Reign (42 page)

"Weeks ago. I feel too tired."

"That's precisely when you
should
exercise. Let's have a dip when we get back."

Though a swim was the last thing that Dennis wished for, he felt incapable of refusing. It was somehow easier to go into the locker room, change into trunks, and join Steinberg in the pool. Dennis marveled at the man's grace in the water, heavy as he was. Steinberg swam laps, dove from the high board, and went for great lengths underwater, breaching the surface and taking in great
lungfuls
of air that Dennis felt would have burst him in two. Dennis, on the other hand, paddled without much vigor back and forth across the pool, resting often, his arms on the cool tile of the pool's edge.

After twenty minutes of exertion, Steinberg pulled himself out of the water for the last time. "Well, I'm sufficiently exhausted for a good night's rest, even after the events of the past day. Join me for a nightcap?"

Dennis shook his head. "No thanks. This feels good. I think I'll just stay in the water a bit longer."

"You'll be all right alone?"

"Why, you think there's something here?" He said it before he even realized it was out of his mouth. It was the lassitude the water caused that made him careless. Steinberg's eyes narrowed. "Something? What do you mean, something?”

“I . . . don't know. I guess I'm spooked, that's all."

"There's nothing here," Steinberg said with more force than Dennis thought was necessary. The three words implied a multitude of sentiments, chief among them that Sid was safely in jail.

"You think he did it?" Dennis asked Steinberg. It was the first time either of them had spoken of it that night.

"Yes. I do. There is no one else." Without another word, Steinberg turned and walked into the locker room, leaving Dennis alone in the pool.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against his arms. "No," he whispered to himself, unable to believe his friend had done what everyone except he and a trusting child thought he had. Even the attorney had seemed dubious that anyone else could have conceivably murdered Donna.

As if to escape from his thoughts, he twisted backward into the pool, immersing his head beneath the water, diving down, down, until his fingers touched the smooth surface of the pool's bottom, then came up again, his eyes still closed against the chlorine, against what he himself was beginning to think was the truth.

But when he opened his eyes, he saw that he had been right after all, saw that Sid was innocent. When he opened his eyes, he saw the Emperor standing by the side of the pool.

He was holding out a towel.

 
(
THE EMPEROR wears his full dress uniform. His skin shows no signs of perspiration from the humidity of the pool. Smiling, he holds the towel toward DENNIS, who, treading water, seems stunned, and afraid to swim any nearer
.)

Not ready to come out? It won't wash off, you know. No matter how long you stay in there.

What . . . won't wash off?

The blood. Your friends' blood on your hands.

You're . . . you're holding it.

The towel? Oh yes. I'm quite capable of corporeality now, no small thanks to you. (
He swings the towel about in demonstration
.) I owe you a great deal, oh creator of mine. I owe you my very existence, of course, but you knew that. What you don't know is that I also owe you lives. Lives that I, in my imperial power, have taken.

(
He is growing tired, continually treading water
.) You killed Donna.

I did.

Why
? For God's sake!

Why? Surely not for God's sake, but for the sake of the Emperor. You see, my friend, you no longer have the strength of will, the force of character required to hold such high office. It is time, my dear fellow, to abdicate to a higher power. Me.

No! It's a character, just a character! There is no emperor!

(
He spreads his arms
) There is now.

Why did you let me think you were . . . harmless?

It amused me to play such a game, to pretend, to perform. After all, was I not
born of performance? Born of an actor? Born of artifice? Yet, in a way my . . . harmlessness was true. My corporeality grew slowly, like a child learning to walk. I pulled the pin that dropped the curtain on that
scheiskopf
of an assistant stage manager — my first physical act, and it exhausted me. There was no way I could physically destroy one of your sycophants — not then — without great care and happy coincidences. But I could be seen, and I could move objects, were they small enough. (
He grins
) Like the servant's knife.

Harry. . . Harry
Ruhl
. . .

Yes. The physician was correct, you know. He did perform those . . . surgeries upon himself. But at my direction, and by my will. He had practically none of his own. His brain was like butter. Your wife, I had hoped, would prove a worthier subject, but she was not. I had merely to drop the suggestion that she destroy your mistress, and she was off like a hound on scent.

You told her to kill Ann?

Nothing so crude. I only opened the portal — she rushed through it. A few subtle clues, a hint of perfume, overheard voices, a lost handkerchief — had she never seen Othello? — and vengeance quite
o'ertopped
her thoughts. I little cared which one perished, though I hoped that only one would, so as to save a treat for later. (
He shakes his head.)
I had no idea you felt so deeply for the girl. After her death my strength was increased fivefold. More than enough to throttle the woman last night.

Oh my God . . .

You have no idea of the pleasure of it — to actually hold a life in your hands, and make it ebb away. The strength I felt, the power, the . . .
reality
.

Everything then. you've done
everything
.

I have indeed. Including the peccadillo with the young wardrobe person. That brought you more than a little grief from your aging mistress, I vow. It was an interesting sensation, but all in all I prefer execution more. Mating is only . . . a
little
death.

(
Near tears
) Why? Why have you done this?

For a simple reason — self-preservation. I wish to live, and to keep growing in
my existence. In order for all things to grow, they must derive strength from
something. And I derive my strength from my creator. As your spirit ebbs, mine grows stronger. Each loss undermines the structure of your life, and makes my dais more solid, my throne more permanent. Soon everyone you love, everyone upon whom you depend, will be taken from you, and Dennis Hamilton will fade away, leaving only the Emperor. And on that day, as Dennis Hamilton became the Emperor, so will the Emperor become Dennis Hamilton.

(
In a voice filled with fury
) You're a liar.

I beg your pardon?

(
Desperately
) You're a liar. I don't know what else you are, but I do know that. I don't even believe in you. Sid was right. You're nothing but a figment of my imagination. Maybe you're a part of me, but you're a part of my mind, nothing more.

You know that's not true. You're only denying a reality that you're afraid of, that you feel ultimately responsible for. I can't blame you. It's such a human trait, but one that, under these circumstances, can accomplish nothing.

You don't
exist
.

So I must prove it. Dear me. (
He looks upward, as though hearing something
.) Very well then. You wish proof? You shall have it. The little girl. Get out of the pool. Run and see. By the time you arrive it shall be done. Do not think to arrive before me, for you take the high road, while I take the low. (
THE EMPEROR vanishes. The towel he has been holding falls to the floor
.)

~ * ~

Dennis did not stop to dress nor to dry himself. Barefoot, dripping, clad in bathing trunks, he ran around the corner into the hall, and savagely pushed the button for the elevator. He had thought of running up the stairs, but the elevator would take less time than a trip up the labyrinthine, curving stairways.

He jabbed the button again, and realized that nothing was happening. He heard no whirring of gears, no whine of cables.
The bastard!
If he had been able to turn the lights on and off with whatever strange powers he possessed, the elevator should be a simple thing to stop.

Dennis cursed, whirled away from the elevator door, and ran toward the steps, his wet feet slapping the carpet beneath. He reached the stairs to the lobby and began to run up them, when the lights went out.

"No!" he shouted, but heard only his voice echoing through the building. One hand in front of him to ward off whatever barrier he might strike, the other clutching the banister, he climbed up the steps in the deep blackness that only cellars can exude. The banister came to an end, dim light was visible, and he knew he was in the first floor hall. In the light that shone through the glass doors from the street lamp outside, he made his way to the door to the lobby, shambled across it, and pushed open the door to a small storage room where, among other things, the ushers' flashlights were kept. He snatched one up, flicked its switch, and ran on, preceded by a weak, yellow beam that he prayed would stay alive.

Up the winding stair he ran to the second floor, then to the third. As he labored up the narrower stairway to the fourth floor, he noticed that the strength of the flashlight's beam was diminishing, and ran faster, so as to beat its imminent failure.

He was not successful. The light winked out just as his foot touched the last step. Surprised, he tripped, banged his shin, stood up, kept moving down the hall, knowing that the costume shop was ahead, that if he kept going straight he would run right into the door. Right hand against the wall, left hand out, Dennis scuffled along, expecting at any moment to bump into the door he sought.

But it did not come, and he thought that perhaps he had taken a wrong turn, or was on the wrong floor, or was trapped in the Emperor's world, in the skewed reality of a mad thing's mind, and that the hall went on forever into the darkness, that there would never be an end to it. Sobbing in frustration and fear, he pushed on, expecting at any moment to feel the floor fall away beneath his feet, plunging him down, down into some nightmare even worse than the one he now inhabited.

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.