Reign

Scene 15

God damn Harry anyway. Five-thirty already and the big dummy's still upstairs, and after how afraid he was and all.

Abe Kipp shook his head in disgust, as he paced toward the elevator. He always counted on Harry to let him know when it was quitting time, but for once the kid didn't come through. Abe had been backstage reading a twenty-year-old issue of Cavalier, when that smart-ass Curt Wynn came walking by and asked him what he was still doing there. When Abe looked at his watch and saw that he should have left a half hour before, he was torn between walking out the door and giving Harry a piece of his mind. He decided on the latter, as there were so few times that Harry really did anything worth yelling about. But this, dammit, was one of those times. Christ, stay late once and they'll be expecting freebies from then on. They got paid weekly, not by the fucking hour.

He jabbed the elevator button with his finger, and hopped on when the door skittered open. The lights were on on the fifth floor, so he felt sure that Harry was still there. He had never known Harry to leave the lights on when he was finished with a job. One thing you could say about Harry – he was dependable. Up until now, at least.

"Harry!" Abe called, but there was no answer. " Harry! Where the hell are you!"

It took him three minutes to find Harry Ruhl, and he smelled him before he saw him. The odor, sharp and sweet and salty all at once, was coming from behind the closed door of one of the operating theatres. Abe thought he recognized the smell, but when he recalled where he had first come across it, he dismissed it as impossible. The Venetian Theatre was no battlefield.

He changed his mind when he opened the door. Harry Ruhl was lying on the operating table, his abdomen split open, his intestines seemingly floating in a pool of blood that had overflowed its boundaries and lay puddled on the tile floor. In one of the puddles lay his genitals. Where they had once been was now nothing but a deep gash, apparently slashed there by the pocketknife that remained in the wound. On what was left of the skin of Harry's chest were words drawn in blood, "IM A PUSSY BOY."

Abe Kipp did not scream, or faint, or vomit. Instead, he started to cry. He cried for a long time, and finally, when he was done, he went downstairs to find someone who could help.

Dan Munro was eating dinner when he got the call from the station, but he immediately put on his coat and told Patty not to wait up for him. He had had a gut feeling that the Werton guy's death had been more than just an accident, and now this new death added a gallon of gasoline to that fire. His deputy hadn't known exactly what the trouble was, just that someone from the theatre had called and said somebody had been killed and that the police should come right away.

Munro arrived at the same time as the ambulance, and went with the medics to the fifth floor. Three men who he recognized as Sid Harper, John Steinberg, and Curtis Wynn were standing in the hall. He nodded to them and went through the large door where he saw Bill, his white-faced subordinate, taking photographs of the body.

"Hey, Dan," he said softly, and shook his head. "I've never seen anything like this before."

Neither had Munro. He felt bile rising in his throat, and looked away from the corpse long enough to force it back down.

"Don't feel bad," Bill said. "I threw up once already, and I'm afraid I'm working on my second shot."

"Jesus," said Munro, "I know this kid. Harry Ruhl – played football for Kirkland, didn't he?" Bill nodded. "What the hell happened to him?"

"I'm not sure. The guy who found him seems to know something about it, but I couldn't get much out of him. He kept crying."

"Where is he?"

"Down on the second floor in the offices."

Munro steeled himself and examined the body, wincing as he had to step around the pool of blood on the floor and the pitiful chunks of flesh in it.

"You think we oughta be able to pick them up," Bill said. "Goddam awful.”

“Not till the M.E. comes," Munro answered.

"I know."

Munro forced himself to look at the mutilated stomach and groin, noticing the angle in which the knife was placed. "It's like he…” His words trailed off.

"Yeah," Bill said. "Like he carved himself a… " Munro could almost hear the cruder word on Bill's lips, but the policeman pulled it back. "… a vagina."

"Is this supposed to be `pussy boy?’" Munro wondered aloud. The row of bloody letters began at the corpse's left clavicle and went downward along his rib cage, finishing just above the gaping abdominal wound. Munro noticed that the Y of "BOY" trailed down the side. When he examined the fingers of the right hand, he saw that the index and middle fingers were coated with blood.

"I called the state police," Bill said. Munro would have expected that, and suspected that Bill had said it more for conversation than to convey information.

On his way to the offices, Munro passed the Medical Examiner and two state police investigators. The M.E. shook his head and muttered, "Lifestyles of the dead and famous," as he passed Munro. Munro didn't smile. He wondered how funny the M.E. would be when he saw what was waiting for him. Probably wouldn't affect him at all. Most of those guys had cast iron stomachs. Hell, they'd have to, wouldn't they, face to face with messy, violent death day after day? Munro was thankful this kind of thing didn't happen very often in his town. But Christ, this damn theatre -two ugly deaths in nearly as many months. Show people.

In the waiting area of the offices, Munro was amazed to find Abe Kipp crying. Kipp was one of the biggest hardasses in town, and had been, Munro had heard, a real hellion when he was younger, picking fights in bars, mostly with guys smaller than he was, and the years apparently had not mellowed him. Yet here he sat, blubbering like a baby, flanked by Donna Franklin on one side and Hamilton's wife on the other. The young man Munro had seen entering the theatre a few days before Thanksgiving was seated in the corner.

"Mr. Kipp, I'm Chief Munro."

Kipp nodded. "I know… I know you."

"You found the body?"

"I did, yeah, I did… my fault, oh shit, all my fault."

"Your fault?"

"He wouldn'ta done it… not without my teasin' him. I teased him, but it was just jokin', you know? Just a little joke, he was always so scared of everything -"

"Now wait," Munro said sharply. "You mean you think he did this to himself?"

"What, you…” Kipp's eyes widened. "You think… I done it?" The surprise was so openly honest that Munro was instantly certain of the man's innocence, at least as far as wielding the knife went. "I… I just teased him, y'see? Teased him about bein' a.. .” The words seemed to lock in Kipp's throat. “… a pussy boy, that's what I called him. But I didn't do that, oh hell, how could I have done that?"

"I don't know, Mr. Kipp. But you might just as well ask how could anyone have done that to himself."

When the medical examiner was finished, he told Munro that death probably occurred between four-thirty and five-fifteen. "Good thing I got called so fast," he said. "The fresher they are the easier it is to nail down the time." At least, Munro thought, he wasn't smiling any more. "The state boys tell me the prints of the victim are the only ones on the knife."

"You saying it was suicide?"

The M.E. cocked his head. "I know what you're thinking, Munro. Could he have cut himself open, buried the knife in his groin, and then misspelled words in his own blood? The answer, remarkably enough, is yes. He'd be bleeding like a river, but he would have time to do all those things. If he were so compelled. What would compel a man to do such things is beyond my comprehension. That's your job."

"But it's possible."

"Yes, it's possible. Look at the Samurai in Japan – they'd slice themselves open with two cuts, one across and one down. Now they generally had a friend to help finish them off by lopping off their heads, but it wasn't necessary. For all I know, they might have written haiku while bleeding to death, let alone the sad little epitaph our friend there composed."

The interviews with the residents of the theatre were inconclusive. Alibis were abundant, since everyone was with someone else who could account for them. Even Abe Kipp had been seen at frequent enough intervals near the end of the day so that Munro knew he would not have had the time or opportunity to go to the fifth floor, perform that act of butchery, cleanse himself of the blood that must have resulted, and return backstage.

When Munro interviewed Dennis Hamilton, he found him red-eyed and unresponsive. There was no hostility, however, in the perfunctory way Hamilton answered Munro's questions, and Munro could not help but wonder if the man were on drugs, as he had heard so many people in show business were.

But maybe, Munro thought, it was something else. Maybe it was numbness, like psychological novocaine, a protective mask of some sort to guard him from the pain of having another person – maybe just an employee, maybe a friend – die under mysterious circumstances. Still, Munro couldn't get the idea out of his head that Hamilton knew more than he let on.

~* ~

After the police and ambulance left with Harry Ruhl's ruined body, Sid and Curt drove Abe Kipp to Kirkland General Hospital, where he was given a sedative and put to bed in a semi-private room. When they returned to the theatre and Sid checked on Dennis, he found that Robin was in the bedroom, trying, like Abe Kipp, to sleep away the horror. Dennis, however, was wide awake, sitting in the living room with a tall drink in his hand, staring out the window at the darkness.

"Let's go out," he said to Sid. "Let's go to that bar two blocks over." He looked at Sid then, and went on, as though he owed him an explanation. "I don't want to celebrate, Sid. I just want to get away from this place. It seems… terrible tonight. God, poor Harry." He shook his head and stood up. "Let's go, huh?"

There was no reason not to. In all the years Sid had been with him, he could count on the fingers of one hand the times Dennis had too much to drink. Besides, he really wanted a drink himself.

The name of the bar was Riley's, and there were only a few people in it on this Monday night. When Dennis sat at the bar, the bartender recognized him and greeted him by name, then asked what they wanted. Sid had a bourbon, Dennis a scotch.

After a few sips, Dennis said, "I never would have thought it of Harry. He just didn't seem the type."

"Suicidal?"

Dennis nodded. "He always seemed happy, so simple."

"He was simple."

"I don't mean retarded, I mean his wants seemed simple."

"You don't think someone else killed him?"

"Someone else?" He snorted a bitter laugh. "Who, Sid? The building was locked, everybody was accounted for, and even so, which of us could have done something like that? Marvella? Donna? John? Hell, me?" Dennis shook his head. "No, he did it himself. The poor man. Poor dumb man. Couldn't even spell his own suicide note right."

Sid felt very cold. He had seen the body, Dennis had not. "How did you know the words were spelled wrong?"

"Didn't you tell me? Or Munro?"

"No, I didn't, and I don't remember Munro mentioning it when he talked to you."

Dennis frowned. "I don't know. Maybe I just assumed it, knowing Harry. I can almost see it if I try," he said. "And I don't want to see it, Sid. I really don't want to." He finished his scotch in a single swallow, then held up a finger for another.

They continued to drink in silence for some time, their eyes on a football game on the TV mounted over the bar. Finally Dennis spoke.

"What makes a person do something like that?" Sid said nothing. Dennis's impeccably clipped speech was starting, very slightly, to slur. "You'd have to hate your life so much to leave it on purpose." He looked at Sid from weary eyes. "You ever think about it, Sid? About suicide?”

“No. Never have."

"I did," Dennis said quietly. "Few years back. When we first went out on the road with Empire, remember? I really thought about it. In Chicago. I was standing on the balcony of the suite, and I leaned over the rail, and I looked down, down, and I knew that if I jumped from there it would all be over so fast with just a moment of pain, and then nothing. I climbed over the rail and leaned into the wind holding on with one hand, and I was all ready to let go. But I didn't. I didn't because I was scared. I was scared of the fall. I didn't think I'd like it."

"Why did you… want to do it?"

The words came slowly, as if Dennis was forcing them out. "I thought my life was over anyway. I mean, in all my life I had created only one thing – I mean one thing that was real. And that was the Emperor. The character. I mean, that really was something. And it was mine. Nobody else did that for me, Sid. I did that myself. And I never did anything else. And that's why I wanted to… to die. Because I was afraid I'd never do anything else."

"Maybe that was enough."

"It's not enough."

"Dennis, most people go through life not creating a damn thing, and they're happy. But you took a character that only existed on paper, and you made it live. You made people laugh and cry and dream with it, and that'll never go away. The Emperor is really alive because of you." Sid chuckled. "Long live the Emperor, huh?"

Dennis shook his head sadly. "The Emperor's gone, Sid. That's all over. But I found something else to make me want to live. I found Robin, and I found the project. The shows are here now – the new shows, the shows that wouldn't exist if it weren't for me and my money. And my direction, dammit. I'm gonna direct these shows and they're gonna be my shows, aren't they? I'm gonna create these shows. ..” He drained the glass of another drink. Was it the fifth? Sid wondered. Or the sixth? He couldn't remember, and it didn't seem to matter anyway.

"If it weren't for that," he heard Dennis mumble, "I might still try to fly off a roof. Man's gotta create… gotta create something

… make something before he… before he dies." And then Sid heard Dennis start to cry softly. "Poor Harry," he said between gentle sobs, "Aw, poor Harry…"

~* ~

Although he knew it was a dream while he was dreaming it, that made it no less frightening. He was wearing his costume, the costume of the Emperor Frederick. He held a fat pocketknife in his right hand, and with the other he held down some kind of animal on an altar of black metal. Was it a sheep? It seemed to be, for the eyes were the eyes of a sheep, dull and mild. The body was docile, yielding, like one would expect a sheep's to be as one held it down to be slaughtered. Even its cry, a pitiful, braying lament, was sheeplike.

But its cry had no effect upon the Emperor, who demanded his sacrifice, the sacrifice to the God among men, to Dennis Hamilton who was the Emperor, to the Emperor who was Dennis Hamilton, to both, to neither, but something made of both, and he was so confused, was he still drunk even in his dream?

No, he was more than drunk, he had to be, for even drunk he would never have taken the knife and driven it in, not into the heart, but lower down, where what he savaged told him that this was not a ewe he butchered, but a ram.

Then the sheep transformed beneath him: the bloodied wool became flesh, the wide, wet, terrified eyes eddied from brown to blue, the tortured snout shrank, the pumping forelegs turned to writhing arms, and there, untouched by the knife, the skin whole and unmarked, she lay, still twisting in agony as though an unseen blade was channeling through her from within.

"Ann…” he whispered, and it seemed to him that he spoke with two voices. "Ann…” He was struggling now, trying to bring himself up from the dream, knowing that to end it would end her torment.

"Ann…”

And he was free. The brutally honest light was gone, and all around him was the darkness of night and its reality, and he turned to the warm, living body by his side, that sweet body free of pain, and he held it and murmured, "Ann…"

And Robin stiffened, awake, next to him in their bed.

"What?" she said in a voice muted with interrupted sleep. "What did you say?" The distance in her voice made him tremble, and he could not answer her. "What did you call me?"

"Robin…"

"You called me Ann. You called me by her name."

Light blinded him, and he pressed his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he saw her sitting up in their bed, staring at him with wide-eyed fury, as though her anger were greater than the pain of the light. "Tell me, Dennis," she said, and there was no sleepiness in her voice now. "Tell me everything."

He coughed, tasted the scotch far back in his throat, swallowed, coughed again. "I'm sorry," he said. "There's not that much to tell."

"Are you… seeing her?"

"You mean having an affair? No, Robin. And we never did."

"You never did."

"No. But I loved her. I admit that."

"You admit it."

"Yes. She was the first woman I ever loved, and… and I guess I still feel some of that."

"You do."

" Yes." Her repetition unnerved him. "I'm sorry, I don't want to, but I don't seem to have any choice in the matter. But I swear to you I haven't done anything about it and I don't intend to."

"Oh. You're just going to use her name when you fuck me in the dark?”

“Robin -"

"Fire her, Dennis."

"What?"

"I want you to fire her. I want her away from here."

His mind raced. "No, I can't do that, it wouldn't be fair."

“Be fair? Be fair to who, to her? Jesus Christ, Dennis, you just tell me you love this bitch -"

"She's not a bitch."

"Bull shit she's not! Why do you think she came here? For the love of the thee- a -ter? She came because her husband died and she thinks maybe she can get something started with you again, never mind the fact that you're already married. Jesus, Dennis, are you blind?"

He wasn't blind. He saw all too well how Ann Deems felt. And, what was even more disturbing, he saw beyond a doubt how he felt as well. He could not let Ann go again. Now that she was finally back in his life, he could not let her go. There was, he thought simply, no choice involved. He needed her like he needed air. Even if they never touched again, he needed her.

"Nothing is going to happen," he said to Robin. "If something was, it would have already."

"And you're telling me it hasn't."

"That's right. Never. And it won't."

Robin tossed back the sheets, leaped out of the bed, and threw on a robe. "You know what I hate most, Dennis? I hate it that this bitch is back, and I hate it when you tell me that you still feel something for her. But I hate it most when you lie to me -"

"I haven't -"

"When you lie and you tell me that you never fucked her, that Dennis Hamilton, the young stud emperor – oh hell, yes, I've heard all the stories – never had her the way he had every other woman that crossed his path, well, if that's what you want to tell me, that's what you expect me to believe. " She yanked open the bedroom door, then turned back to face him. “… then you must think I'm the dumbest cunt you ever had!"

She slammed the door behind her, and he listened to her footsteps pad across the carpet of the hall. The guest bedroom door opened and slammed, and then he heard nothing but her sobbing.

The next morning Robin was distant and aloof at breakfast, but she said nothing more about Ann Deems. The aftermath of Harry's death distracted her and everyone else from more personal problems. A call from Dan Munro to John Steinberg made it official that Harry Ruhl's death was being handled as a suicide. Munro didn't sound happy about it, but, as he explained to Steinberg, Harry's fingerprints were the only ones on the knife, and the nature of the wounds, devastating as they were, were consistent with a verdict of self-mutilation.

Abe Kipp came back to work two days later. When Donna Franklin talked to him about hiring a new assistant, he seemed different to her, quieter, not at all sarcastic, almost humble. He told her that he did not think he needed an assistant right away, that maybe when the show came down from New York he could use a man, but for now he should be able to handle everything himself. Donna saw him later carrying a bucket and mop into the office restrooms.

Ann and Terri Deems were shocked by the news of the death when they heard it from John Steinberg the following morning. The first thing Ann felt, beside pity for Harry Ruhl, was that she wanted to be with Dennis, that it must be terrible for him to have still another tragedy in his theatre, especially the death of poor, simple Harry. She knew, from seeing the two of them together, that Dennis had liked Harry, and the feeling had been mutual. The few times she had spoken to him to compliment him on a good cleaning job, Harry had invariably responded, "Like to keep things nice and neat for Mr. Hamilton."

Ann had been touched by that. There was indeed something about Dennis that inspired that kind of loyalty. It was an emotion that few besides the scrupulously honest Harry Ruhl could have put into words, but it was there. She would have felt it even if she had not loved him.

But if her joy came from seeing Dennis, she was doomed to unhappiness during the next few weeks of December. It seemed to her that he seldom came out of his suite, and, if he did, it must have been during the times she was not in the office. She began to wonder if he was avoiding her on purpose, or if it was merely circumstance. The thought made her feel immature and foolish, as though she was once again a fifteen-year-old cheerleader, waiting around after practice to see if Jamie Beamenderfer would come out of the locker room and want to walk her home, and feeling like hell if he left another way and missed her.

But this was worse, for Jamie Beamenderfer had not been married, and Dennis was – happily, if reports were true. Ann knew she had made a mistake in taking the job at the Venetian Theatre. But at the same time, she had been powerless not to.

The morning after Harry Ruhl's funeral, Ann Deems found a man's folded handkerchief in her office. It had a monogram of the letters DH . She felt a delighted thrill go through her, and wondered why Dennis would have come to her office, and why he would have left a handkerchief on her desk. There were several explanations, all of them rational, but the one which she chose to accept was a scenario in which Dennis had come, perhaps after hours, hoping to find her still in. When she had not been there, he had left his handkerchief on purpose, with the intention that she should return it.

So now what? she wondered. She could return it. In fact, it was the sensible thing to do, for she was certain that it was his. But should she wait until he came to the offices, or should she take it to him in his suite? If he had left it there by accident, there would be no harm in it. He would simply accept it, thank her, and that would be all.

But what if he had left it there on purpose? What if he wanted to see her alone? What if he wanted to tell her what she wanted most to hear, and yet dreaded hearing?

She could always say no. Absurdly, the words came to her mind – just say no – and she smiled in spite of herself. How easily those words came, and how hard they were to obey. Could she? She wondered.

There was only one way to find out, one way to learn how good she was, how honest she was, how truly loyal she was. Because she knew that if she was all these things she would say no to what Dennis Hamilton might ask her to do, or to become. If she loved him, she would refuse him, and bring ease to his life.

When she stepped off the elevator, the third floor hallway was empty, and she heard no noises from behind any of the doors of the other suites. Everyone was working, including Robin, who Ann had seen going into John Steinberg 's office several minutes before. She stood before Dennis's door for a long time before she finally pushed the doorbell. She heard chimes inside, then footsteps, and found herself wishing that Sid would open the door so that she could just hand him the handkerchief, say she found it in Steinberg's office, and walk away.

But it was Dennis who answered the door, a pale Dennis who looked so sad and so weary that she wanted only to hold him in her arms so that he could sleep. "Ann," he said. "Uh… good morning."

She smiled at him. "I found this, Dennis," she said, holding out the handkerchief. "It was on my desk."

"Your desk?" he said softly, taking it. "In your office?" She nodded. "How could it have gotten there?" he said as if to himself. "I haven't been in there…"

"I figured you had more, but…" She shrugged and waited. The opening was there, but Dennis did not step into it.

"Well, thank you. Thank you." He swallowed, looked at her. He didn't have to speak. The look said everything.

"You're welcome," she said, relieved and disappointed, knowing that he would not say what she was praying he would not.

"I'll… see you."

Oh God, yes, I hope, Dennis, she thought, but said only, "Yes," then turned and walked away, hearing and not watching the door close gently behind her.

But someone else watched Dennis's door close, watched Ann Deems, burdened with the need for flight, walk quickly away down the hall toward the stairs.

Robin Hamilton watched from the elevator as Ann left the suite whose door her husband had just closed, and Robin burned with the knowledge of what it might mean. But she did not confront Dennis with what she thought she knew. If she had, he would have honestly denied it, and, though at first angry and disbelieving, she might have ultimately believed him, and so been happy.

Instead, she grasped the idea, dug a hole in her heart, and buried it there. And it grew, hard and healthy.

Scene 16

"Sonny," said Marvella Johnson to Evan, "what you got there?"

"Mail. Had to come up anyway to check the dressing rooms, so I figured I'd bring it along." He tossed the packet on the table in front of Marvella, who grunted her thanks, picked it up and leafed through it. "Hi, Terri," he said to the girl, who seemed intent on ripping out a seam.

"Hi," she said, without a hint of intonation.

"What you checking the dressing rooms for?" Marvella said after a moment, putting down a letter.

"See what's in them, I guess. I don't know, Curt just told me to take inventory."

Marvella shook her head. "Curt and his inventories. Count every damn nail in the bin you give him the chance. Well, what you just standin' there for? We're workin' here, Sonny, so you get busy too."

"Marvella, I wish you wouldn't call me Sonny anymore."

She narrowed her eyes as if studying him. "Yeah, I guess you've got a little bigger at that, haven't you? Old habits. So get to work. .. Evan."

He smiled, gave a wave, and disappeared into the first of the chorus dressing rooms. There was one on the fourth floor where the bottom level of the costume shop was, another on the third, and still another on the fifth, which had been put into use only when the largest musical shows of the twenties occupied the Venetian stage. All would be needed for the spring production of Craddock.

"That's a nice boy," Marvella observed. "A wonder he turned out so friendly, his daddy the way he is." She paused a moment, and then added, "The way he was."

"I thought you liked Dennis," said Terri, her eyes on the job before her.

"I do like Dennis. I love Dennis, the way you love a spoiled child. But that doesn't change the fact he's spoiled."

"So's Evan," Terri said.

Marvella looked at the girl. "Why are you so down on him? He likes you well enough."

She snorted something that may have been a laugh. "That's the truth. I just don't want history to repeat itself."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't know about my mother? And Dennis Hamilton? Back in the good old days?"

"I know he was sweet on her, that what you mean?"

"Well, that's one way to put it."

"That's the way to put it. Honey, I knew Dennis back then, and believe me, if there was ever a more innocent baby – at the beginning, anyway – I never saw him.”

“And so is his son then, huh?"

"Evan's a good boy. A little mixed up about what he wants to do with his life, but everybody goes through that. Joining the Marines was the only way he could get away from his daddy, or so he thought. Had to get himself into a situation where Dennis couldn't haul him back home again, or stick him in another school."

"Well, maybe he's the sweetest boy in the world, but I don't want anything to do with him."

Marvella's eyes narrowed. "What's got you so skittish? Just that your momma and Dennis liked each other once?"

"Liked? That's past tense."

"Now hold on. If you're thinking that Dennis would try to get something going again with Ann, you're wrong, girl. He's married, and he loves Robin. He's not like that. Used to be, but not anymore."

"You've never heard of reversion to type? A good-looking man, not at all old, rich and famous with the reputation of being a ladies' man? How long do you think he can stay faithful, Marvella? I mean, I've noticed the way he's looked at me from time to time, and -"

"All right now, you stop coming up with these soap opera plots and you get your mind back on your work, girl. You just forget about Dennis and your ma, and you especially forget about Dennis and you. There's gonna be no funny business in this theatre, believe you me.. .”

~* ~

Robin was sure that Dennis and Ann were having an affair when, in the middle of a Friday afternoon two weeks before Christmas, she returned from the office to the Hamilton suite and heard voices coming from the bedroom. One of the speakers, she was sure, was Dennis, while the other, though she heard the voice only in brief snatches, was a woman.

"Dennis?" she called. The voices stopped, and she said again, "Dennis?" There was a shh, then quick whispers, and Robin thought she heard the woman (the woman? Ann Deems, god damn her!) giggle. That did it. She would not be laughed at. To be cheated on was bad enough, but to be laughed at was intolerable. She rushed to the bedroom door, flung it open, and stepped inside, ready to explode, to tear the woman apart, to wipe from her face forever the smirk that her laughter made all too clear.

But the bedroom was empty. That was the one thing Robin did not expect. She was prepared for nudity, for sexual gymnastics, for the most pornographic and blatant evidence of her husband's infidelity, but she was not prepared for negation, for an utter denial of what she had known to be the truth.

Or was it a denial after all? The room appeared to be empty, but the bedclothes were so disturbed that even the bottom sheet had come off to expose the mattress cover beneath. There was a trace of perfume in the air, Ann's perfume, mixed with the scent of naked bodies, the musky smell of rutting. And the bathroom door, usually open, was closed.

She was astonished at their audacity. To hide in the bathroom? Did they think she was some kind of moron not to realize that that was the only place they could be?

"You bitch," Robin said, jerking open the bathroom door.

The light was on, but the room was empty.

"How the hell…”she whispered to herself. "How the hell…”

On her way down to the office, she met Sid on the stairs. "Have you seen Dennis?" she asked.

"About half an hour ago. He said something about going for a walk."

She eyed him keenly as he passed her. Was he lying, covering up for his friend of many years? She had always trusted Sid before, but now he seemed like a stranger.

In the office, when she mentioned ever so casually that she had not seen Ann today, Donna told her that she had asked for the day off to do some Christmas shopping in Philadelphia, and, since she was well caught up with her work, Donna had obliged.

Shopping. Sure, Robin thought viciously, shopping for her husband's cock. They did it, goddammit, whether she caught them or not. They did it right in the bed she shared with Dennis, right in her own goddam bed, and Jesus, how that hurt, how that shamed her.

But she would say nothing. Not a thing. Not until she caught them, and she would catch them, it would be impossible not to, as careless as they were. She had no idea how they had gotten out of the bedroom, where they had hidden, but that they had been there was as true as the smell of that bitch's heat in the air. And when she found them

Robin could not remember ever being so angry. She was, she knew, mad enough to kill.

~* ~

A week before Christmas, people began to disappear, but in a benign manner.

Marvella Johnson took Whitney and went to her sister's home in Baltimore, where Whitney's mother would also be for the holidays. Donna flew to her mother's home in Fort Myers, Florida, while John Steinberg went to his brother's house in upstate New York. Curt also returned home, leaving the only non-Hamilton in residence at the Venetian Theatre Sid Harper, whose parents were both dead, and who had no siblings.

Evan Hamilton wished that he had other relatives he could visit over the holidays, but his relationship with his paternal grandparents was even more forced than it was with his father, and he had not seen his maternal grandparents for a dozen years. He did not relish the thought of spending Christmas with Dennis and Robin. Nothing, he felt, had really changed between him and his father. Despite early indications to the contrary, Dennis seemed more withdrawn than ever before. Robin had invited him to have dinner with them several times, and at first Evan had great hopes that he might finally become friends with his dad. The first few meals together were warm and friendly, and there had been moments of closeness and affection.

But lately the invitations had come less frequently, then not at all. It was just as well. Ever since Thanksgiving, a grand and glorious feast cooked magnificently by Sid, Dennis and Robin seemed to be at cross purposes, as though a wide and unbridgeable abyss lay between them. Evan wondered what was wrong, but could gather no hints.

His unease at having to spend Christmas with his uncommunicative father and stepmother was relieved when Dennis visited his suite and told him that he and Robin were flying to London for the holidays. "I hope you understand," Dennis said. "Robin's been working awfully hard the past few weeks, and I think it's important that we have a little time to ourselves. It'll be lonely around here, but at least Sid's staying. I just hope you're not disappointed that we won't have a family Christmas."

Evan made a gallant effort to show the proper amount of dejection the situation warranted. "No, I understand. It's fine. I hope you have a great time."

~* ~

They did not have a great time, nor even a good one. They had first come to London on their honeymoon, and Robin had loved it, entranced by every pub sign, by every plaque on what seemed like every house, by the overwhelming presence of age that hung over every twisted street, each little byway. The churches had awed and inspired her, the shops had delighted and tempted her, and Dennis had pushed her into every temptation. They had eaten in the little out of the way restaurants, most of them ethnic, that Dennis had discovered and cherished on previous trips across the Atlantic, had laughed, enjoyed, loved.

But this visit was the dark side of their first one. They revisited many of the old haunts, but Robin found no joy in them. The happy memories they brought up made the present situation that much more intolerable to her. To her credit, she tried to enjoy herself, tried to act as though nothing were wrong, told herself that she still loved Dennis, and that he had brought her here because he loved her as well. If he had not, wouldn't he have wanted to remain in Kirkland, where he could have continued his clandestine meetings with Ann Deems? Of course he loved her.

And every time she almost convinced herself of it, the image came into her mind of the rumpled bed, and she heard the mocking sound of a woman's laughter, caught the scent of a hated perfume.

She and Dennis slept in a double bed at the Hotel Russell, as always, but little went on in it other than sleep. Throughout their marriage, making love had nearly always been initiated by Robin, though Dennis always delightedly complied with her wishes. The few times she wondered why he was seldom the instigator, she assumed that it was in order to balance the reputation he had earned for being a Don Juan, to present an image to his wife of a man interested but little in sex, and therefore a potential model of fidelity.

But now, when she would have welcomed ardent overtures on Dennis's part, they were not forthcoming, and she felt in no mood to start them herself. Why should she be put in the position of begging for what was rightfully hers? Better, far better to do without than to have to ask, although she knew that Dennis sensed her anger, and that might have a great deal to do with his hesitation to approach her.

So the week passed, with London far more chilly than usual for December. They celebrated Christmas Day at their favorite restaurant. Robin gave Dennis a new Rolex, and he gave her a pair of diamond pendant earrings. When they kissed, it seemed to Robin that Dennis wanted to extend the contact, but Robin pulled quickly away, robbing the exchange of any warmth.

It was with relief that she boarded the plane back to the United States. The one thing to be said for the trip was that Dennis had no more dreams, neither nightmares nor visions more pleasurable. No names were blurted out in sleep. In a way, she wished he would confess, tell her the truth about himself and Ann Deems. Then together they could work something out, and she could find a way to banish the woman from both their lives.

It became an obsession with her. Every time Dennis opened his mouth, she stiffened, as if expecting to hear his words of self-condemnation. But he never mentioned it. He only became more patronizing toward her, agreeing with her most irrational remarks, giving in to her most casual whims without comment.

Damn, she thought, over and over again. Damn, Dennis, talk to me. Tell me what you're thinking, what you're feeling. It doesn't matter, as long as you can tell me. If you can tell me, then there's hope. Just tell me. Please. Tell me.

~* ~

(The scene is the following week in the living room of Dennis and Robin Hamilton's suite in the Venetian Theatre Building. The furnishings are white, black, and sumptuous. On a bookcase, displayed very prominently, are two Tony Awards. Next to the bookcase is a large portrait of Dennis Hamilton as the Emperor Frederick. On the couch, his head buried in his hands, sits THE EMPEROR. He is dressed in a sweater and slacks. His body shakes as if with sobs. ROBIN enters stage left.)

ROBIN

I thought you were out. (Notices him crying) Dennis? Dennis, what is it?

THE EMPEROR

(He looks up at her, shakes, then cries out, as if in torment.) Oh Robin, oh God, Robin! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…

ROBIN

What is it? Tell me what's wrong!

THE EMPEROR

Robin, have you ever… thought about something… had something so strong on your mind that you couldn't get it out… you wanted to, but you couldn't? (He shakes his head) Have you ever had… an obsession like that?

ROBIN

(A sad look of resignation comes over her) Do you mean… (A pause) Ann Deems.

THE EMPEROR

(A brief nod) You knew, you knew all along. I can't get her out of my head, no matter how hard I try. It's as though she forces her way in whether I want her to or not.

ROBIN

(Firmly) Let her go, Dennis. Just let her go and forget about her.

THE EMPEROR

I can't. I can't, darling, don't you think I've tried? But it's impossible. Knowing that she's… that she's alive, that she'd be somewhere not far away – I can't live with that. I couldn't forget her, not for (He seems to oddly stress the next words) as long as she lives.

ROBIN

(Takes his hand) Dennis…

THE EMPEROR

(Lost in thought) If something happened to her… if it did, I would grieve, but it would pass. Like when I lost her once before, years ago, I grieved then. But life went on. I found other people. I found… (He looks into her eyes)… you. (He shakes his head savagely) Oh God, just forget I ever said anything about this. I'm not thinking straight. What's done is done, I can't change it, I'm sorry for it. We'll just… go along, take it from day to day. If you're willing to stay with me.

ROBIN

Of course. But Ann… why can't you just fire her?

THE EMPEROR

I told you. Firing her isn't the answer. Robin, I don't know how I expect you to understand this, but she's got… a part of me. I can't do anything to hurt her. I can't do it by myself. I'm yours, but a part of me is hers. And it will be. (A pause) For as long as she lives.

ROBIN

(She stands for a moment, thinking) I think maybe we both could use a drink.

THE EMPEROR

Yes. That would be good. Let's have a drink and talk about something else. (ROBIN starts to exit stage left) Robin? (She stops ) Will you do something for me? (She looks at him) Will you not mention this to me again? I've said all I need to. More than I should have. Please. I don't want to hear her name on your lips. I don't want to think about her. All I want is to be free of her. (A pause) Will you help me? Help me with that?

ROBIN

(A pause) I'll get the drinks.

(She exits stage left. THE EMPEROR watches her go. Then he sits, leans backs, and, very slowly, smiles.)

Scene 17

Robin did as she was asked. She did not mention Ann Deems to Dennis. And Robin proceeded with something else that had been only suggested, Ann Deems's death.

Dennis had said, hadn't he, that he wanted to be free of her? Had said that he was bound by her for as long as she lived? Well then, the only way to free him was to end that life, end it in a way that would appear to be an accident.

Robin had never before harmed anyone, nor intended harm to anyone, and the realization that she now planned to kill a fellow human being strangely enough did not shock or dismay her. The deaths of Tommy Werton and Harry Ruhl had inured her to blood, and the thought of losing Dennis had inured her to the shedding of it. She had long heard that anyone is capable of murder, but had not really believed it. But now she knew that there was a limit, and she had been pushed to hers. Ann Deems had pushed her to it. Therefore, it followed that Ann Deems had to die, and die in a way so that Robin would not be suspected, and, even if suspected, would not be convicted. It was a situation more easily fancied than conceived, and several days passed before the plan began to formulate itself in Robin's laboring brain.

It was created by Ann Deems herself, born of an overheard comment of hers made to Donna Franklin. "The star ceiling is just incredible," Ann said. "I'd love to see how it works. How do you get up there?"

"There are catwalks," Donna answered. "Ask Sid or Curt sometime. I'm sure they wouldn't mind taking you up."

The catwalks. Robin had been up there only once. Two feet wide, they crisscrossed the area above the ceiling like a checkerboard made of wood. There were no handrails, nothing to stop the unwary from falling off onto the plaster two feet below. But once someone fell, they would not simply stop at the plaster, no. They would go through that fragile coating, break through the ceiling, and plummet to the floor of the theatre. There was a layer of chicken wire on top of the plaster, but Curt had told her that it was only wishful thinking that it could catch and hold the weight of a falling stagehand.

Or even, Robin considered, the lighter weight of a bitch.

"So what's the occasion?" Dennis asked John Steinberg. "The last time you took me to lunch was when the theatre sale was wrapped up."

Steinberg smiled. "Special times, Dennis. I only wish that this town had someplace a bit fancier than the Kirkland Inn. But it's the gesture that's important, I suppose, and not the quality – or lack of same – of the food." He took his wine glass, swirled the liquid, sniffed, and drank. " Craddock is now fully financed, Dennis. Completely backed. We have every cent we need."

A grin spread across Dennis's face. "That's wonderful, John. You've done a fabulous job."

Steinberg shrugged. "I do what I'm paid for."

"No, you do it because you love it."

"And I love it because I'm good at it. But whatever the reason, the company should be able to come in at the end of March as scheduled." He pursed his lips. "Now that the good news is over, I've got a question for you."

"Yes?"

"Supposing we hadn't been able to raise enough money. Would you have financed it?"

"No."

"You would have let the project die? Something you've been planning for years.”

“Yes."

"Do you mean that? We both know that three million dollars would put only a slight dent in your resources. If the show didn't make a cent, you could still afford to lose it."

"I won't do a vanity production. I've told you that. I won't have people saying that Dennis Hamilton is financing this show so that he can direct it. If we couldn't have raised the money from investors, I'd…”

"You'd have what? Sold the theatre? Forgotten about everything? Began your second retirement at forty-three?"

"Maybe."

"My ass you would've. But that same concern brings me to my next subject. The next show."

"Aren't we getting a little ahead of ourselves?"

"I don't think so," Steinberg said. "We'll be staging Craddock beginning in May. Three months here, then opening in the city. If it succeeds, we'll have no problem getting backing. If it fails, not that I expect it to, but if it does, we may have problems. You won't consider using your own funds, I take it?"

"No. Not out of penuriousness, John, but out of -"

"I know, I know, sheer pride. Then may I suggest what I think would be a spectacular fund raiser? What if, for one night only, right here in the theatre where he had his birth, we resurrected the Emperor?"

Dennis was silent for a moment. "I don't understand."

"One final performance of A Private Empire. Twelve hundred seats, and each seat reserved for an investor of $5000."

"No, John." The reply was unequivocal.

"Dennis. That's six million dollars. We can stage one performance for less than seven figures. The second show would be instantly financed."

"I said no. I've given my last performance as the Emperor. How long do you expect me to keep beating a dead horse?"

"Dennis -"

"No, John. I'm surprised you'd even ask me that. I won't even consider it. That part of my life is over. The Emperor is dead." Dennis drained his wine glass. "He's dead."

~* ~

It's here, isn't it… yes, right where she left it, here in the top drawer of her desk.

Pretty thing. Look how it smiles at me. And look how its other face frowns. Comedy and tragedy, those two great extremes of life without which there is no drama.

No drama. Terrible thought. But there will be drama now, when the dear lady finds this pin where it should not be, oh yes, there will be such drama.

And I think it will be tragedy.

~* ~

The next morning, Robin found Ann Deems's pin in the Hamiltons' bedroom. She knew it was Ann's because she had seen her wearing it the previous day, had noticed it when Ann had come in in the morning. It was a small but striking piece, a representation of the masks of comedy and tragedy. Robin knew jewelry, having received fine items all the years she was with Dennis, and she could tell that the pin was expensive. What she would not have been able to tell was that, like her own pieces, this one had been a gift from Dennis as well.

Robin had been about to enter John Steinberg's office for a minor business matter when she heard Sid's voice from Ann's office and stopped.

"Very pretty pin."

"Thank you," Ann said. Robin thought she sounded uncomfortably self-conscious, and wondered why.

"I think I remember it."

"Do you?"

"Dennis gave it to you, didn't he? Way back when?"

"Way back when," she repeated, and Robin felt a chill in her heart. "Do you think it's smart to wear it now?" Sid asked.

"I… I don't know." Ann gave a little laugh. "I hadn't really thought about it.”

“Maybe you should. It might send a signal that shouldn't be sent."

"Sid, I -

"No, Ann, listen to me for a minute. Now I don't know how you feel about Dennis, but I love the man. Like a brother. That's why I've put up with him all these years. He's been… troubled lately, and I think you've been a part of it."

"Sid, nothing's happened between Dennis and me."

Lying little bitch!

"Good. I hope it stays that way."

Robin could listen to no more. She turned, and quickly and silently walked away.

And now here was that pin, the subject of that hated conversation, on the bedside table, nearly hidden beneath the clock radio. How had it gotten there? There were two possible explanations. The first was that Ann Deems had given it back to Dennis, a gesture intended to end whatever relationship still existed between the two of them. The second, and the one to which Robin subscribed, was more realistic, utterly vivid. She could both see and hear how it had happened:

God, God, how I love you.

Oh, hold me, hold me, Dennis.

Ow! What the hell…

My pin, just my pin. Here, let me take it off…

Yes, the pin first, and then the sweater, and then everything, and the two of them fucking like dogs on her bed…

Her bed, the bed she shared with Dennis, with her husband, God damn it!

Robin clutched the pin so tightly in her hand that it hurt her, and when she unclenched her fist, she saw the impressions of the two faces, a smile and a sneer, on the pale skin of her palms. And as those four faces, the two of gold, the two of flesh, looked up at her, the plot fell into place, and she knew that this pin had been given to her for a purpose, and that purpose was to end Ann Deems's life.

"I understand you'd like to see how the star ceiling works."

Ann Deems looked up from her desk and saw Robin standing in her doorway. She was surprised. The woman had not spoken to her for weeks, and Ann doubted if she ever would again. Yet here she stood, smiling, seemingly as friendly as anyone else in the Venetian Theatre. Ann smiled back and shrugged. "Yes, I would. Sometime."

"How about now?" Robin said.

Ann looked at her watch. There was only a quarter of an hour remaining in the lunch break. "Could we make it by one?"

"Sure. There's not a lot to see, really, but what there is is interesting."

Ann thought for a moment. There was no reason not to, since she was with the boss's wife if she was late getting back. Besides, Donna had never been a stickler for punctuality, and often returned late from lunch herself.

Another reason for going was that she didn't want to refuse Robin. She had been feeling guilty over her desire for Dennis, unfulfilled or not, and a chance to form even this tenuous bond of friendship with his wife was not something Ann wanted to let slip past her.

"All right," she said, and got up from her chair.

Got you, you bitch, thought Robin, slipping her hand into the pocket of her slacks. Yes, the pin was still there. Though Robin was an actress, she needed no false emotions to make her smile and chat cheerily with Ann Deems as they walked up the flights of stairs that led to the ceiling. Robin was happy for the first time in ages.

It would be so easy now. Just a push, a jostle, and over the side she goes, those heels of hers cutting right through that plaster, and then down, down, all the way down to those nice soft seats below, but those seats won't be so soft from seventy feet in the air, will they? She hoped that Dennis would still be in the auditorium when it happened, not to hurt him, but so that he would see, would see her as she died, so that he would see and be free.

“… think they like it?" Ann was saying.

"I'm sorry?"

"Ted and Amy Lander, do you think they like the theatre?" The Landers, a husband and wife film production team and one of the biggest investors in Craddock, had missed the party in October. This week, however, they had flown to New York from the coast on business, and had made a day trip down to Kirkland to visit Dennis and see the theatre about which they had heard so much.

"I'm sure they do," Robin said, opening the door to the projection booth. "What's not to like? Besides, they love Dennis." She took a beat, hoping that the next line was ominous, but not so obvious that Ann would run back downstairs. "Everyone loves Dennis."

Ann made no response, and Robin led her to the end of the booth, opened another door, and went up a spiral staircase that led into the aerie above the ceiling. "Watch your head," she said. And your ass.

They came out onto a small platform, and Robin felt again for the pin, needing to know that it was there, like some magic talisman, a spell that would protect her from harm:

She dropped her pin, officer, it must have come undone, and she stepped off to get it, just stepped off before I could tell her, before I could warn her.

And the pin would be there, wouldn't it? There right beside her body. Because Robin was going to drop it just as she pushed her. She would wipe it free of her fingerprints against the lining of her pocket, hold it by the edges, take it out, push the bitch, drop the pin, and be happy again.

"Can you see all right?" Robin asked. She didn't want her to slip, not until it was time.

"Yes, it's fine."

"Hold on to the girders if you lose your balance. Even if you'd fall off, no harm done. The ceiling's solid." Robin smiled in the semi-darkness at her lie. She didn't want to scare her now. She wanted her to feel safe, so safe that she would be off her guard, so safe that she would be very much surprised when Robin pushed her. "See the bulbs? They're under those little metal plates."

"God," Ann said, "there must be hundreds of them."

"Three hundred and fifty. They're divided between ten and twenty-five watts, so all the stars aren't the same brightness. The stereopticon machine that makes the clouds is right up here. We're almost over the orchestra pit now."

This is where it would happen, because this is where she would fall the farthest. When Ann leaned over for a closer look, that was the time.

"The clouds are on a twenty-inch disc," Robin went on, trying to banish her nervousness by immersing herself in details. "The machine has a thousand-watt bulb."

"It won't go on while we're up here, will it?" Ann asked with a nervous chuckle.

"Oh no," Robin said. "There's no way. Don't worry. We're as safe as can be." The stereopticon was directly ahead of them now. Robin grasped the pin by its edges, took it from her pocket, rubbed it against her slacks. "There's the machine. Here, get ahead of me so you can see it better."

She moved carefully to the side to let the woman edge by her. Ann moved gingerly, but nothing would protect her when Robin made her move.

Robin tensed. Push, drop the pin. Just one little push to make her fall back. Push, drop the pin.

Closer now, nearly next to her…

Push. Drop the goddam pin…

Now, beside her, and she could smell the perfume, the perfume she had smelled in their bedroom, that bitch!

Push!

Now!

And as Robin drew back, she heard the grating sound of rusty metal, and the world exploded into light. Blinded, she twisted away from this new and sudden sun, twisted her body, lost her balance, flailed once with her arms, and fell.

Robin's right foot drove a hole through the plaster and the wire of the ceiling, and she felt her leg shoot down, as though she were being swallowed by some enormous, expanding mouth. She had enough presence of mind to slam her body flat against the surface, which stopped her only long enough for her to feel the plaster crumble beneath her body as she slipped further into the abyss. Her hands scrabbled at the chicken wire, trying desperately to gain a hold while her thighs, her waist slid through, and then, finally, her fingers found a grip that slowed but did not stop her.

The wire bit deeply into the pads of her fingers, and she cried in agony as the ceiling continued to crumble like thin ice. The light still burned above, and silhouetted against its fire she saw a figure reaching down for her, and thought for an instant that she had already fallen and was dead and it was her mother drawing her up into heaven.

But reality returned quickly, and she knew that it was Ann, Ann, who had saved herself from falling, and was now lying on the catwalk, her head and shoulders extended, her arms reaching down to save Robin. And she would take that hand, that help. If she could.

The plaster was crumbling more quickly now, and soon she would fall, fall through the ice and drown in the lake of air. If she let go with one hand, let go and reached up for Ann, she might live. But to let go with the abyss beneath her was more than she could bear. Still, she had to. If she wanted to live, she had to.

A whine of terror squeezed up from her throat, and she tightened the grip of her right hand. Then, with a surge of energy she had thought lost, she threw her left arm toward Ann like a swimmer starting a race.

And just as their fingers touched, she saw Dennis's face looming over Ann's shoulder, a face that glowed with its own light, a face that grinned at her in secret knowledge of what she had intended, and in delighted retribution at the result.

Her hand slipped away from Ann's.

"Reach!" Ann said. "You can do it, you can!"

But she could not. The strength was gone, driven away by the look on Dennis's face, and she hung there by one arm, by a grip slowly weakening. It was all she could do to hold on long enough to get the words out

"Dennis… you bastard…” She took a deep breath and screamed as she fell.

" You royal bastard! "

Ted and Amy Lander watched her fall. They had watched everything from the moment Robin's foot had come through the plaster, pouring a fiery light from the hole above. They had seen Robin slide through the ever-widening hole, had seen Ann reaching down for her, had seen Robin make one last effort to reach her would-be rescuer, had seen her fall.

They saw her twist in the air, heard her scream of anger and anguish, saw her land in the first row of seats, heard her spine break and her neck snap as she struck the hard metal backs of the seats. She died before they were by her side.

Ted looked upward to where the light blazed down as though from some attic of hell. He could not see the other person. "Are you all right?" he called.

"Yes," came a weak voice from overhead. "Yes…”

"Dennis?" Ted called, then louder, "Dennis!" He turned to Amy, who was crying, her hand clasped over her mouth. "He went to the office, can you find the office?"

Ted asked her. She only shook her head. "Hello? Anyone?" Ted cried, and was immeasurably relieved to see someone he took to be a janitor come down the steps from the stage.

"Sweet Jesus," Abe Kipp muttered. "Oh my God… Mrs. Hamilton."

"Go to the office," Ted said. "Get Dennis. And an ambulance. Hurry up, man!" Abe nodded, then ran up the aisle toward the lobby.

Dennis knew that something was wrong as soon as he saw Abe Kipp's face. It was the same gray, ashen color that it had been when Harry Ruhl had died. "Mrs. Hamilton," Abe blurted out. "There's an accident."

Dennis heard the intake of breath from Donna Franklin, saw John Steinberg's knuckles whiten. The office seemed ominously still. "Is she dead?" he asked.

Abe swallowed and nodded. "Yes sir. I think so."

Later, Dennis did not remember walking down the stairs and into the auditorium. He only dimly remembered weeping, lifting Robin's broken body off the seats with Ted Lander's help, laying her gently down on the thickly carpeted aisle, sitting there next to her. As he sat and waited for more people to come, he noticed a piece of jewelry under a chair. He picked it up, saw that it was a pin, and thought that it seemed somehow familiar. He held it and sat by Robin's side until a doctor came and gave him an injection of something. He didn't even feel the needle enter his skin. The sedative made him sleepy, but he would not let himself sleep, and he would not leave Robin's side. He rode to the hospital in the ambulance with her. When they arrived, they gave him another injection, and this time, try as he would to remain awake, his eyes closed and he slept without dreaming.

He awoke in darkness, the feel of an unfamiliar bed and stiff sheets beneath him. Only semi-conscious, he made his way to the line of light that marked the bottom of a door, pushed it open, and pressed his eyes closed against the fluorescent glare of a hospital corridor. He realized that he was dressed only in his underwear, then remembered why he was there – that Robin was dead, and he had most likely been in shock.

Dennis stumbled back into the room and let the door drift shut behind him. As the light left him, he thought of the light that had left his life, thought of Robin. He did not think of her anger, of her jealousy. He remembered only her goodness, her kindness, the help she had been to him, the joy she had brought, and he wept again, but not in shock. He wept from her loss and for her pain.

When he finished, he found the light switch and flipped it on, got dressed, and left the room. A nurse at her station looked at him wide-eyed. When he said, "I'm Dennis Hamilton. I'm all right now. Where is my wife?" her eyes got even wider.

"Just… wait here a minute," she said, and picked up a telephone.

Dennis did not wait to learn who she was calling. He walked down the corridor until he found an elevator, rode to the ground floor, and went outside, where he confirmed that he was indeed in the Kirkland Medical Center, a slab of steel and glass that sat on the site of David Kirk's long dried up spring. It was a mile from the heart of Kirkland, and he decided to walk. Along with inconsolable grief, he felt an overwhelming desire for activity, to shake off the effect of the sedative, to lessen his sorrow by moving.

He was exhausted before he had walked two hundred yards. At a phone booth on a corner he dialed Sid's number, and asked him to come and pick him up. Sid was there in ten minutes.

"How did it happen, Sid?" Dennis asked him in a thick voice.

"She fell off the catwalk when the light went on," said Sid, his eyes on the road.

"What was she doing up there?"

"Showing Ann the star set-up."

“… Ann? She and Ann were up there together?"

Sid nodded. "Ann was still up there when Munro and the police went up to look around. She was lying down, holding on to the catwalk for dear life. They finally talked her into coming down. She's all right now. Terri took her home." He sighed, and his voice grew softer. "Ted and Amy saw the whole thing. Robin slipped through, Ann tried to save her, but… the ceiling just fell away beneath her, section of wire came apart, and… I'm sorry, Dennis. She was a wonderful girl."

They rode in silence until Sid drove the car down the ramp and into the garage beneath the theatre. When the motor stopped, Dennis said, "How did the light come on?"

"Nobody knows. That's the thing of it. Nobody knows."

Goddammit, somebody knew, thought Dan Munro savagely. It was after two o'clock in the morning and still he could not sleep. He prowled around his basement rec room like a caged tiger, bound by the limits of his imagination. There had to be an answer somewhere, had to be a pattern. There had been just too damn many "accidents" to be coincidental – first the Werton kid, then Harry Ruhl carving himself open, and now Hamilton's wife taking a high dive.

He picked up the clipboard on which he had scrawled his notes. At the time that hot light had gone on, everybody had an alibi except for two people – Dennis Hamilton and Ann Deems. Hamilton because he was supposedly on his way to the offices to get some paperwork to show the Landers, and Ann Deems because the only other person she was with was now dead. Besides, she couldn't have turned on the light from the front of the ceiling. The only switch was in the projection booth. Even assuming that there was some collusion between Hamilton and Ann Deems, there seemed to be no way that he could have left the Landers, gotten up to the booth, turned on the light at just the right time, and then scurried back down to the offices to be there at the time Donna Franklin and John Steinberg said he was.

Besides, the Landers had sworn that the Deems woman had tried to save Mrs. Hamilton. "She was leaning over so far she almost fell herself," Ted Lander had said, and his semi-hysterical little wife had backed him up.

But what bothered Munro most was the pin that they removed from Hamilton's hand when they took him to the hospital. Both Steinberg and Donna Franklin had said they saw him pick it up near Robin Hamilton's body. Ann Deems had identified it as hers, but said that she had lost it the day before, and had no idea how it had gotten where Hamilton had found it.

Neither did Munro, and that fact was driving him crazy.

He looked at his list of possibilities again. Maybe Ann Deems had pushed Robin Hamilton, then changed her mind and tried to save her. But then who had turned the light on, and why? The sudden blaze of light would have blinded Ann Deems as well as Mrs. Hamilton. Then maybe a third person was up there, turned on the light and pushed the victim? Physically impossible. Besides, everyone except Hamilton had a firm alibi.

It always came back to Hamilton, though he could have had nothing to do with it and keep on the time schedule that had been established. Ted Landers said that less than a minute had passed between the time Hamilton left them and when Robin Hamilton shot through the ceiling. Munro himself had tried sprinting from the inner lobby up the flights of stairs to the projection booth, and his best time had been two minutes.

But if Dennis Hamilton had had nothing to do with it, then why had Robin Hamilton called her husband's name before she fell? A cry for help? Maybe. But both the Landers and Ann Deems said that she had cried out something else, though none of them had been able to make out the words.

What the hell had she said? And where had the pin come from? Munro was convinced that if he knew the answer to those two questions, he'd feel a lot less stupid than he did.

What the hell, he wondered for the hundredth time that long, cold night, had she said?

You royal bastard!

Dennis shuddered into wakefulness as the cry reverberated within his mind. He sat up in the darkness, hearing its echoes die away. Robin's voice. Had he been dreaming? The words had seemed so real.

He turned on the bedside lamp. The space beside him was empty, and with a terrible ache he realized that it would remain so. Robin was dead, and he was filled with grief.

But why had he heard her voice?

The glowing numerals of the clock read 3:17 A.M. He had been sleeping for only an hour. When Sid had helped him onto the bed, it had seemed to embrace him, drown him in its softness, and he fell asleep so quickly he did not remember Sid leaving the room.

Dennis stood up, slipped on a dressing gown, and walked down the hall into the living room, where Sid, snoring softly, was lying on the larger of the two couches. Dennis tiptoed past him and went out the entrance to the suite, then made his way to the balcony level of the theatre.

The curtain was raised, and the auditorium was dimly lit by the work lights backstage. Dennis walked down the stairs to the first row of the loge and sat down. Then, finally, he looked toward the ceiling. A large hole gaped overhead, as though God's wrath had ripped the sky apart. Fragments of plaster clung to dangling wire, the same wire, Dennis thought, that Robin had clung to, trying to keep from falling, falling…

He looked down. Although the fallen plaster had been cleared away, two of the chairs in the first row were broken, their backs shattered, their seats lolling like exhausted tongues. Something moved then, and Dennis stiffened, felt ice freeze his spine.

"Robin?" he whispered. "Robin?"

The movement came again, and he saw now that it was the cat, insinuating herself around the legs of the broken chairs, sniffing at something on the floor, looking up at him, sniffing again, taking a tentative lick at the stained plush of the seats, then licking a paw, washing her ear, sniffing still again.

He turned his head away, looked back toward the ceiling, and heard, very dimly, Robin's voice -

You royal bastard!

For an instant he thought he could see her falling, turning in the air, seeing it as it must have been.

But he was not seeing it from where he sat. Instead he was seeing it as if from above, seeing her falling back and away from him, growing smaller and smaller, her face glaring venomously at him until she hit the chair and the head snapped back, out of his view.

Seeing the body from high above, looking over…

Over Ann's shoulder.

No! He was not there! He had not seen, had not heard her as she cried out her last final accusation. But how did he know? How could he see?

How could he hear?

You royal bastard!

He leaped to his feet, ran up the steps, then down the ramp to the mezzanine lobby, where he stood, clamping his fingers onto the cold brass of the railing overlooking the main lobby, fixing his eyes upon the complexities of the painted and bas-relief ceiling, the mythical entities frolicking above, the chariots and cherubim. He stood, trying to recall the sound of intermission audiences, the chattering, the laughter, the sound of ice rattling in plastic glasses, trying to banish that final cry of denunciation -

You royal bastard…

The next few days were a confused and confusing assemblage of meetings and interviews with funeral directors, Chief Munro, and, thankfully, John Steinberg, without whom Dennis would have been lost. He handled everything efficiently and with a minimum of emotion, although he was teary-eyed at their first meeting. He was also instrumental in keeping away the vultures of the tabloid press, going so far as to hire a team of security guards to make sure Robin's funeral service was not infiltrated.

The funeral was held in Kirkland, as both Robin's parents were dead, and Dennis could not bear the thought of her ashes being interred in her parents' plot in Ohio. At least in Kirkland he could visit the columbarium at Springside Memorial Park, and thought that he would do so often. He had loved Robin deeply. That she was the only woman he had never cheated on was, to him, proof of that.

After the service, the theatre seemed unbearably empty. His friends and employees did what they could to cheer him, but after a few days he realized that he could not keep his mind on Craddock, and would have to get away from Kirkland for a time, and decided to visit his parents in Florida. They had not been to Robin's funeral service, nor had Dennis expected them to come, as both of them were confined to wheelchairs. Dennis had bought a house for them on the gulf in Fort Myers, and paid for full time nursing care. So they lived, surrounded by the things they loved, independent and as happy as could be expected, considering their age and health.

Dennis, as usual, found the company of his father neither comforting nor comfortable, but he had long talks with his mother on the deck overlooking the gulf, and they helped clear his mind. He also walked on the beach alone, thinking through the circumstances of Robin's death. Knowing Robin's dislike and jealousy of Ann, it seemed to him inconceivable that she would have taken Ann into the ceiling just for the sake of kindness. Also the presence of the pin led him to believe that Robin may have lured Ann into the ceiling to…

No. He could barely admit the thought to his mind, let alone voice his suspicions to anyone else. He had loved Robin, and that would not change, whatever her motive for taking Ann into the ceiling. Whatever she had done, he, in a way, had forced her to. She had known of his attraction to Ann Deems, and, knowing it, she could not live with him as long as it was a part of him. But if there were no more Ann Deems. ..

The thought came, and he pushed it back. He could not believe that this gentle girl whom he had loved for her kindness and thoughtfulness could have planned such a thing. It was not true. It was not.

But whether it was or wasn't was moot. Robin was dead, and Dennis felt guilt over her death, not only because he suspected he was the cause of the circumstances that led to it, but also because his feelings for Ann had not changed. In fact, he felt more deeply toward her than ever, and had been staying away from her on purpose.

He was afraid that he had snubbed her at the funeral, though it had not been his intention to do so. It was simply that he was not yet ready to be unfaithful to Robin's memory, and had a great fear that, if he looked too closely or for too long a time at Ann, people would read in his face what he felt in his heart. An actor, he was used to wearing his emotions, or what passed for them, on the outside.

After two weeks in Florida, he felt revitalized, and ready to return to Kirkland and the Venetian Theatre. Whatever awaited him there, professionally or emotionally, he could now deal with. The change of scene had done him good, and he felt better than he had in months. It seemed, in a way, almost unnatural.

~* ~

When Dennis arrived at the tiny Kirkland Airport, after a commuter flight that jostled him all the way from Baltimore, he did not call Sid Harper to come and pick him up. Instead he took a taxi and had it drop him off in front of the Venetian Theatre's blank marquee. He paid the driver, stood for a moment in the cold, and then, his flight bag over his shoulder, began to walk around the massive complex that housed the theatre and his home.

His thoughts were full of Robin. He recalled the first time they visited the theatre together, the excitement on her face, his realization, mirrored in her eyes, that this was the perfect home for the venture that had been their dream for several years. He remembered their moving in, their taking possession of the place, nights spent together in their suite, and most recently her reading pages from Craddock to him, singing the songs at the piano, smiling, laughing, loving and caring for him.

And now that was over, over in the seconds of time it had taken her to fall through the air and break her body on the floor of the theatre, their theatre.

Dennis sighed and turned into the outdoor plaza. In the cold and the night, he sat on one of the stone benches and looked up at the dark windows of his suite. In the glow of the street light he could see the balcony and the large French doors that led inside, imagined Robin there, waiting for him as she should have been, as she would have been if all this had never happened, if he had not been weak and filled with old love.

Then, just as his impossible memory of her cry of accusation had frozen him days before, so did he feel the chill of more than the freezing weather as he saw something move behind the glass above. There was only the slightest hint of motion, and he thought for an instant that it might have been the reflection of blowing branches, but realized that there was no wind. The air was dead.

Dennis stood up and moved back out of the street light's gleam. Now he could see that a light shone dimly behind the glass doors. He watched, and in another minute he saw the movement again. Someone was slowly pacing in front of the doors to the balcony. His first impression that it was Robin's spirit was, he saw now, erroneous. The figure was far larger than Robin's petite frame. It looked tantalizingly familiar, but from just the bits of motion he could glimpse he knew that it was not Sid, nor John Steinberg, nor anyone who lived in the Venetian Theatre building. Then who? Someone he knew, he was certain of that. Someone he knew.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he started quickly toward the nearest entrance for which he had a key, unlocked it, and entered. It took several minutes for him to wend his way through the corridors and up the stairways, but soon he stood outside the door of his suite, listening. He could hear nothing inside, so he took a deep breath, fit his key into the lock, and pushed open the door.

The suite was not altogether dark. A ginger jar light was turned to its lowest illumination, bathing the room in a fifteen watt glow. Dennis listened again, and let the door close softly behind him. "Hello?" he said, but there was no answer.

Trembling slightly, he pressed the light switch on the wall, and the room grew bright. There was no one there. Warily, he went from room to room, opening doors, turning on lights, even looking into closets, but the suite was empty save for himself.

He went back to the front door then, and locked and double locked it. Then he called Sid.

"Dennis, Jesus, you should've let me know you were coming back early. How'd you get here?"

"Took a cab. Listen, Sid. Was anyone in here tonight?"

"In here? What, your suite?"

"Yes. I thought I saw someone from the street."

"Not a soul, Dennis. I was in a couple of hours ago to straighten things up.”

“Did you leave a light on?"

"Yeah, one of the lamps in the living room, why?"

"Nothing. I'm just a little jumpy, I guess."

There was a pause. Then Sid asked, "You need someone to talk to?”

“No, I'll be all right. I'm tired. Just want to take a bath and go to bed."

"You have a good trip?" The words Did it help? were unspoken but understood.

"It was fine. It helped a lot."

"Good. That's good. Look, if you want anything, just call."

"Thanks, Sid. You're a good friend. Goodnight."

Dennis hung up, turned off the lights in the living room so that just the ginger jar glowed weakly, then went into his bedroom. Not bothering to unpack, he stripped off his clothes and took a near scalding bath.

He was toweling himself dry when he heard it. The sound of someone clearing his throat. A familiar sound, and Dennis knew unequivocally that whoever was in the suite was known to him. He took his robe from the hook, slipped it on, and looked around for something he could use as a weapon. The only thing at hand was a heavy antique wood hand mirror on Robin's vanity. He hefted it like a club, praying that he would not have to use it, and opened the bathroom door.

He prayed too that it would not be Robin he would see, Robin staring at him with dead and accusing eyes. The thought made him shiver as he moved down the hall, coming closer to where he could see into the living room, see in the dim light who was there waiting for him.

Then he rounded the corner, and saw.

It wasn't Robin.

(The scene is the living room of Dennis Hamilton's suite. It is dimly lit by a single lamp. DENNIS HAMILTON stands stage right at the entrance to the hall. Beside the portrait of Dennis as the Emperor stands THE EMPEROR, dressed exactly as in the portrait. He smiles at Dennis.

THE EMPEROR

Hello, Dennis. You don't know how long I've been waiting to meet you.

(The mirror falls from Dennis's hand and shatters. They stand, looking at one another.)

CURTAIN.