Reign (47 page)

"You're leaving?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ * ~

Good evening. (
He smiles smugly
.)

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

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

Yes. He'll be fine.

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

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

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

That's a lie.

It's not.

Evan looks exactly like me.

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

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

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

Yes.

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

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

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

I'll beat you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes. For one performance."

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

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

~ * ~

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

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

My son
, he thought.
Are you my son?

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

It was there. They had typed him. B.

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

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

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

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

~ * ~

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

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

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

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

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