Reign, p.30
Reign, page 30
And just when he thought he could not bear to move another step, just as he was on the verge of falling, shrieking, crying, surrendering to whatever the Emperor was, his bare toes battered against a wall, and the pain flung him backwards, down, and he fell hard on the floor, hurting, but thinking he was there, oh Christ, he was there at the end, at the door, and he scuttled on his knees to it, fumbling for the door knob, ignoring the sharp pain of his aching foot, finding the knob, turning it, pushing in, the door opening, and the light going on as if on cue, as if someone had been waiting to illuminate the scene.
In a large and chaotic pile of clothes, Marvella Johnson was sitting like a Buddha, rocking back and forth, tears cutting a trail of ice down her black cheeks. Whitney lay in her arms, unmoving, her face turned away from Dennis, buried in Marvella's wide breast. A soft, irregular, grunting noise came from between Marvella's parted lips, and slowly her massive head came up, looked at Dennis.
"Oh, Dennis," she said, in a soft and dreamy voice he had never heard her use before. "Oh, Dennis, she's dead. . ."
He walked over to the pair as if in a dream. "What happened? Marvella, what happened?"
She shook her head, and it seemed as if she could not stop. "She was playing in the pile of clothes, tunneling through, she's done it lots of times. I went into the bathroom, just went into the bathroom for a minute, and when I came out I looked over and I didn't see her, and called her name. Then I saw the pile moving, but she didn't say a thing, and I thought she was down under, playing a trick on me, and . . . and God help me, I went back to my work. I looked over again, and saw the clothes still moving.
"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."
ACT III: DESTROYER
"The way is to the destructive element submit yourself."
— Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim
Scene 1
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?"
"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."
