burned out, that was all. In a minute Curt would be back, would see what had happened, and would come on stage with a flashlight. Everything would be fine.
Still, Evan was uncomfortable enough to pull his feet back from over the edge of the pit. He didn't like the idea of them dangling into darkness.
But was it completely dark? Usually a theatre's darkness was like that of caves – total and unrelenting. You could not even see the deeper darkness of your hand in front of your face. But Evan thought that there was light coming from somewhere, and he called out.
'Hello?… Hello, is anyone there?'
There was just enough light now to make out the great curves of the loge and balconies above. But where was it coming from?
Then he became aware of a sound he had not heard in years, a dull drone, as of some giant hive filled with huge bees, punctuated by an occasional higher-pitched tone. When he realized what it was, his bowels turned to water.
An audience.
The murmur went on and on, its sound terrifying him with the knowledge that out there in the dark were people, people sitting and facing him, and only that blackness, once feared, was what kept their eyes from him. He wanted to get up, to run off the stage, but his legs refused to move, his arms would not push him erect. And then, from high up in the booth, the light started to grow, one light, bright as flame, blinding him as it must have blinded Tommy Werton before the curtain fell on him, but Evan would not step back, even if he had wanted to. He was incapable of motion.
And now the sound, that doleful buzzing of the hive, diminished slowly into a flat silence, and he knew they were looking at him, at him alone, staring with their thousand eyes, listening with their thousand ears, waiting for him to speak or scream.
But he could not scream. Only a thin whistling sound escaped from his throat as he struggled to take in the air that refused to enter his terror-filled lungs, the air that would not go to his screaming brain, the air whose absence brought a dark and blessed curtain down over Evan's consciousness, but not before the light began to grow on the audience as well, and he could see them, thousands of them, filling every seat in the vast theatre, from the first row not ten feet away up, up to the soaring reaches of the balcony where they became lost, coalesced into a single distant mass of flesh and clothes and eyes, for that was all there was to their faces – no mouths, noses, cheeks – only eyes, staring, waiting. And the horrible buzzing began again, and he wondered, just before he fell into the pit of their need, how can they speak without mouths?
Scene 3
Dan Munro, with three of his officers, had come to the Venetian Theatre to perform their search of the premises. When they entered the auditorium, they found the work lights on and Evan Hamilton lying unconscious on the floor of the stage. The officers, all of whom were trained in CPR, immediately went to work on the boy, while Munro ran to the backstage phone and called 911 for an ambulance, which arrived only five minutes later. The medics found Evan breathing, and correctly diagnosed his condition as a severe asthmatic attack accompanied by a state of shock. They lost no time in bundling him into the ambulance and transporting him to the Kirkland Medical Center.
While the ambulance pulled away from the theatre, sirens screaming and lights ablaze, Dan Munro talked to Curt, who had returned with his lunch as the officers were laboring to keep Evan's breath flowing. 'I couldn't have been away for three minutes,' he said. 'I don't know what the hell happened. He was fine when I left. And now… oh Christ… is he going to be okay?'
'I think so. Unless there's something else wrong they didn't spot,' said Munro. 'You didn't see anybody in here?'
'No, no one.' Curt gave a bitter laugh. 'There aren't that many of us left.'
John Steinberg called the prison before Dennis's visit with Sid was over, and informed Ann about Evan's attack. When Dennis came out of the visiting area, she took his hand and told him that Evan had been taken to the medical center. 'John said not to worry. They think he'll be fine.'
'What was it?' Dennis asked, his face drawn.
'An asthma attack. Pretty bad. He said he was in shock too.' They drove, neither one of them speaking, to the hospital. Dennis pulled the car up to the front entrance, and ran into the waiting area, where Curt and John were sitting.
'I want to see him. Now,' Dennis said.
Steinberg collared a nurse, and in another ten minutes Dennis was in Evan's room. The boy was breathing quickly and shallowly, his eyes closed, but his brows were pressing down in an uneven tempo, as though he was trying to block something from his mind's eye. Dennis pulled up a black plastic and metal chair and sat next to him, taking his moist and clammy hand in his own.
'Evan,' he said softly. 'Evan.'
But the boy neither opened his eyes nor spoke. He only panted like a dog on a hot day, his eyes jerking convulsively behind their lids.
'Evan,' Dennis said again, and continued to say the name, a litany, a prayer to bring his son back to him. 'Evan.'
He sat there for an hour, ignoring the visits of the doctors and nurses, sat there until, just before four o'clock in the afternoon, the boy opened his eyes with a start, looked about him, and saw his father sitting by him, holding his hand. 'Dad?' he said weakly.
'Evan. Hello.' He knew it sounded foolish, but after chanting the boy's name for so long, he did not know what else to say. 'Are you.. . all right?'
Evan took several deep, shuddering breaths, then closed his eyes again. Dennis was afraid the memory of what he had seen, for he was sure that the attack was the Emperor's doing, was driving his son back into the mercies of unconsciousness, but Evan opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling.
'Did you see something?' Dennis asked. 'Something in the theatre?'
Evan nodded slowly. His mouth was open, and he was breathing loudly through it.
'What was it? Was it… me? Some one that looked like me?'
He shook his head. “… people,' he whispered. 'Full of… people… all eyes… watching me…'
'The auditorium,' Dennis ventured, 'was filled with people?'
'Yes.' Evan closed his eyes and began to cry, a terrible, silent crying that made Dennis fear he had lost his breath once more, but in another second the boy sucked in air and let it out again with a wet, bubbling sound that made Dennis picture boiling wells in hell.
'It's going to be all right,' Dennis said. 'You don't have to go back there. You don't ever have to go back. We'll go to New York. I'll take you to New York. You sleep now, just sleep.'
Dennis placed his hand upon his son's forehead, and Evan closed his eyes. In time, his breathing grew less frenzied, and in a while he slept. When Dennis was sure the boy could no longer hear him, he said, 'I love you, Evan,' and left the room.
He did not rejoin his friends immediately. Instead he stepped into a dimly lit stairwell, sat on a step, and thought for a long time about what to do next. Then, when he had made up his mind, he walked to the waiting area.
Steinberg, Curt, and Ann were still there. 'He'll be all right,' Dennis told them. 'He's sleeping now. John, Curt, are you both packed?' They nodded. 'Good. I don't want anyone to go back to the theatre today, but tomorrow Abe Kipp can get our bags. You'll leave Kirkland first thing in the morning. Ann and I will follow you when Evan is fit enough to travel. But we'll come back. We'll come back to do a show.'
Steinberg nodded. ' Craddock.'
'Yes, Craddock. But another show before that. I'm going to take your advice, John. We're going to do A Private Empire. One performance. The final performance.'
