Chet Williamson - Reign

He looked down at the dying Emperor, scarcely feeling the arms grip him from behind, only dimly hearing the audience's cries. Tears sprang into his eyes, and he blinked them away, trying to turn back toward Ann, seeing Dan Munro holding him, and, over his shoulder, Ann lying on her side, people all around her, Terri crying, Evan standing near, John Steinberg, arms crossed, a fist to his forehead. The stage seemed full of people now, running, crying, and he said to Munro, "Let me… let me…"

The policeman knew what he meant, and he staggered to where she lay, fell on his knees beside her, his hands held out in pleading, afraid to touch her. "Oh," was all he could say, less a word than a breath. "Oh…"

"Dennis," she whispered. "It's you? All… of you?"

"Yes… yes…" Every word was an effort for both of them. "Live," he sobbed. "Oh Ann, live, I can't lose you again…”

Her hand reached up and grasped his, trying to stay. But she could not obey his last command. Her grip weakened, her eyelids quivered, then closed, and she was gone.

Wrenching, desperate sobs broke from him, but no grief, no emotion, however strong, could bring her back.

"Mister Hamilton…” He heard the familiar voice, Munro's voice, like wind in his pounding ears. "I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. But I have to know. Is he the one?" Dennis looked up at Munro standing above him.

"He's still alive. Is he the one? The one who did it all?"

Duty. He would have stayed at Ann's side till they dragged him away, but there was duty to be thought of. He did not look at her face again for fear that if he did, he could not leave her. Instead he rose to his feet, walked over to where the Emperor was lying, smiling, bleeding, breathing.

"No," Dennis said, with a cold that seared his throat. "He's not the one. He's nothing, no one at all. An imposter."

The smile shivered away, the teeth bared, stained with brackish blood. "I… am…" the voice said with hellish pride, "Emperor Karl… Frederick… Augustus!… Of Waldmont… of this theatre… of the world!"

"You are nothing."

"I am who I claim!" He coughed, and blood sprayed. "And I… execute without mercy… those who doubt."

"You execute them?" Munro asked softly. "You executed the others?”

“All…” The word was weak, but audible.

"Donna Franklin?"

"All… all of them…”

Dennis closed his eyes. Duty. He had done his duty to Sid. The creature on the floor had taken his pride, and now that same pride found it guilty and freed his friend. Keep the pride, Dennis thought, and prayed the thing heard. Let it die with you. When he opened his eyes, the Emperor was staring at him.

"The king is dead…” the Emperor said, and spoke again. The words were soft, but very clear. Unmistakable.

"Long… live… the king…" it said, and died.

They were the most terrible words that Dennis Hamilton could imagine.

He turned from the dead monster back to his dead love, and stayed with her, knowing that he would never leave her.

His soul was his own again, and he gave it to Ann.

Dan Munro, although he was only partially aware of the audience, was surprised at their reaction. They merely sat in their seats, or stood where they had risen in sympathy to the action occurring on the stage, until someone finally thought to bring down the curtain on the grim tableau. Then, as if they had just witnessed a particularly moving tragedy rather than an actual slaughter, they filed silently, almost reverently, out of the auditorium. A few remained where they were, weeping quietly, or just standing, stunned. Even the vultures of the press and media seemed subdued, walking rather than running toward the telephones, the cameras waiting outside.

There was little need to keep any of the audience for questioning, since Dan Munro had seen the slaying of Ann Deems as he came through the inner lobby and down the aisle. Even though Dennis Hamilton's savagery at the end had startled and disturbed him, it was as clear-cut a case of self-defense as he had ever seen.

When the first ambulance came, Hamilton remained by Ann Deems as the attendants lifted her body onto a stretcher and carried it to the ambulance. He would not yet let them bandage his wound. "I'll talk to you tomorrow," Munro told Hamilton, although he was unsure if Hamilton heard him, as he made no response. Munro's last sight of him was as he stepped into the ambulance, sat down next to a softly weeping Terri Deems, and took Ann's still hand in his own.

The police found the bodies of Quentin Margolis and Abe Kipp after only a short search, and Munro had no doubt that it had been the double who called himself the Emperor who had hung and eviscerated the janitor and killed and horribly mutilated the director. Wallace Drummond's corpse brought the maniac's total to four for the night. But the tally would stop there. Hamilton had seen to that.

How many had this madman killed? The four that evening, and, if his confession was true, the others as well. Five others. Nine altogether. Men, women, a little girl.

Munro thought the son of a bitch had deserved a crueler death. He prayed the royal bastard's soul would burn in hell.

He drove Patty home, then returned to the theatre, where he worked with the state police for several hours more, doing everything that needed to be done, finding that there was an even greater mystery, one final puzzle with which he would have to confront Dennis Hamilton.

Munro did not sleep at all that night. Even if he would have had the time, he knew that he could not. Just after dawn, after the proper judges had been awakened, the proper papers had been served, he drove to the county prison and had Sid Harper released, told him what had happened the night before, and how the confession now made him a free man. Harper seemed strangely subdued, not at all pleased about being free.

Munro had arranged with John Steinberg to meet him and Dennis Hamilton in Hamilton's suite at the Kirkland Hotel at eight-thirty. When they arrived, Steinberg opened the door. He looked at Sid Harper, and his wide, florid face trembled with emotion. "Hello, Sid," he said in a tight, pinched voice. "It's good… so good to see you."

They clasped hands then, and Munro thought they would have embraced had it not been for Dennis Hamilton's entrance. At first Munro did not recognize him, for his face was clean-shaven. The reddish beard and moustache were gone now, leaving a broad upper lip and a firm if white-fleshed chin revealed. He was wearing tan slacks and a pale blue shirt with an open collar.

"Sid," Dennis said, and the two men walked toward one another.

"Dennis," Harper said, not raising his hands. "I'm so sorry. For everything."

Dennis nodded, and took his friend in his arms. "I'm glad you're back," he said.

"I've got to tell you," Sid said, "I didn't know that -"

"Later," Dennis said gently. "We've got all the time in the world to explain things."

Munro cleared his throat. "Before we get into anything else," he said, "Mr. Hamilton, could I talk with you alone?"

Dennis nodded. "John, take Sid to your room. Have some breakfast. We'll join you as soon as we can."

"Mr. Hamilton," said Munro when they were alone, "first of all, I want you to know that I have no doubt that the man you killed last night was responsible for the deaths. All the deaths. I had a theory, and I think it's the one that's going to survive – all the papers have come up with it this morning anyway. And that's that this man was a celebrity stalker, that he was… unbalanced by his extreme resemblance to you, and that he felt he actually was the character you created, and became fixated on you and the people around you. We don't know who he is, and although checks are being run with every law enforcement office in the country – dental records, fingerprints -I have no doubt we'll come up empty. He'll be John Doe from now till doomsday.