Three Complete Novels (Psycho, Psycho II, and Psycho House)

  But a lot had changed, right here and now. All the while they talked, he’d been trying to set up the action. And then, when the old bitch came out with that last question, he flashed on the answer.

  Sam Loomis. Damned right he’d heard of him. He was the sucker mixed up in that heavy murder case years ago, when they collared some weirdo doing snuff jobs out at the old motel. The Bates Motel, way off in the boondocks on County Trunk A. Place burned down, but the road was still there. Hardly anybody used it on account of the highway going through, and sure as hell nobody’d be using it tonight.

  How long had they been driving? If he remembered right, the turn off should be coming up pretty soon. Bo squinted through the windshield, but the rain was so heavy the wipers couldn’t clear it and everything was dark. He heard thunder, and then lightning streaked across the stretch of road ahead just long enough for him to spot what he was looking for. Play it cool.

  “Sister—”

  “Yes?”

  “See the fork up ahead? If you take a right, it’s a shortcut into town.”

  “Thank you.”

  Was he hearing things, or did she giggle again? No, it sounded more like coughing.

  “You catching cold?”

  The sister shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  You better believe it, she was. Kind of on the heavy side, almost as big as he was, but he knew he could hack it. One good swipe, just enough to put her out and dump her alongside the road. Then take over the wheel and screw Fairvale, cut out for Ravenswood, across the state line. Go with the flow.

  They were bumping along the county trunk now, hitting those big potholes in the dark. For a minute he thought she was going to give him a hard time about it, but she didn’t say anything. And the storm was letting up a little; maybe the rain would stop soon.

  Trick now was to get her to stop. Trees up ahead, nice and dark, super. Time to get his act together now.

  When he opened his mouth, he was the one who sounded like he had a cold. His throat went all dry and cottony and he started to tighten up inside. Go with the flow, goddammit!

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled a butt out of the pack. “Mind if I smoke?” he said.

  She jerked her head around fast, like he’d just come out with a dirty remark, but there was just enough light for him to see she was smiling.

  “Do you have matches?” she said.

  Jesus, what a dumb question! Instead of saying anything, he fished them out for her to see. Then he gave her the nod.

  “Maybe if you slowed down for a minute, so’s I can get a light—”

  “Of course.”

  And she pulled over and stopped next to the trees. Beautiful!

  He stalled for a second, making sure he had his moves figured out. Light the butt first, then quickly shove it in her face. She’ll jerk away, put up her hands, and that’s when to let her have it, whammo, right in the gut. Then, when her hands come down, give her one good chop on the jaw. Over and out.

  Bo lipped the butt, struck a match, cupped his hands around the flame. When the match flared up, he lost her in the glare, but only for a moment or two.

  Just long enough for her to bend forward and pick up something lying between her feet . . .

  — 8 —

  Claiborne had lost track of time.

  It seemed to take forever for the highway patrol to arrive, and when they finally drove into the hospital parking lot, the rain had stopped.

  There were three men in the car. The driver remained seated behind the wheel while the other two climbed out and started toward the entrance, where Claiborne stood waiting.

  Introductions were brief. The big, thick-necked, gray-haired man was Captain Banning and the thin one was a trooper named Novotny. Claiborne found himself wondering about that. Why are the mesomorphs always the chiefs and the ectomorphs always the Indians?

  Not that Banning didn’t seem capable. He was firing questions at Claiborne even before they entered the lobby, and he ordered Novotny to stay there and take a statement from Clara at the reception desk.

  Banning and Claiborne went straight to the elevator. “Sorry about the delay,” Banning told him as the car ascended. “You hear about the accident?”

  “What accident?”

  “Greyhound bus smacked head-on into a big semi and flipped over, right outside Montrose. Seven dead so far, and around twenty other passengers injured. Damn near every unit in the county’s over there right now—sheriff’s department, ambulances, and our people. On top of that, we got a problem with power outages on account of the storm. You lucked out, getting through to us at all. Hell of a mess.”

  Claiborne listened, nodding at the appropriate intervals, but somehow the captain’s remarks weren’t registering. The thing that mattered to him was the one right here, in the library.

  And that was where the questions began again.

  On Claiborne’s orders, Otis had draped a sheet over the body, but nothing else had been touched. Now Banning was interrogating them both, jotting down their replies on a pad. Halfway through the session he sent Otis away to fetch Allen and when the security guard appeared there was another go-round.

  Yes, the grounds had been covered—everything, including storage sheds and the employee’s quarters. At Claiborne’s direction there’d been a quiet but thorough checkout of the hospital itself: patients’ rooms, lavatories, kitchen, laundry, even the broom closets.

  “Waste of time,” Banning said, flipping the notepad shut. “Your man put on the victim’s outfit and walked right out the front door. Chances are he headed straight for that van the sisters came in.”

  “But Sister Cupertine left, too,” Claiborne said. “Wouldn’t she have recognized him?”

  “Captain—”

  Banning turned as another uniformed man came through the doorway. It was the trooper who’d remained in the patrol car, and now Banning started down the aisle to where the newcomer stood waiting. “What’s up?” he asked.

  The trooper’s reply was muffled. But when Banning spoke, his words came loud and clear.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” he said.

  Claiborne moved toward him between the stacks. “What’s the problem?”

  “The van.” Banning scowled. “Some salesman spotted it just now, when he was coming down County Trunk A. Had a phone in his car and he called the fire department right away—”

  “Fire department? What happened?”

  Banning shoved the notepad into his pocket. “When I find out, I’ll let you know.”

  Fire department. Claiborne’s dreamlike feeling returned, the way it had when Otis summoned him here to the library; the nightmare feeling of something waiting. No sense in running now; sooner or later you had to face it. Only then could you wake up.

  “Can I come with you?” Claiborne asked. “My car’s outside.”

  “Okay if you want to follow.” Banning headed for the doorway. “In case you lose me, it’s County Trunk A—”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t lose you,” Claiborne said.

  But he did.

  By the time he’d instructed Otis to take over, and cautioned him to keep the staff silent about what was happening, Banning’s patrol car was already backing out of the parking lot.

  The two troopers had stayed behind to take further statements and call an ambulance for Sister Barbara’s body. But Banning didn’t need any help driving; his taillights were winking in the distance before Claiborne wheeled onto the road.

  He gunned the motor, watching the needle arc over to seventy. No use; the car ahead must be doing ninety or better, and he couldn’t hope to match its speed on the wet pavement.

  In a moment or so the patrol car rounded a curve and disappeared completely. Claiborne slackened his speed to sixty, but even then it required his full concentration to keep from going into a skid. As a result he overshot the fork in the road and had to head back when he realized his mistake. Then, after turning onto County Trunk A, he needed no further g
uidance.

  On the highway the rain-cleansed night air had been cool and fresh. Here there was an acrid odor mingling with a sickly sweet stench, and in the glare ahead, Claiborne found its source.

  He’d expected to see fire trucks, but only two cars stood parked on the shoulder of the road, their headlight beams focused on a third vehicle.

  Claiborne recognized the van, or what was left of it. The windshield was gone and there was a gaping hole in the charred roof of the cab; its doors hung open on melted hinges. The back had blown out completely, and the hood was gone up front, exposing a tangle of melted metal from which wisps of smoke still curled upward to mingle with the reek of gasoline fumes. Beneath bubbling tires lay a litter of broken glass and unidentifiable debris.

  Leaning against the trunk of his car, the salesman was vomiting noisily into the ditch. The patrol car on the other side of the road was empty, but as Claiborne parked and emerged, he saw Banning turn away from the cab of the van. He glanced up, his face livid in the light.

  “Gas tank exploded,” he said.

  “Accident?”

  “Can’t tell. Could be arson. Fire department ought to know, if they ever get here.” Banning peered up the road, frowning.

  The air was poisonous; Claiborne’s stomach churned. “What’s your theory?” he said.

  “Something’s wrong somewhere. The van was parked when it happened—the brake’s still on. And the fire started up front, from the looks of things. Seems to me like they’d have had time to get out before the tank blew.”

  Claiborne stiffened. “They?”

  He moved up to the open cab, but Banning put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “No point looking.” He nodded toward the retching salesman across the road. “Bet he wishes he hadn’t.”

  “I’ve got to know.”

  “Okay, Doc.” Banning’s head dropped and he stepped back. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Claiborne leaned forward, glancing into the cab. The leather was burned away from the seats, and plastic had fused on the dash. The sickly sweet odor was stronger here, almost overpowering. Now he saw its source.

  Lying crossways on the floorboard frame below was a charcoal-colored blob with two stumps outthrust on either side. The reeking mass was only vaguely recognizable as a human torso, and the rounded protuberance atop it was just a burnt black ball from which all trace of features had been seared away. Eyeless, noseless, no vestige of skin or hair remained, and what had been a mouth was now just a yawning, tongueless opening, grimacing in a silent scream.

  He turned, choking from the smell and the sight of it, and peered down at the interior of the van behind the seats.

  Another blob lay in the shadows, its limbless bulk crisped like a barbecued side of beef. There was no head; apparently the gas tank explosion had shattered the skull. Only one anatomical detail identified the remains as female: the charred cavity of the vagina. Here a single sliver of skin had curled away, revealing a fleck of pinkish flesh beneath.

  Claiborne backed out of the cab, breathing deeply. Conscious of Banning’s scrutiny, he fought to control his features and his voice.

  “You’re right, it’s useless. You’ll need a complete autopsy.”

  “That’ll take a while,” Banning said. “Coroner’s going to have his hands full after that bus crash over at Montrose. But I’ve got a rough idea of what happened here.” He ran two fingers across the grayish stubble on his chin. “Way I figure, Sister Cupertine was either knocked out or killed and shoved out of sight in the back of the van. Next move was to find a spot off the main highway and—”

  “Wait a minute.” Claiborne frowned. “First you tell me you don’t know if it was an accident or not, and now you’re saying there was a murder.”

  “Never had any doubt about that part,” Banning told him. “Body in back tells us that much. If she hadn’t been dead or at least unconscious, Sister Cupertine would have been up front trying to fight her way out of the cab when the fire started.”

  “But we still have no way of knowing what caused the van to explode,” Claiborne said.

  The salesman moved up beside him, silent and shaken, as Banning reached down into the shadows at his feet and picked up a blackened metal cylinder.

  “Here’s your answer,” he said. “Found this gasoline can here in the road while you were looking around inside. It’s arson, all right. The idea was to soak the body and van, let the fire take care of the evidence.” Banning nodded. “But somewhere along the line something went wrong, and he got himself trapped in the cab.”

  “He?”

  “Your patient. Norman Bates.”

  Trapped. That thing up front in the van was Norman. Of course, it had to be.

  “No!”

  “What do you mean?”

  Claiborne stared at Banning without answering. Because there was no answer, only the conviction, born of years of professional experience, years of working with his patient.

  The salesman glanced at him, puzzled, and Banning shook his head. “Makes sense, Doc. We know Bates got away in the van, and Sister Cupertine must have gone with him. Get the picture? She doesn’t recognize him in the nun’s outfit at first, and when she does it’s too late—he clobbers her and comes here, like I said. Then, when he touches off the gasoline, whammo! What else could have happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Claiborne said. “I don’t know.”

  “Take my word for it. Bates is dead—”

  The rest of his words were lost in the wailing.

  The three men looked up, finding its source as lights flashed and whirled on the roadway ahead. A screech of brakes announced the rumbling arrival of the fire truck. It slammed to a halt and spotlighted the scene.

  Turning, Banning started toward it, with the salesman tagging along behind. Claiborne hesitated, watching the uniformed men clamber down and cross to the wreckage of the van. A bareheaded fire captain stood waiting beside the truck, then began talking as Banning and the salesman approached.

  From now on there’d be a lot of talking, endless talking, because talking was all anyone could do. An ambulance would come to haul the burned blobs away, but the talk would go on—useless, meaningless talk. It was all meaningless now, and there was no need for Claiborne to hear it again. He’d given his testimony, his presence wasn’t required here. Leave the postmortems to the coroner. You’re just an innocent bystander.

  He walked back to his car and slid behind the wheel. Nobody noticed and nobody tried to stop him as he drove off, turning back to retrace his route to the main highway.

  Gradually the smell and the sound faded, at least externally. But the sight remained, looming before his eyes more vividly than the road ahead—the sight of the blackened, twisted torsos, the charred creatures at the scene of the crime.

  No postmortems. Innocent bystander.

  But the postmortems went on, somewhere deep inside, and the protestations of innocence died.

  Because Norman was dead.

  Norman was dead, and Claiborne was guilty. Guilty of misjudgment for allowing Norman and Sister Barbara to meet. Guilty of negligence in leaving them alone together. By the same token he was indirectly responsible for Sister Cupertine’s death too. But above all, he was guilty of failing Norman. His professional errors of diagnosis and prognosis were the real crimes.

  Claiborne reached the highway and made his turn almost automatically. The fresh air helped clear his lungs and his head.

  Now he could face facts. Now he could understand his resistance to the reality of Norman’s death. For in a way it wasn’t Norman who’d died back there in the flaming van; it was Claiborne himself. It was his self-image that had been burned beyond all recognition; his plans, his hopes, his dreams had exploded, his life had gone up in smoke.

  There would be no book now, no scholarly but subtly self-congratulatory account of restoring reason to an apparently incurable psychotic without the use of ECT, psychosurgery, or ataractics. That, he knew, had been the
goal all along: write the book, make a name and a reputation, get out from under Steiner’s shadow, out of the dead-end job, and into a decent post. He’d been as much a prisoner there in the hospital as Norman was, and if only things had gone right, they could both have been free.

  And he’d come close, so very close. Close to succeeding, close to Norman himself. They’d worked together so long, he knew the man, or thought he did. How could he have made such a mistake?

  Hubris.

  Pride, the belief in the superiority of science, the omniscience of intellect. That was the fatal error.

  Sometimes it was better to trust to the gut feeling, the way he had when he’d almost blurted out that Norman wasn’t dead.

  With a start, he realized the feeling was still there.

  Suppose it was true?

  Of course that made no sense, but what had happened to the van made no sense either. Banning was jumping to conclusions; he had his hubris too, needed an easy answer. But why would Norman spread gasoline around and ignite it without first getting out of the van? No matter what else might be, Norman was neither suicidal nor stupid.

  There had to be another answer. What if someone else was involved—a third party?

  But who?

  That didn’t make sense either. Nothing made sense except the gnawing feeling. Unless it was just wishful thinking, voicing itself over and over again. Norman is alive, alive, alive—

  Claiborne blinked, forcing himself to focus full attention on the highway ahead. And it was then, at that precise instant, that he saw what was lying in the ditch on the left-hand side of the road. Saw it, slowed, and stopped.

  Climbing out, he crossed over for a closer look. Perhaps his eyes had played a trick on him.

  But as he picked up the soggy cardboard sign mounted on the makeshift pole, he knew there was no mistake. The lettering was still plainly visible.

  Fairvale.

  Claiborne stood staring down at the sign, and suddenly everything fell into place. He glanced at the shoulder of the road beside it.

  The van could have stopped here and picked up a hitchhiker.