"Yes. It took a long time to get there, but I know I can now." He thought for a moment. "I think I can. Of course I don't know what might happen. I don't know how I'll feel when… if I have to face him."
"Maybe you already have. Maybe today was enough."
"Maybe." He kissed her cheek, and said, after a while, "They planned it, didn't they?"
"Who? Planned what?"
"Quentin and John. I suspect Dex was in on it too."
"Dennis…”
"Why else would John have been there right at the time of Quentin's blowup? And why did he drag you along?"
"He just said he wanted to go down and watch some of the rehearsal, and asked if I wanted to go along."
"Asked?"
"Well, he was pretty insistent."
Dennis chuckled. "It worked. It was shock treatment, all right, damned humiliating, but it did work. I was good, wasn't I?"
"You were wonderful. It was even better than in the film. There was a maturity about it, something born of experience."
"It felt good. I'd forgotten how good it could feel when everything was right, when I was really on. It is like I become the character. Only this time I poured my own emotions into it. It was different." He settled his head down further onto the pillow. "Maybe Sybil Creed's been right all along. Maybe you do have to pull things up from your gut… from your soul."
"Evan was proud of you," Ann said.
"I wish he could've seen it."
"Terri told him all about it." She nestled closer against him. "They've become quite the couple, haven't they?"
"Are they sleeping together?"
He felt her nod. "I'm sure."
"Like father like son."
"Like mother like daughter. We must find you Hamiltons irresistible." She sighed. "I just hope they don't hurt each other. There's so much more to love than just sex." Dennis was silent. "Isn't there?" Still silent. "Dennis?"
He turned in the bed, cupped her breast, and spoke in a comic French dialect. "Actually, madame, not at ze moment."
They laughed together, then kissed, Ann forgetting her daughter, Dennis forgetting his son, forgetting also his true and only son, forgetting the Emperor.
From that day until the day of performance, no one had time to be afraid or be concerned over anything but the show. They rehearsed as long and hard as Actors' Equity would allow. The set began to go up on Wednesday, and all the pieces were in place by Friday, when Evan Hamilton finally decided to return to the theatre.
If, he reasoned, his father could overcome the phobia that had been haunting him, then perhaps he could as well. He would, after all, not be alone. Terri, who had been instrumental in bringing him back to the building, told him that she would not leave his side, nor did she want him to leave hers. Though she had not told him specifically what Dennis's double had done to her, he knew that it was because of their previous confrontation that she too disliked being in less than a crowd in the building.
When he entered the theatre with Terri, they did so from the stage door that opened onto a short stairway. Down the stairs was a small green room. Several doors led to dressing rooms, and a corridor led backstage.
"Are you okay?" Terri asked him, touching his cheek.
"Yeah." He nodded. "I feel fine." He took her hand and led her down the corridor to the stage. The set was erected, hiding the auditorium from view. The crew was practicing scene changes, some on the pin rail, others hauling wagons and turntables. In an effort to keep the budget within limits and also save time, Mack Redcay had made the set pieces work manually.
"Do you want to go out front?" Terri asked.
"Sure."
They made their way through the stage right wings, moving around wagons, over furniture, until they reached the proscenium. From the glow that lit the apron of the stage, Evan knew that the house lights were on, and was glad. He didn't know if he could have walked out there in the darkness.
The auditorium was not as he had last seen it. The only people in the audience were the performers, their legs thrown over seat backs and arms, chatting, studying music or lines. Several of them waved to Terri when they saw her, and she introduced Evan to those with whom she had become friends.
Yet all the time he listened to other people speak, or spoke himself, he was wary. He watched for glimpses of movement in the back, and high up in the darker rows of seats. He scanned the faces of the cast, afraid that they would change, grow eyes the size of cups that would displace their other features, eyes that would stare at him, place the fear in him, cut off his breath for good.
Just the thought of it made his breathing more difficult, and he clutched Terri's hand. She looked at him, knew, said goodbye to her friends, then took him back onto the stage, through the wings, and to the stairway that led to the fourth floor costume shop. It was not until they were there that his grip on her hand weakened.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't help but remember." He shook his head. "I want to see the show. I want to be there when he… when he does the show."
"You will be," she said, speaking softly so the other costumers could not hear. "We'll all be there."
"We'd like to have you there, frankly," John Steinberg told Chief Dan Munro, sitting across from him in his office in the Venetian Theatre. "We're technically sold out, but we always keep a dozen or so house seats. I'll have security people there, but they'll be standing, sitting in the lobby, backstage. I hope you'll be able to bring your wife."
Munro nodded. "I'm sure she'd like to see it, but hey, those tickets…" Steinberg waved his hand. "The least we can do. And, as I say, house seats." Munro felt uncomfortably like a charity case. A pair of these tickets equaled a third of his annual salary. "No, listen, I just volunteered to be there, I don't really need seats. I can stand in the back."
"Please, Chief, not another word. And please bring your wife."
Munro nodded wearily. "All right. All right, thanks. So. How've things been going now you're back?"
"Swimmingly. Dennis is in good spirits, the production is coming together very smoothly, and we've had no… mysterious occurrences."
"Thank God for that."
"Have you gotten anywhere with your investigations? Found out who our stalker is?"
Munro wondered if Steinberg had intended that to sound as sarcastic as it did. "No. The FBI's checked their files for any offenders who might have some connection to this theatre or to Mr. Hamilton, but they came up empty. We even checked on Werton's father, with the idea the first one might have been an accident, and then after he got mad at Hamilton he might have caused the others, but he's got solid alibis. So the only real suspect we've got is still Sidney Harper, but since he was in prison there's no way he could have been responsible for the little girl's murder." Munro rested his arms on the chair and rubbed his fingertips together. "So how about you? Any of your people have any brainstorms while you were away? Remember someone you may have fired, somebody who went away mad?"
"No," Steinberg said. "No one like that. We're very nice. We don't send people away mad."
By the end of the day Friday, Dennis Hamilton was exhausted but happy. His talent had returned to him, he was with the woman he loved, his son was nearby, and the Venetian Theatre seemed beautiful and safe and full of promise for the first time in months.
He and Ann dined together in the Kirkland Inn. A few members of the Private Empire company were at other tables, but Ann and Dennis were isolated enough so that they could talk without being overheard. When the dessert dishes were removed and sherry was served, he took Ann's hand and looked into her eyes in the candlelight. "Do you know how much I love you?" he said.
"I think so."
"You know, a few weeks ago, in New York, I actually thought of.. . of ending it. Of doing away with myself."