Reign (43 page)

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

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

"
Marvella
. . .”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The way is to the destructive element submit yourself."

— Joseph Conrad,
Lord Jim

The rest of the night was chaos, a phantasmagoria of whirling faces, medics working in vain, the omnipresent policemen returning like vultures to worry the dead,
Marvella's
eternal sobbing, the pale, drawn faces and whispered words of Curt and Evan and John, and the stern, dread countenance of Dan Munro, his presence like a bell tolling doom for still another denizen of the Venetian Theatre. Questions were asked, photographs taken, in a dreadful fivefold repetition, and Dennis told only some of what he knew, lying some of the time, keeping the truth to himself, knowing that it would be thought a lie, that he would be thought mad for telling it.

He agreed listlessly when Munro told him that he wanted to meet with him at the station first thing in the morning, and did not see the growing awareness in Munro's eyes, nor feel the solicitude the policeman subtly offered.

Nor did he watch Munro look at him with pity in his eyes as he started to walk toward his lonely suite.

~ * ~

Munro lay awake in his bed for a long time that night. Patty had been asleep when he had come in shortly after one o'clock, and at first he had considered staying up, thinking about it all in his big leather chair, a Coors by his side. But he thought he might think about it better in the dark. Too, he felt as if he needed his wife beside him, needed the knowledge that he had someone he loved and who loved him, and who he need not fear would be taken away from him.

Oh, he had those fears from time to time, but they were only the normal, natural fears of any man for his loved ones — that they would be taken by disease or accident or even a random act of violence. But he did not have the fears that he knew must be possessing Dennis Hamilton. He did not have the precedents that Dennis Hamilton had.

The town of Kirkland averaged .5 homicides per year, but now in only half a year the Venetian Theatre and environs had experienced five violent deaths — one definite murder, one possible suicide, and three "accidents."

No
, Munro thought again,
they were no accidents
. Accidents didn't happen over and over again in one place, to a small group of people. And tonight? The little girl had suffocated, but that she should have done so on her own had been impossible. Self-preservation would have kept her pushing the clothes away from her face. There was no reason for it, just no reason at all short of murder, but to assume that the grandmother had done it was just plain stupid. Her grief had been real, as had been her attempts to bring the little girl back to life. The probability then?

Simple. When the grandmother wasn't looking, when she was in the john, somebody sneaked in and smothered the girl, then left. That story the woman had told about the clothes moving on their own Munro had dismissed as hallucination brought about by panic. It was the only thing
to
believe. Clothes didn't move on their own, not even in the goddamned Venetian Theatre.

And Dennis Hamilton once again had an alibi of sorts, though not a perfect one by any means. There had been one set of wet footprints going up to the costume shop from the pool, a bloody spot on the stairs where Hamilton had apparently raked his shin when the lights went out, and John Steinberg saying that he had left Dennis in the pool just minutes before the time of death. One thing bothered Munro, however, and that was why Hamilton had run up to the costume shop the way he did.

Hamilton's explanation had come in bits and pieces. He said that after Steinberg left he thought he had seen someone else pass in the hall, someone he didn't recognize, and ran out to see who it was. He said he called to the person, but that there was no answer, and that he grew afraid, thinking that it might be the same person who had murdered Donna Franklin. He decided to warn the others, and went to the costume shop first, knowing that
Marvella
Johnson was working late, but the lights failed, which alarmed him further, and he had to get a flashlight in the lobby. When he arrived, the girl was already dead.

Munro believed the story. There was no reason not to. Munro had little doubt that the person Hamilton had seen was the killer, not on his way to murder the little girl, but on his way out after having done so. One more death. One more mindless and motiveless death.

At least there was no motive that any
sane
mind could come up with. And that was what had given Dan Munro his theory.

~ * ~

Dennis Hamilton remained awake through most of the night as well, trying to deal with a reality that could not be, but was. The Emperor had proven himself. Proven himself with Whitney's death.

Dennis gave a shuddering sob and wondered if he had accepted the Emperor, had told him that he believed in him, had begged him to turn back from whatever horrible path he was taking, if the girl would still be alive. But she was not. She was dead, just like Robin and Tommy and Harry
Ruhl
and Donna, whom the Emperor had paraded before him like waxworks in some chamber of horrors.

And wasn't that just what the Venetian Theatre had become?

For an instant the old Dennis Hamilton flared, and he thought,
How dare he? How dare that monster take my dream and turn it into a nightmare? How dare he tread on the bodies of the people I love?

And then the feeling was gone, but the memory of it buoyed him. There was still anger, emotion there, wasn't there? The Emperor had not taken it all. And he would not. He would not use Dennis's strength to harm the very people he loved. No. No more. No more theft. No more deaths.

No more.

~ * ~

The next morning Dennis Hamilton arrived at the police station at nine o'clock. John Steinberg was with him, and Dan Munro guided them into the little room that served him as an office. There were only two chairs, so Bill Davis brought in a folding chair for Steinberg, then coffee for the three of them.

"Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Steinberg," Munro said, "I'm convinced you have a real problem, and one that's not going to stop." He noticed that Hamilton's eyes seemed to light with surprise, but made no comment on it. "I don't think that
any
of the deaths that have occurred in the theatre building have been accidental. I believe
every one
was a premeditated homicide — and that includes Harry
Ruhl's
so-called suicide." He took a deep breath and another sip of coffee, watching for a reaction from either man, but there was none. "You've heard of celebrity stalkers?"

Steinberg murmured, "Yes," and Hamilton nodded.

"I think that may be what we've got here," Munro went on. "I came in early today, and read as much as I could find about it in our law enforcement journals. The situation doesn't fit the pattern perfectly, but it's damn close."

"You mean . . . a stranger?" Steinberg asked. "Someone we don't know?"

"It's possible. Maybe someone you
do
know, if only slightly. A big fan who may be jealous of the people around you, Mr. Hamilton, who'd like to be part of your entourage, and decides to whittle down the competition, or a performer jealous of your success, trying to hurt you through your friends . . . your wife. There are a lot of sick people out there. And a lot of people who don't need much of a reason to kill. Look at that kid who killed Lennon, or the one who shot Reagan — to impress Jodie Foster, for crissake. Celebrities can make weird people do weird things."

"I don't quite see," Steinberg said carefully, "how you suspect murder in all these cases."

"All right. I think that somebody dropped that curtain on Tommy
Werton
. I think Harry
Ruhl
was just plain murdered with that knife. Somebody knew when your wife and Mrs. Deems were going to be in the ceiling, and turned on the light to purposely startle them into falling. We
know
that Donna Franklin was strangled, and the little girl was smothered. It was no accident."

"How do you know that?" Steinberg asked.

"They did an autopsy early this morning, called me with the results. There were bruises and contusions on the girl's inner lips, and her nose was broken. Someone held those clothes over her face."

"Poor thing. Poor little thing." Steinberg grimly shook his head. "But how could this person . . . this stalker, as you put it . . . have access to all these places?" Steinberg asked.

"That's not difficult. He — or she — may have possession of all the keys he needs to get in and out of the theatre. One thing I'd do is have the locks changed —
all
the locks. To your apartments and everywhere else. But the
first
thing I'd do is to search that building from top to bottom. Every tunnel, every forgotten staircase, every room, any nook or cranny where somebody could be hiding."

"You mean you think this person might actually be
living
in the theatre," Steinberg said, "in hiding?"

"It's not likely, but it's possible."

Steinberg gave a dry chuckle without a trace of humor. "I think you may have seen
The Phantom of the Opera
once too often, Chief."

"And I think your situation warrants every precaution at this point, Mr. Steinberg. No offense, but there aren't that many of you left. Your chance of being the next victim is growing by leaps and bounds."

"All right." Steinberg sucked on his lower lip for a moment. "All right with you, Dennis?"

"Of course," Hamilton said. "If there's something there . . . something that can be found, let's find it." He sighed. "It won't do any harm. But does this clear Sid?"

Munro shook his head. "No. There's still the possibility that Miss Franklin's murder was an isolated incident. All the evidence points to Mr. Harper. Even someone with keys can't bolt a door when they're on the other side."

"What about with string?" Steinberg suggested. "I've heard of —"

"Now
you're
reading too many locked room mysteries, Mr. Steinberg. The investigators know all the tricks, and there was no trace of any gimmicks like that. It couldn't have been done, believe me."

"Do you think we should leave the premises?" Steinberg asked.

"Well,
I’d
sleep a lot better, knowing you folks were out of Kirkland, but it might not do any good. This . . . person would just follow you. No. Let me and my men come in and sweep the place, then change all your locks. That's a start. And if you see anyone suspicious hanging around outside the building, give us a call right away. I'd expect this to be someone from out-of-town, someone who followed you here, and we could find that out by questioning them." Munro sat back. "Is there anything you can tell me? Anyone you can think of who might have a reason, no matter how twisted, for doing these things? Any strange fan mail? Threatening notes? Calls?"