Reign (26 page)

But its cry had no effect upon the Emperor, who demanded his sacrifice, the sacrifice to the God among men, to Dennis Hamilton who was the Emperor, to the Emperor who was Dennis Hamilton, to both, to neither, but something made of both, and he was so confused, was he still drunk even in his dream?

No, he was more than drunk, he had to be, for even drunk he would never have taken the knife and driven it in, not into the heart, but lower down, where what he savaged told him that this was not a ewe he butchered, but a ram.

Then the sheep transformed beneath him: the bloodied wool became flesh, the wide, wet, terrified eyes eddied from brown to blue, the tortured snout shrank, the pumping forelegs turned to writhing arms, and there, untouched by the knife, the skin whole and unmarked, she lay, still twisting in agony as though an unseen blade was channeling through her from within.

"Ann . . .” he whispered, and it seemed to him that he spoke with two voices. "Ann . . .” He was struggling now, trying to bring himself up from the dream, knowing that to end it would end her torment.

"Ann . . .”

And he was free. The brutally honest light was gone, and all around him was the darkness of night and its reality, and he turned to the warm, living body by his side, that sweet body free of pain, and he held it and murmured, "Ann. . ."

And Robin stiffened, awake, next to him in their bed.

"What?" she said in a voice muted with interrupted sleep. "What did you say?" The distance in her voice made him tremble, and he could not answer her. "What did you call me?"

"Robin . . ."

"You called me Ann. You called me by her name."

Light blinded him, and he pressed his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he saw her sitting up in their bed, staring at him with wide-eyed fury, as though her anger were greater than the pain of the light. "Tell me, Dennis," she said, and there was no sleepiness in her voice now. "Tell me everything."

He coughed, tasted the scotch far back in his throat, swallowed, coughed again. "I'm sorry," he said. "There's not that much to tell."

"Are you . . . seeing her?"

"You mean having an affair? No, Robin. And we never did."

"You never did."

"No. But I loved her. I admit that."

"You admit it."

"Yes. She was the first woman I ever loved, and . . . and I guess I still feel some of that."

"You do."

"
Yes
." Her repetition unnerved him. "I'm sorry, I don't want to, but I don't seem to have any choice in the matter. But I swear to you I haven't done anything about it and I don't intend to."

"Oh. You're just going to use her name when you fuck me in the dark?”

“Robin —"

"Fire her, Dennis."

"What?"

"I want you to fire her. I want her away from here."

His mind raced. "No, I can't do that, it wouldn't be fair."

“Be
fair
? Be fair to who, to her? Jesus Christ, Dennis, you just tell me you love this bitch —"

"She's not a bitch."

"Bull
shit
she's not! Why do you think she came here? For the love of the thee-
a
-
ter
? She came because her husband died and she thinks maybe she can get something started with you again, never mind the fact that you're already married. Jesus, Dennis, are you
blind
?"

He wasn't blind. He saw all too well how Ann Deems felt. And, what was even more disturbing, he saw beyond a doubt how he felt as well. He could not let Ann go again. Now that she was finally back in his life, he could not let her go. There was, he thought simply, no choice involved. He needed her like he needed air. Even if they never touched again, he needed her.

"Nothing is going to happen," he said to Robin. "If something was, it would have already."

"And you're telling me it hasn't."

"That's right. Never. And it won't."

Robin tossed back the sheets, leaped out of the bed, and threw on a robe. "You know what I hate most, Dennis? I hate it that this bitch is back, and I hate it when you tell me that you still
feel
something for her. But I hate it most when you lie to me —"

"I haven't —"

"When you lie and you tell me that you never fucked her, that Dennis Hamilton, the young stud emperor — oh hell, yes, I've heard all the stories — never had her the way he had every other woman that crossed his path, well, if that's what you want to tell me, that's what you expect me to believe . " She yanked open the bedroom door, then turned back to face him. “. . . then you must think I'm the dumbest cunt you ever had!"

She slammed the door behind her, and he listened to her footsteps pad across the carpet of the hall. The guest bedroom door opened and slammed, and then he heard nothing but her sobbing.

~ * ~

The next morning Robin was distant and aloof at breakfast, but she said nothing more about Ann Deems. The aftermath of
Harry's
death distracted her and everyone else from more personal problems. A call from Dan Munro to John Steinberg made it official that Harry
Ruhl's
death was being handled as a suicide. Munro didn't sound happy about it, but, as he explained to Steinberg,
Harry's
fingerprints were the only ones on the knife, and the nature of the wounds, devastating as they were, were consistent with a verdict of self-mutilation.

Abe
Kipp
came back to work two days later. When Donna Franklin talked to him about hiring a new assistant, he seemed different to her, quieter, not at all sarcastic, almost humble. He told her that he did not think he needed an assistant right away, that maybe when the show came down from New York he could use a man, but for now he should be able to handle everything himself. Donna saw him later carrying a bucket and mop into the office restrooms.

Ann and Terri Deems were shocked by the news of the death when they heard it from John Steinberg the following morning. The first thing Ann felt, beside pity for Harry
Ruhl
, was that she wanted to be with Dennis, that it must be terrible for him to have still another tragedy in his theatre, especially the death of poor, simple Harry. She knew, from seeing the two of them together, that Dennis had liked Harry, and the feeling had been mutual. The few times she had spoken to him to compliment him on a good cleaning job, Harry had invariably responded, "Like to keep things nice and neat for Mr. Hamilton."

Ann had been touched by that. There was indeed something about Dennis that inspired that kind of loyalty. It was an emotion that few besides the scrupulously honest Harry
Ruhl
could have put into words, but it was there. She would have felt it even if she had not loved him.

But if her joy came from seeing Dennis, she was doomed to unhappiness during the next few weeks of December. It seemed to her that he seldom came out of his suite, and, if he did, it must have been during the times she was not in the office. She began to wonder if he was avoiding her on purpose, or if it was merely circumstance. The thought made her feel immature and foolish, as though she was once again a fifteen-year-old cheerleader, waiting around after practice to see if Jamie
Beamenderfer
would come out of the locker room and want to walk her home, and feeling like hell if he left another way and missed her.

But this was worse, for Jamie
Beamenderfer
had not been married, and Dennis was — happily, if reports were true. Ann knew she had made a mistake in taking the job at the Venetian Theatre. But at the same time, she had been powerless not to.

The morning after Harry
Ruhl's
funeral, Ann Deems found a man's folded handkerchief in her office. It had a monogram of the letters
DH
. She felt a delighted thrill go through her, and wondered why Dennis would have come to her office, and why he would have left a handkerchief on her desk. There were several explanations, all of them rational, but the one which she chose to accept was a scenario in which Dennis had come, perhaps after hours, hoping to find her still in. When she had not been there, he had left his handkerchief on purpose, with the intention that she should return it.

So now what?
she wondered. She could return it. In fact, it was the sensible thing to do, for she was certain that it was his. But should she wait until he came to the offices, or should she take it to him in his suite? If he had left it there by accident, there would be no harm in it. He would simply accept it, thank her, and that would be all.

But what if he
had
left it there on purpose? What if he wanted to see her alone? What if he wanted to tell her what she wanted most to hear, and yet dreaded hearing?

She could always say no. Absurdly, the words came to her mind — just say no — and she smiled in spite of herself. How easily those words came, and how hard they were to obey. Could she? She wondered.

There was only one way to find out, one way to learn how good she was, how honest she was, how truly loyal she was. Because she knew that if she was all these things she would say no to what Dennis Hamilton might ask her to do, or to become. If she loved him, she would refuse him, and bring ease to his life.

When she stepped off the elevator, the third floor hallway was empty, and she heard no noises from behind any of the doors of the other suites. Everyone was working, including Robin, who Ann had seen going into John Steinberg 's office several minutes before. She stood before Dennis's door for a long time before she finally pushed the doorbell. She heard chimes inside, then footsteps, and found herself wishing that Sid would open the door so that she could just hand him the handkerchief, say she found it in Steinberg's office, and walk away.

But it was Dennis who answered the door, a pale Dennis who looked so sad and so weary that she wanted only to hold him in her arms so that he could sleep. "Ann," he said. "Uh . . . good morning."

She smiled at him. "I found this, Dennis," she said, holding out the handkerchief. "It was on my desk."

"Your desk?" he said softly, taking it. "In your office?" She nodded. "How could it have gotten there?" he said as if to himself. "I haven't been in there . . ."

"I figured you had more, but . . ." She shrugged and waited. The opening was there, but Dennis did not step into it.

"Well, thank you. Thank you." He swallowed, looked at her. He didn't have to speak. The look said everything.

"You're welcome," she said, relieved and disappointed, knowing that he would not say what she was praying he would not.

"I'll . . . see you."

Oh God, yes, I hope, Dennis
, she thought, but said only, "Yes," then turned and walked away, hearing and not watching the door close gently behind her.

~ * ~

But someone else watched Dennis's door close, watched Ann Deems, burdened with the need for flight, walk quickly away down the hall toward the stairs.

Robin Hamilton watched from the elevator as Ann left the suite whose door her husband had just closed, and Robin burned with the knowledge of what it might mean. But she did not confront Dennis with what she thought she knew. If she had, he would have honestly denied it, and, though at first angry and disbelieving, she might have ultimately believed him, and so been happy.

Instead, she grasped the idea, dug a hole in her heart, and buried it there. And it grew, hard and healthy.

"Sonny," said
Marvella
Johnson to Evan, "what you got there?"

"Mail. Had to come up anyway to check the dressing rooms, so I figured I'd bring it along." He tossed the packet on the table in front of
Marvella
, who grunted her thanks, picked it up and leafed through it. "Hi, Terri," he said to the girl, who seemed intent on ripping out a seam.

"Hi," she said, without a hint of intonation.

"What you checking the dressing rooms for?"
Marvella
said after a moment, putting down a letter.

"See what's in them, I guess. I don't know, Curt just told me to take inventory."

Marvella
shook her head. "Curt and his inventories. Count every damn nail in the bin you give him the chance. Well, what you just
standin
' there for? We're
workin
' here, Sonny, so you get busy too."

"
Marvella
, I wish you wouldn't call me Sonny anymore."

She narrowed her eyes as if studying him. "Yeah, I guess you've got a little bigger at that, haven't you? Old habits. So get to work . . .
Evan
."

He smiled, gave a wave, and disappeared into the first of the chorus dressing rooms. There was one on the fourth floor where the bottom level of the costume shop was, another on the third, and still another on the fifth, which had been put into use only when the largest musical shows of the twenties occupied the Venetian stage. All would be needed for the spring production of
Craddock
.

"That's a nice boy,"
Marvella
observed. "A wonder he turned out so friendly, his daddy the way he is." She paused a moment, and then added, "The way he was."