several of the deaths, and if anyone had access to keys, it would be the man who owned the building. The motives were a puzzle, but perhaps, Sid thought, the only motive needed was madness.
For Dennis was mad. He had proven that with his seemingly constant sightings of this psychic double he had told Sid about. Sid had not believed the story, not for an instant. There were no such things outside the limits of Dennis's mind. Sid did believe, however, that Dennis thought this creature was real. He had created it out of guilt, out of frustration with his life, out of God only knew what else. At any rate, he had brought it into being in his mind, and Sid firmly believed that it was Dennis as 'The Emperor' who had killed Donna.
How he had gotten past him, whether he had come through a window or a door or a goddam secret passageway, Sid didn't know. All he knew was that these deaths had to be the work of a maniac, and, as much as he hated to admit it, there was only one person whose behavior put him close to that category.
So when the guard came up to his cell and told him that Dennis Hamilton was there to see him, he didn't know how to feel. He got up stolidly, left the cell, and followed the guard to the visiting room, where Dennis sat on the other side of a heavy glass window. Sid sat down facing him, and waited for him to speak through the microphone.
'How are they treating you?'
Sid shrugged. 'It's jail. It's pretty much like the movies. Not too bad.'
Dennis sat for a long time before he spoke again. 'There was another death last night.'
Sid could hardly take it in. 'What?'
'It was… Whitney.' Dennis swallowed heavily. 'She suffocated. In a pile of costumes.'
Sid's face grew hard even as he felt tears come to his eyes. 'Jesus, Dennis. Jesus.' He would not cry, dammit, he would not. The girl's face came into his mind and he forced it out. Now was not the time for more tears. 'Whitney?' Dennis nodded. If there had been no glass between them, Sid felt he might leap at the man and try to strangle him. 'And do they have… a suspect?'
'Munro thinks it's a celebrity stalker.'
'But you know it's not.'
Dennis nodded. 'That's right. I know who it is now.'
Sid nodded as well. 'The Emperor.'
'Yes. The Emperor.'
Sid jerked his head away. He could not, he felt, look at Dennis any more. Before he had felt mostly pity toward the madness of his friend, but now he felt only hate. Whitney. Dear Christ, how could he have killed Whitney?
'And what about me, Dennis? Do you think I'm safer in here than I would be out there? Do you think… the Emperor would kill me too?'
'I don't know, Sid. I think he might try.'
Sid looked at Dennis. His face was still blank, seemingly devoid of feeling. 'You hate me that much too?'
Dennis shook his head. 'What do you mean?'
'I mean I think you'd try to kill me, Dennis. Not the Emperor. I don't believe in the goddamned Emperor. What I believe in is you.'
Sid's words were pouring out in a desperate torrent. 'Why don't you tell them, Dennis? You need help. Do it now before you… before somebody else dies. Because you know you'll do it again.'
'It's real, Sid. Ann saw it. She heard it.'
'Then she's just as crazy as you are. Come on, Dennis, please, God, you've gotta stop this!' Sid had his hands on the glass now, trying to reach through, to reach Dennis, to make him stop – Donna, Robin, now Whitney, for Christ's sake, all of them, all of them…
Then he felt a guard's hand on his shoulder, a voice saying, 'All right, that's enough, come on now…” and he swung around.
'It's him,' Sid told the guard. ' He's the one who did it, not me … it's him! Make him stop!'
' Sid.' Dennis's voice bit through the air. 'I'll get you out of here. Don't worry. Trust me. Believe in me.'
Sid laughed all the way back to his cell. When the door closed behind him, he began to cry, and did not stop for a long time.
That afternoon, back at the Venetian Theatre, lunchtime had come and gone, unnoticed by Curt and Evan, who were trying to put the theatre and all its systems in mothballs by five o'clock. They were both subdued by Whitney's death, coming so fast upon the heels of Donna's murder and Sid's imprisonment, and both of them, though they did not mention it to each other, were glad to be leaving Kirkland.
If it had not been for Curt's desire to have everything in its place, they could have been finished in an hour or two. Safety dictated that only the electrics needed to be disconnected, but Curt insisted that everything else be stored away where it had been originally, and all backdrops and curtains flown to their original height. Since three days before they had lowered everything to inspect the ropes and battens, they worked from eleven to one putting most of the flown scenery aloft, and when the last teaser was airborne, Curt said that he was hungry. 'Want a sandwich?' Evan offered, pointing to the paper bag with his lunch.
'No, I made one, but I left it upstairs. You, uh, want to come up with me? John said we shouldn't be alone.'
'To get a sandwich? How long's that going to take?'
'I don't think it's smart for anybody to be alone.'
Evan heaved an irritated sigh. 'So you want me to schlepp up all those stairs with you while you get a sandwich? You were alone this morning.'
'I wasn't thinking of myself. I was thinking of you alone down here on the stage.'
'I'll be fine. You'll be gone all of three minutes, right? Look, I'll sit right here on the edge of the stage in front of the proscenium so nothing can fall on me, okay? Besides, I was a goddam Marine.'
Curt nodded. 'All right. Don't go anywhere.'
Evan made himself comfortable on the edge of the stage. There was no danger of falling, for the orchestra pit, raised to its highest level, was only four feet below. He watched Curt trot up the aisle, then settled back on his elbows, thinking about how this was the last time he would see this place.
He had had enough of the Venetian Theatre. The place had become a haunted house. All the deaths had been bad, particularly Robin's, but Donna's had hit him worst of all because of Sid's imprisonment. And then, last night, the little girl… it was no wonder his father wanted everyone out. Evan thought he might have evacuated the place a helluva lot earlier.
He looked out over the hundreds of seats. Yes, he had had quite enough of this theatre, and of his father, and of Terri Deems, who had been the main reason for his remaining there as long as he had. Ever since they had spent the night together, she hadn't had a kind word for him. Now was the perfect time to leave.
Maybe he'd go out to the west coast. He had some friends there, and the place seemed fresher, sunnier than Pennsylvania or New York. Whatever happened, he wasn't going back to Manhattan. He didn't want to be anywhere where there were theatres. They were fine when they were empty, wonderful open spaces that comprised a whole world. He had loved empty theatres when he was little, and he loved them still. The problem was that they didn't stay empty.
Evan shivered as he thought about audiences, those vast, featureless masses of people with one great, demanding face. With the thought alone came the first drowning sensations of his asthma, constricting his windpipe. He forced the thoughts away, made himself relax, and soon he was breathing easily again. He chuckled bitterly as he thought about the Marines and his feeble attempts at command. All he had needed was for a squad to look at him, and the nightmare began. How could you command when you couldn't even breathe?
No, it was the west coast for him, maybe up on the coast of northern California. He had visited school friends there his senior year, and had been impressed with the life style. Maybe he could become a carpenter. He liked working with his hands. Hell, he thought, even a house painter would be fine. Something to get him out in the weather, away from theatres, from the memories of all the faces…
Then the lights went out.
He felt panic for only a moment, then realized that the darkness had a natural explanation. After all, they had pulled electrics all morning. Perhaps the circuit that the remaining lights were on had overloaded. Or a fuse had
