Reign, p.21
Reign, page 21
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.
ACT II : CREATOR
A man's soul was his own enclosed garden, nothing could obtain admittance there without his invitation and permission.
— "Naboth's Vineyard," E. F. Benson
Scene 1
(DENNIS and THE EMPEROR are in the exact positions that ended Act I. There is a long pause.)
DENNIS
(In a voice filled with fear and awe) Who are you?
THE EMPEROR
(Smiles) Who do you think I am?
DENNIS
You're not me.
THE EMPEROR
I'm part of you. I'm something you created — out of yourself.
DENNIS
This isn't real. I'm imagining it. You don't exist. (He moves toward the Emperor, a hand extended gingerly)
THE EMPEROR
You won't prove it that way. I have no . . . physical existence, I admit that. (He reaches out a hand to touch that of Dennis. Their hands pass through each other, occupying the same space.) Do you feel anything?
DENNIS
No . . . yes, something . . . cold.
THE EMPEROR
Sad, isn't it? Something so full of hot life as myself, and I can only be felt as cold.
DENNIS
What . . . are you?
THE EMPEROR
Your creation. Your child, born of your performance. Born of its strength and its reality.
DENNIS
My creation? How . . . how could that happen?
THE EMPEROR
You created the Emperor, Dennis. On stage. Year after year, night after night, the strength of your performance formed me. You were never, as you have said to that woman who thinks she teaches acting, an interpreter. You were always a creator.
DENNIS
(Confused and upset) I don't see . . . I still don't see how such a thing . . . how you could come to be. Outside of my mind. That's where you belong — in my mind, nowhere else!
THE EMPEROR
Perhaps I'm the first of my kind. A . . . what shall I say? A histrion, perhaps?
DENNIS
But how?
THE EMPEROR
You became another person so many times, and so effectively, that that person became an independent entity. Me. (He smiles. There is no trace of menace in it)
DENNIS
That can't happen — there's no way that can happen. It would take more than a . . . a performance to bring something like . . . like you to life.
THE EMPEROR
Oh, of course. Of course it took more. Do you have any idea of the power that lives in a theatre? Any conception of the emotions remaining after years and years of people viewing plays, films, becoming involved with what they see on that stage or screen?
DENNIS
(Slowly understanding) Catharsis.
THE EMPEROR
Exactly! Catharsis! And it remains where it is shed, remains as what one might call energy. And the result? Cogito, ergo sum!
~ * ~
I have gone insane, Dennis Hamilton thought, looking at the person, the creature, the ghost, the thing standing near him, there in his living room.
It was there. He saw it, he heard it, he knew he was not dreaming. He may have created it, yes, but if so, he had created it only in his mind. His fingers had slipped right through those of the thing. Wasn't that proof that it was not real?
Wasn't that proof, he thought in a miserable panic, that he was crazy?
~ * ~
THE EMPEROR
(Shaking his head sadly) You don't believe me. You think I'm nothing but an hallucination.
DENNIS
(Firmly) Yes. Yes, that's right.
THE EMPEROR
