur. Was the money well spent?"

"You mean did she find anything? No. She didn't."

Steinberg eyed her long and hard. "I think you're lying to me, Ann. I think that you know more than you're telling. Is that right?"

"No."

"You are a kind and lovely woman, but a very bad liar. If you don't want to tell me the truth, I assume you must have a reason. I merely hope that you will put the safety of Dennis and yourself and everyone else in this building first. Will you do that?"

"Yes, John. And that's the truth."

"All right." His face soured, and he snorted petulantly. "It used to be that I was told everything, and what I wasn't told I found out anyway. Those were the halcyon days of the past, and I trust once all this foolishness is over that they will return again." He passed Ann a sheaf of papers. "These are the contracts for the security team I'm hiring. Please look over them and work out a final budget."

"Security team?"

"I'm a bit concerned too, Ann," he said, as though explaining to a child. "Concerned enough to bring in some muscle starting tomorrow to ensure that our stalker or whoever the hell he is has no further access to the theatre or its staff. There will be two men here at all times, guarding both front and rear entrances. There will also be a man at the hotel. If anyone wants to do any more killings, he's going to find that he's got to dispose of a few armed guards first." Then Steinberg smiled. "I may be ignorant, Ann, but I'm not senile. If anyone's going to get into this theatre unseen in the next two weeks, he's going to have to be a shadow. Or a ghost."

A half hour later a live cast began to assemble on the stage of the Venetian Theatre for the first time in a quarter of a century. Quentin, a navy cashmere sweater tied casually over his shoulders, came down the aisle with Dennis. "Do you want to talk to them first?"

Dennis shook his head. "No. You just go ahead."

"But, Dennis, it's your show, your theatre, you don't want to welcome them?"

"I'd really rather not, Quentin. You just go ahead and do it, all right?"

Gathering everyone to the first few rows of seats, Quentin welcomed them to the theatre, gave them a brief history of the place, omitting the recent tragedies, told them where the rest rooms, coffee pot, and Coke machines were, then had Curt pass out rehearsal schedules.

"The first scene today, as you hopefully remember," Quentin said, smiling, "is two-seven. We'll start right at the end of Kronstein's 'Take What Is Mine,' and rehearse the segue to the crowd scene. We'll have the scenery coming in the middle of the week. For now, Curt will show you the entrances and exits. Okay, people, let's get to places."

When the chorus went to the stage, the theatre became filled with life, color, sound. Dex Colangelo's fingers roamed up and down the keyboard of the freshly tuned Steinway in the orchestra pit. Dancers tugged up legwarmers, stretched in their leotards, singers warbled triads and octaves, Quentin laughed, clapping people on the shoulder, techies scurried as they always scurry, and Dennis thought that maybe everything would be all right now, that the magic of the theatre could banish that other, darker magic. Glorious illusion had returned to the Venetian Theatre's stage to replace the dread reality that had darkened it.

As he sat watching the dancers and singers work, he felt happy again, as though he was back where he belonged, doing what he should have always been doing. It was the theatre, and the long years he had spent in it had done nothing to diminish his affection for it. In that moment, he loved the life as he loved nothing else. Then he thought of the Emperor, and wondered if he was watching, and how he could stand in his evil pride against such an affirmation of joy and life as was on the stage at that moment.

"Take that, you son of a bitch," Dennis whispered, and felt his tiny smile grow larger as the music increased in volume, the harmonies blended, the players moved as one, until he was grinning, unafraid, grinning at the grim face of death he knew was hiding somewhere in the shadows of the theatre.

But the shadows would fade, wouldn't they? With song and dance and laughter, they would fade and be replaced by glorious light. It always happened that way in the books and the movies and the stories, didn't it? Christ, it had to happen that way, it just had to.

They worked the number through several times, getting used to the new stage floor, the acoustics and geometry of the space. Curt called a break, and the cast relaxed, got coffee, Cokes, sat on the apron, cooled down in a dozen different ways. At the end of the five, Quentin waved to Dennis. "We'll go on with the scene, yes?"

Dennis nodded and got to his feet. For a moment a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he clutched the arm of the seat, but it passed, and he took a deep breath, walked down the length of the row, and up onto the stage of the Venetian Theatre, where he had first become what he was.

He stepped over to the stage right prop table and strapped on his scabbard, pulling out his saber to examine it. The cutting edges were dull, but still capable of inflicting a wound, and the point, though slightly rounded, could pierce flesh nonetheless. The weapon was just like that of Wallace Drummond, with whom Dennis would fight the climactic duel at the show's end. Quentin, besides being a Tony Award winning choreographer, was also an expert fencer, and had staged duels for half a dozen Broadway shows and many more regional theatre productions. He had choreographed the swordplay for the revival, and had worked for several hours with Dennis and Drummy in New York, using wooden canes to block the moves slowly and carefully, safety always being the major factor. He avoided thrusts, except when they were absolutely necessary.

"Slashes," he had told them, "can be avoided or parried even by the beginning swordsman. And if they land there usually isn't much harm done. But a thrust can injure badly. That's why we use them seldom, and why we should know precisely when they're coming."

Dennis slid the saber back into the scabbard, and walked onto the stage, where Drummy and Quentin were waiting for him. Dan Marks, the actor playing Kruger, Kronstein's henchman, was standing stage right, where Dennis's entrance would occur. Marks, a short, stocky actor, was nervously sliding his own saber in and out of its scabbard. He stopped long enough to smile at Dennis, then fell back into the routine. He looked, Dennis thought, almost scared to be on the stage, and he wondered if Dan was nervous about the scene, or about the stage on which they were playing it.

"All right, gentlemen," Quentin said. "We'll start with Dennis's entrance – quiet please, people! We're rehearsing!" he added for the others, who were making more noise than was usual for breaks. They quieted quickly, however, at Quentin's request. "Let's start with your line, `What in God's name,' all right?"

The three actors got into position. The jovial Drummond put on the dour character of Kronstein in an instant, standing stage center and looking upstage and down, as he would be when the set was on stage. Marks, as Kruger, moved right center, facing Dennis, who was standing right, only a yard from the wings.

"We're on stage now," Quentin reminded them, and Dennis felt the words addressed to him in particular. "So let's see some emotion. Please don't mark it, I want it full out, yes? Begin."

The scene was the climactic one in which the Emperor Frederick finds his half-brother Kronstein about to impersonate him in front of the populace, and announce his intent to wed Maria of Borovnia. Furious, Frederick cuts his way through Kruger to Kronstein, who decides his only step is to kill Frederick and take his place permanently.

Dennis shut his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the feelings, the emotions he had counterfeited a thousand times, trying to become the Emperor Frederick once again. He opened his eyes and strode forward.

"'What in God's name are you about!'" he cried. Or tried to cry. What came out, instead of an angry, imperious shout, was a weakly barked series of words that descended in a mealy whine. It was no worse, but certainly no better, than Dennis had done in the New York rehearsals.

"'About,'" Marks went on, snarling the line, "`to announce your future, your majesty.'

"'You've returned too early, Frederick,' " said Drummond as Kronstein. "'And you've gone too far, Kronstein,'" said Dennis flatly. "`Get away from that balcony.'"

"'Stop him, Kruger. Don't harm him, but stop him.'"

Marks drew his saber and advanced on Dennis en garde. Dennis fumbled with his blade, unsheathed it, and tried to go into the quick flurry of moves that would end with his slapping his blade under Marks's upstage arm to simulate a fatal thrust.

But his movements were sluggish, and he dropped the sword to his side in frustration even before Quentin was able to stop the scene. "Okay, Dennis, you remember the moves?"

Dennis nodded. "I'm sorry. Not loosened up yet.”

“Let's start from the same place then."

They did. Dennis gave his lines with no more life than before, the sabers were drawn, the movements barely gotten through. Dennis's final thrust was more like a caress, but Marks dropped his saber, grabbed his chest as though a cannonball had passed through it, and fell to the floor, expiring without another line.

"'That was uncalled for… your majesty,'" said Drummond. "'He would not have killed you, you know. Those were not the orders I gave.'"

"'I'm giving the orders, Kronstein. Move away from that balcony. Now.'“

“'You shall not let me make my announcement?'"

"'If you were to make it looking like that, I should be the one bound to it. And I shall not wed Maria. I'll wed no one.'"

Drummond cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. "'And let the line die out, eh? You're so grieved over the loss of your peasant girl?'" He spat the final words.

Dennis tried to act stunned, but failed miserably. "'What do you know about her?'"

"'I know she had a cherry mark upon her breast. But perhaps you never found that out. You always were such a gentleman, Frederick.' "

"'You bastard…'"

"'Precisely. A royal bastard, I believe, is the term.'"

" 'You killed her.'"

"`No. I intended only to… dishonor her. Originally Kruger was to have the pleasure. But when we had her there in the cabin, she was such a handsome wench that I decided to take her first. She tried to run away, but fell. Struck her head. A pity. She would have been quite a little piece. Perhaps I could have sired another royal bastard. Wouldn't that have been amusing, Frederick?'"

Dennis stood, trying to let the rage build up inside him, but the well was empty. He looked around quickly, trying to refocus his thoughts, and saw John Steinberg and Ann sitting in the first row. He lost the line. "Line," Dennis said, calling for it.

"'I shall not have you…'" Curt read from the prompt book

"'I shall not have you executed,'" Dennis repeated.

"'Oh, thank you, majesty.'"

"'I shall kill you myself.'"

"'That seems to gel precisely with my plans, Frederick. Only I plan to kill you. No one save your mother can tell the difference between us now, and old ladies die every day. I can become used to being addressed as Frederick… or as your majesty. In fact, I think I'll enjoy it.'" Drummond drew his saber. "'Pray to your god, Frederick. From this day on, I am God in Waldmont.'"

"'Add blasphemy to your list, Kronstein, along with murder and treason and whatever else you've committed. I'll execute you for all of them.'"

The duel began. Dex Colangelo pounced on the Steinway's keys, crashed out the opening minor chords of the scored battle, then darted into interweaving staccato runs intended to mimic the rattle of sabers onstage.

But the action between the two men could not hope to equal the dexterity of the musical accompaniment. Though Wallace Drummond tried his best to bring buoyant life to the carefully choreographed lunges, cuts, and parries, he had to carry Dennis Hamilton to do it. The piano played on, but the movement on stage slowed, as if the men were dueling in a thick swamp of dream, slowed, and then stopped, with Drummond's saber still en garde in arrested action, but with the point of Dennis's drooping to the wooden floor like an exhausted and storm-bent reed.

"Dex…" Quentin said softly. "Dex," he said louder, to be heard over the music that now accompanied only a tableau. Dex looked up, stopped playing, and sat back, his shoulders slumping. "What's wrong?" asked Quentin. "Did you forget the moves?"

Dennis shook his head.

"Do you not like the moves?"

"They're fine," Dennis said softly.

"Then," Quentin said, his voice rising, "why the fuck don't you do the goddamned moves!"

Dennis jerked his head toward the director, as if awakening from a long dream. "Is this the best we can expect?" Quentin's voice was tight, fighting for control. Dennis looked at him, then at Ann's face, filled with pity, and Steinberg's, frowning with concern.

"Can you do better?"

He turned, saw Terri Deems standing in the wings holding a costume, saw the cast watching, the dancers' taut bodies coiled with apprehension.

"Can you?" Quentin pressed. "Because if you can't, there is no way that this show can ever go on in eleven days. Eleven fucking days! "

"Quentin," Steinberg said quietly, "let's call a break -"

"It's not time for a break, John! Are you directing this show or am I?" He swung back to Dennis. "So what's it going to be, your majesty? Are you going to give me something or are you going to be a zombie up there? I want to know, and I want to know now!"

Dennis looked into Quentin's red face, looked at John, at Ann, at Drummond and Marks, at all of them waiting for him to speak.

"Don't you shout at me…"

Dennis's words were soft, but filled with angry intensity, and now they increased in volume and in furor. "Don't you ever, ever raise your voice to me again… you… scheiskopf! ” He saw Quentin's lips quiver, and something very much like joy surged through him. The saber tingled in his hand, and he raised it, swung it so that it sliced the air with a satisfying hiss. It finally felt at home in his hand, light, agile, ready.

"Let's do the scene," he said. "From the same place." He grinned at Marks and Drummond, a grin so wide it felt wolfish. "And we'll do it this time. Full out."

It was as though the years had rolled back. The performance, for performance it was, had the energy and the fury of youth, the anger of a lover bereft by death, a monarch usurped of his throne. Dennis shot out the lines like bullets, his voice and body full of command. The sabers danced as the music played, and those who watched felt that Wallace Drummond too had never acted better, in large part because of his all too real fear of Dennis's whistling blade.

Still, the movements came precisely as Quentin had staged them, except for Dennis's final thrust, when Drummond, in expectation, threw his upstage arm so far away from his body that, as Dan Marks laughingly said later, a small car could have been parked in the space, let alone a saber. Dennis's blade arrived at the planned and safe six inches from Drummond's torso, and Drummond clutched his chest and fell. The watching cast, Ann, Steinberg, Quentin, Dex, and even the unexcitable Curt Wynn, burst into a spontaneous ovation that lasted minutes, while Dennis stood trembling before them, his gaze fixed on the ground, his eyes slowly filling with long-sought tears.