Reign (55 page)

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.

That night, after a celebratory dinner with friends in the Kirkland Hotel's dining room, Ann and Dennis made love for the first time in many days, and lay afterward in each other's arms.

"You know you can do it now, don't you?" Ann said.

"Yes. It took a long time to get there, but I know I can now." He thought for a moment. "I think I can. Of course I don't know what might happen. I don't know how I'll feel when . . .
if
I have to face him."

"Maybe you already have. Maybe today was enough."

"Maybe." He kissed her cheek, and said, after a while, "They planned it, didn't they?"

"Who? Planned what?"

"Quentin and John. I suspect Dex was in on it too."

"Dennis . . .”

"Why else would John have been there right at the time of Quentin's blowup? And why did he drag you along?"

"He just said he wanted to go down and watch some of the rehearsal, and asked if I wanted to go along."

"Asked?"

"Well, he was pretty insistent."

Dennis chuckled. "It worked. It was shock treatment, all right, damned humiliating, but it did work. I was good, wasn't I?"

"You were wonderful. It was even better than in the film. There was a maturity about it, something born of experience."

"It felt good. I'd forgotten how good it could feel when everything was right, when I was really
on
. It
is
like I become the character. Only this time I poured my own emotions into it. It was different." He settled his head down further onto the pillow. "Maybe Sybil Creed's been right all along. Maybe you do have to pull things up from your gut . . . from your soul."

"Evan was proud of you," Ann said.

"I wish he could've seen it."

"Terri told him all about it." She nestled closer against him. "They've become quite the couple, haven't they?"

"Are they sleeping together?"

He felt her nod. "I'm sure."

"Like father like son."

"Like mother like daughter. We must find you
Hamiltons
irresistible." She sighed. "I just hope they don't hurt each other. There's so much more to love than just sex." Dennis was silent. "Isn't there?" Still silent. "Dennis?"

He turned in the bed, cupped her breast, and spoke in a comic French dialect. "Actually,
madame
, not at
ze
moment."

They laughed together, then kissed, Ann forgetting her daughter, Dennis forgetting his son, forgetting also his true and only son, forgetting the Emperor.

~ * ~

From that day until the day of performance, no one had time to be afraid or be concerned over anything but the show. They rehearsed as long and hard as Actors' Equity would allow. The set began to go up on Wednesday, and all the pieces were in place by Friday, when Evan Hamilton finally decided to return to the theatre.

If, he reasoned, his father could overcome the phobia that had been haunting him, then perhaps he could as well. He would, after all, not be alone. Terri, who had been instrumental in bringing him back to the building, told him that she would not leave his side, nor did she want him to leave hers. Though she had not told him specifically what Dennis's double had done to her, he knew that it was because of their previous confrontation that she too disliked being in less than a crowd in the building.

When he entered the theatre with Terri, they did so from the stage door that opened onto a short stairway. Down the stairs was a small green room. Several doors led to dressing rooms, and a corridor led backstage.

"Are you okay?" Terri asked him, touching his cheek.

"Yeah." He nodded. "I feel fine." He took her hand and led her down the corridor to the stage. The set was erected, hiding the auditorium from view. The crew was practicing scene changes, some on the pin rail, others hauling wagons and turntables. In an effort to keep the budget within limits and also save time, Mack
Redcay
had made the set pieces work manually.

"Do you want to go out front?" Terri asked.

"Sure."

They made their way through the stage right wings, moving around wagons, over furniture, until they reached the proscenium. From the glow that lit the apron of the stage, Evan knew that the house lights were on, and was glad. He didn't know if he could have walked out there in the darkness.

The auditorium was not as he had last seen it. The only people in the audience were the performers, their legs thrown over seat backs and arms, chatting, studying music or lines. Several of them waved to Terri when they saw her, and she introduced Evan to those with whom she had become friends.

Yet all the time he listened to other people speak, or spoke himself, he was wary. He watched for glimpses of movement in the back, and high up in the darker rows of seats. He scanned the faces of the cast, afraid that they would change, grow eyes the size of cups that would displace their other features, eyes that would stare at him, place the fear in him, cut off his breath for good.

Just the thought of it made his breathing more difficult, and he clutched Terri's hand. She looked at him, knew, said goodbye to her friends, then took him back onto the stage, through the wings, and to the stairway that led to the fourth floor costume shop. It was not until they were there that his grip on her hand weakened.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't help but remember." He shook his head. "I want to see the show. I want to be there when he . . . when he does the show."

"You will be," she said, speaking softly so the other costumers could not hear. "We'll all be there."

~ * ~

"We'd like to have you there, frankly," John Steinberg told Chief Dan Munro, sitting across from him in his office in the Venetian Theatre. "We're technically sold out, but we always keep a dozen or so house seats. I'll have security people there, but they'll be standing, sitting in the lobby, backstage. I hope you'll be able to bring your wife."

Munro nodded. "I'm sure she'd like to see it, but hey, those tickets . . ." Steinberg waved his hand. "The least we can do. And, as I say, house seats." Munro felt uncomfortably like a charity case. A pair of these tickets equaled a third of his annual salary. "No, listen, I just volunteered to be there, I don't really need seats. I can stand in the back."

"Please, Chief, not another word. And please bring your wife."

Munro nodded wearily. "All right. All right, thanks. So. How've things been going now you're back?"

"Swimmingly. Dennis is in good spirits, the production is coming together very smoothly, and we've had no . . . mysterious occurrences."

"Thank God for that."

"Have you gotten anywhere with your investigations? Found out who our
stalker
is?"

Munro wondered if Steinberg had intended that to sound as sarcastic as it did. "No. The FBI's checked their files for any offenders who might have some connection to this theatre or to Mr. Hamilton, but they came up empty. We even checked on
Werton's
father, with the idea the first one might have been an accident, and then after he got mad at Hamilton he might have caused the others, but he's got solid alibis. So the only real suspect we've got is still Sidney Harper, but since he was in prison there's no way he could have been responsible for the little girl's murder." Munro rested his arms on the chair and rubbed his fingertips together. "So how about you? Any of your people have any brainstorms while you were away? Remember someone you may have fired, somebody who went away mad?"

"No," Steinberg said. "No one like that. We're very nice. We don't send people away mad."

~ * ~

By the end of the day Friday, Dennis Hamilton was exhausted but happy. His talent had returned to him, he was with the woman he loved, his son was nearby, and the Venetian Theatre seemed beautiful and safe and full of promise for the first time in months.

He and Ann dined together in the Kirkland Inn. A few members of the
Private Empire
company were at other tables, but Ann and Dennis were isolated enough so that they could talk without being overheard. When the dessert dishes were removed and sherry was served, he took Ann's hand and looked into her eyes in the candlelight. "Do you know how much I love you?" he said.

"I think so."

"You know, a few weeks ago, in New York, I actually thought of . . . of ending it. Of doing away with myself."

"Dennis —"

"And I think I would've. Everything seemed so futile. I couldn't think, couldn't feel, you know I couldn't act . . . but still, there was you. And I couldn't bring myself to leave you. It was as though . . . as long as you were still there, there was still hope, still something to live for."

"Even if I hadn't been there, Dennis, even if you'd been all alone, you wouldn't have done it. I know you well enough to know that. You're too strong."

"I'm not so sure of that. But you were there. You saved me, Ann, whether you believe me or not. You did save me."

They disengaged their hands and sipped some sherry. "Do you think it's gone? The Emperor?"

Dennis stared into his glass for a long time before he answered. "No. I don't feel him, but I think he's still there. Waiting."

"For what?"

He looked up at her. "For me. For the performance. And it makes me nervous as hell."

"But you're so much better now, your acting's wonderful."

"I can't help but feel that I'm being set up for a fall. I'm still enough of a pessimist to believe that."

"Just do your best. Use what you have. It'll be enough."

He nodded. "I've never been religious, but I've been praying lately. Isn't that funny?"

"No. It's not funny. I think it's fine."

"Well, I figure it can't hurt. I've been praying for their souls too — Robin, Donna, Whitney, all of them — that they'll be at peace." He smiled self-consciously. "There are no atheists in foxholes, huh?"

She smiled too, and repeated his words. "It can't hurt. And it might help. I've always believed it would. Whether you're praying to God or to something inside yourself. Just as long as it's for the good."

"Oh, I'm praying for the good, Ann. If the good is the destruction of the bad, that's what I'm praying for." Then he added softly, "And working for."

~ * ~

Sunday was the final day off before the performance. The weather was glorious, and most of the company drove cars, rented or owned, south to Philadelphia to visit the zoo or watch the Phillies lose again to the Mets, or north to tour the Pennsylvania Dutch countryside of Lancaster County. Terri and Evan went to the baseball game, and invited Ann and Dennis to come along, but Dennis declined. The final four days before the performance would be technical run-throughs and full dress rehearsals with sound, lights, and orchestra, making Sunday the last day he could concentrate purely on his role without technical distractions, the last day he could really work on his character, make sure that everything was just as he wanted it, give it that final polish. Quentin and Dex had agreed to work with him, and the three of them and Ann drove to the theatre after a leisurely brunch at the hotel.

They were the only people in the building. Even Abe
Kipp
would not stay there alone any more. Still, they were in good spirits and unafraid. They began with Dennis's song in Act I, Scene 3, "Do I Do What's Right?" Halfway through the song he stopped and questioned the motivation for several of the moves.

"This gesture on the line, 'Without a
threat
of regret I can close my eyes,' Dennis said, throwing his right arm in the air. "It goes with the music, but it doesn't feel right."

"Dennis, you've done that move for years in this song," Quentin said. "It's always worked. It looks fabulous."

"Well, maybe it
looks
fabulous, but it doesn't feel right. It just doesn't feel like something I'd do."

Quentin eyed him curiously. "
You'd
do? Or the
Emperor
would do?"