Reign (44 page)

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

"Do you save those items?"

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

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

“Of course, if you like."

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

~ * ~

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

"Do you think he's right?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you want?" Steinberg asked.

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

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

"You let Mr. Hamilton tell me that."

"I'm warning you," Steinberg said.

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

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

“Then talk to me."

"I'm
not
talking to you."

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

"That's
enough
," Steinberg said.

"
Talk
to me!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ * ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hardly likely, my dear fellow."

~ * ~

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

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

You monster . . .

I am what you made me.

How could you do that? Kill that little girl?

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

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

(
Magisterially
) I am the Emperor Karl Frederick Augustus.

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

I am the Emperor Karl Frederick Augustus.

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

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

(
A pause
) What do you mean?

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

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

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

You're insane . . .

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

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

~ * ~

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

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

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