Reign

'Hello, Ally?'

'Dennis? Is that you?' Ally sounded, Dennis thought, just as perky and bouncy and unrelievedly west coast as she always did.

'Yes.'

'God, how are you?'

'I'm… all right.'

'Dennis, I'm so sorry about everything. I sent you cards, did you get them?'

He didn't know whether he had or not. 'Yes. Thank you.'

'I would've written, but I had two films back to back, just finished the second one. It shot in Spain. So how are you?' she asked for the second time.

'Fine, Ally. Listen, I wonder if you could give me some help.'

'Sure. Oh, hey, I can't come to your show, though. I start another movie on the 24th, isn't that great?'

'I'm glad to hear you're keeping busy. But look, you remember when we talked about… was it Ranthu? The night… Tommy Werton was killed?'

'Ranthu, yeah?'

'Well, I might have a job for… Ranthu. I want him to find out if, well, if there's anything in the theatre when we go back next week.'

'Anything. What, you mean like a presence? Like energy?'

'Yes. I guess so.'

'Well, that's really not something that Ranthu handles. I mean you need like a psychic for that. And Bob – he's Ranthu's channeler – he doesn't really do that sort of thing. I think you'd want somebody like Bebe Gonsalves.'

'Who's Bebe Gonsalves?'

'Just the best damn psychic in L.A. You want her number?'

'You know her?'

'Oh yeah.'

'Are you busy next week?'

'No, why?'

'Would you be willing to bring her to the theatre? Saturday's our last day of rehearsal here before we go back to Kirkland. I could meet you at the theatre on Sunday before rehearsals start down there. Could you fly Ms. Gonsalves out here and stay with her? I'll pay you all expenses plus whatever you want.'

'Expenses are fine, but I'll come just to see you again. Besides, you're gonna pay through the nose for Bebe. She doesn't come cheap.' She paused for a moment. 'Dennis, what is it? What do you think is there?'

He lied. 'I don't know, Ally. But I've exhausted all human explanations. So maybe there's a supernatural one.'

They talked for a while longer, and then hung up. Dennis felt stupid speaking seriously of psychics, and particularly of Ranthu, but a year ago he would have felt stupid speaking of doppelgangers. He just didn't want to go back into the theatre blind. He had no idea what the Emperor had in store for him. Would it be stronger now? Or would all human absence from the building have weakened it, perhaps even to the point of nonexistence? Was his inability to act the result of the Emperor's draining away his strength, or was it purely psychological?

They were questions that had to be answered, questions that were plaguing him now even in his sleep. 'Inquiring minds want to know,' he said softly to himself, then headed back into the studio.

The Kirkland Hotel was barely prepared for the onslaught. Fifty cast members, fifteen crew people, and assorted spouses and lovers began to check in on Saturday evening and continued to do so until after midnight on Sunday. The original thought of lodging them in the Venetian Theatre building had been abandoned, as there was no time to prepare the largely unfurnished rooms and suites for occupancy, and, even if there had been, many of the party were nervous enough about rehearsing and performing in what they held to be, if not cursed, then at least a haunted theatre.

Dennis, Ann, Evan, and Terri drove down together Saturday after the last New York rehearsal. The route to the Kirkland Hotel did not pass the theatre building, for which all four were grateful. It was dark by the time they drove up the winding road to the hotel, a large Victorian hulk of a building that had originally been a sanitarium where David Kirk's mineral water was the main remedy. It sat on a hill overlooking the town, and when Dennis got out of the car he could not help but look down and see the complex that housed the Venetian Theatre. The lamps that lit the parking lot tinted the building with red, so that its dark spine of a roof shone through the evening mist like that of some giant, gleaming beast waiting to come to life, to rise and to strike.

When they entered the hotel, there was a message from Ally Terrazin at the front desk. She and Bebe Gonsalves would arrive at the theatre at eleven o'clock the next morning, and hoped Dennis could meet them there. Exhausted and apprehensive, he fell asleep in Ann's arms. If he had dreams, he could not remember them in the morning.

By the time he and Ann had a small room service breakfast and read the Sunday Times, it was time to meet Ally and Bebe Gonsalves. On their way through the lobby, they ran into John Steinberg, who asked them where they were off to. When they told him they were going to the theatre, he frowned.

'Do you think that's wise? No one's there yet. The crew doesn't go in until one this afternoon.'

'We're meeting someone there, John,' said Dennis. 'An investigator.”

“Oh. Now a detective. Don't you think you could have told me?'

'It isn't a detective, John. It's…” Dennis cleared his throat. 'It's a psychic investigator.'

John did not respond. He only stood there looking at Dennis, his expression as unreadable as granite. 'Psychic,' he said at last, then nodded gravely, and continued on his way.

'I've been working with him for months now,' Ann said, 'and I've never seen that reaction.'

'I have. It's meant to imply utter contempt.' Dennis smiled in spite of himself. 'When someone brings up something which John thinks isn't even worth discussing, since talking about it would mean that he's actually taking it seriously, he merely grunts a repetition, like, 'flying saucers,' or 'seances,' and then walks away.' He took Ann's hand and gave it a squeeze. 'You see now why I didn't want to tell him about the Emperor without having physical proof to show him. I swear to God, he'd have me committed.'

'Maybe we'll have proof,' Ann said.

'I hope not,' said Dennis, leading her outside. 'The thing I'd really like is to have that damned theatre as empty as an ingenue's head.'

Bebe Gonsalves was not at all what Dennis had expected. He had thought to find a short and wide woman bedecked with eyeblinding prints and gaudy if authentic jewelry. But the woman who stood next to Ally Terrazin under the Venetian Theatre marquee was as striking as any actress he had ever met. It was only when he came near enough to see the thin web of wrinkles in the corners of her eyes that he knew she was, like himself, over forty. She wore a beautifully tailored top coat that was opened to display an even more perfectly cut suit beneath. She looked more like the owner of an upscale cosmetics firm than a psychic. Her hair was the blue-black of dark nights, and her skin a rich olive shade. Her only jewelry consisted of two small diamond earrings that seemed to catch the sun even on such a cloudy day.

Ally introduced Bebe Gonsalves, and Dennis introduced Ann, and together they walked to the theatre door, which he unlocked.

'Your hand is shaking, Mr. Hamilton,' Bebe Gonsalves said. 'It is a cold morning.'

'I'm afraid I'm a little nervous,' Dennis said.

'At what you may find? Or what you may not?'

Now what in the hell, Dennis thought, did she mean by that? At last the recalcitrant lock clicked, and Dennis ushered the others inside.

'Before we proceed,' Bebe Gonsalves said, 'I think it would be best if you tell me what it is that you think is here. I know of the things that have happened here, so you need not tell me of them, or if you think that what we are in search of has caused them. Just tell me what you think is here.'

Dennis swallowed heavily, then spoke slowly and distinctly, not wanting to be misunderstood. 'I don't think there's any name for it. It's a double, in a way. But it's not what they call a doppelganger. It's more like… part of me that got away. A bad part. And I need to get it back. Because on its own, away from me, it takes the energy