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

  A friend in need. To hell with the professional reaction. He was here because Norman needed help.

  Claiborne angled right and took the eastbound interchange onto the Ventura Freeway. Checking the overhead signs, he got off at Laurel Canyon, headed south for a half-mile, turned left onto Ventura Boulevard.

  Coronet Studios would be another mile or so down the street, and a block north. But there was no need to locate it precisely at the moment. Right now he had to find a place to stay.

  He drove slowly, noting a number of motels along the boulevard route, most of them standing flush against the sidewalks, aligned with the pet hospitals, cocktail lounges, and car lots. What he saw didn’t attract him; never mind the heated pools, the color TV. He wanted a place set back from the busy arterial, away from the traffic noise.

  Then he spotted it, on his right.

  Dawn Motel.

  The sign was weathered, and so was the modest L-shaped structure behind it, but both stood well to the rear of the combination patio and parking area. He didn’t see a pool, and only one car stood slanted in a slot near the office entrance—an indication, he hoped, of peace and quiet.

  Claiborne pulled in, killed the motor, clambered out. His legs ached, signaling fatigue, as he moved to the office door, blinking against the rays of the late afternoon sun. Pulling the door open, he stepped into the welcome coolness of the dim domain beyond.

  His vision blurred, then adjusted to inventory the small, makeshift lobby area. Plastic-backed chairs huddled behind a battered coffee table supporting a metal ashtray amid a litter of old magazines. The right wall held the usual trio of vending machines offering the weary traveler a choice of carbonated citric acid, stale candy bars, or overpriced cigarettes. At his left was the reception desk, unoccupied. Behind it, surrounded by a cluster of framed and faded photographs, was a wall clock, its insistent ticking commanding his attention.

  He stared at the face and hands. Why do we personify Time? Is it because we’re afraid to admit that our lives are measured by an abstract force that neither knows nor cares about our entry into existence or our departure into death? Time is our mysterious master; giving it a face and hands, we attempt to transform it into our servant.

  Claiborne shrugged. Enough of that; it was only a clock and he was just tired. The hour hand stood at six, though his wristwatch insisted it was eight. He adjusted the latter to local time, but his own internal chronometer was still functioning unchanged, and he’d need a good night’s rest to compensate for jet lag and fatigue.

  So where was the proprietor?

  Walking over to the desk, he caught a sight of the metal bell and clanged it with his forefinger.

  Then he stepped back, waiting, and as he did so, his eyes moved to the pictures on the wall. The clock was ticking away, but in the photographs surrounding it, Time had stopped.

  Sun-fading had bleached the backgrounds and blurred the inked inscriptions, but the faces in the portrait frames smiled forth bravely and unchanged from the security of a darkened, distant past. Poses and garments suggested their subjects’ affinity with showbiz, though Claiborne recognized only one: the sole unsmiling countenance staring down from the shadows.

  Now the door leading onto the patio was opening and the clerk entered, moving behind the desk.

  He was tall, thin, cotton-haired, his deeply tanned face seamed and cracked with wrinkles like a dry riverbed. But age hadn’t erased his smile, and his gray-green eyes were inquisitively alert.

  Claiborne’s appraisal was automatic; he dismissed it quickly now and concentrated on the routine of room rental.

  Yes, forty dollars a night would be okay, and he expected to stay until Sunday. Stove and refrigerator? Good enough, though he didn’t intend to do much cooking; he’d probably be out most of the time. If Number Six was a rear unit, it sounded fine to him.

  Signing the register, Claiborne checked the impulse to put down a fake name. No need for any cloak-and-dagger stuff; after all, he expected to be getting his calls here. But he did refrain from initialing M.D. after his signature. As he glanced up at the wall photos, once again the single somber face caught his attention.

  “Isn’t that Karl Druse?” he said.

  The elderly man nodded.

  “I thought I recognized him.” Claiborne studied the portrait. “Remarkable actor. Next to Chaney Senior, probably the best of the early horror stars.”

  “Right.” The inquisitive eyes brightened. “But that was back in the silent days. How’d you know about him—are you in the industry?”

  Claiborne shook his head. “No. Are you?”

  “A long time ago.” The clerk gestured toward the cluster of photographs. “I knew them when they owned this town. Now they’re hanging on the wall and I’m still moving around down here. Funny how things work out.”

  “You were an actor?”

  One of the cracks in the riverbed widened to produce a smile. “If I was, you can bet my picture would be up there, bigger than any of the others.” The clerk chuckled. “No, I never acted. Just a writer—what they used to call a scenarist—down the street here at Coronet Studios.”

  “Coronet?” Claiborne glanced at him quickly. “That’s interesting, Mr—”

  “Post. Tom Post.”

  “You must know quite a bit about the business, Mr. Post.”

  “Not anymore. When the talkies came in, I got out. Got pushed out, if you want the truth.” Tom Post chuckled again.

  “You don’t sound unhappy about being retired.”

  “Who said I was?” Post’s smile faded. “I ran a used-car lot in Encino before I built this place down here. No big deal, but at least it keeps me busy. I’ll never quit working, not now.” He gestured with a bony finger. “You know what retirement is today? An old man with diseased lungs, catching poisoned fish in a polluted stream.”

  Claiborne grinned. “I see you’re still a writer.”

  “Just an old fart with a leaky mouth, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphor.” Tom Post reached into the desk drawer and selected a key attached to a wooden paddle. “Here you are. Want some help with your luggage?”

  “Don’t bother—I can manage.”

  “Number Six is down at the end, next to the alley.”

  Claiborne nodded. “Before I go, I’d like to make a few calls.”

  “There’s a phone in your room.”

  “Good.”

  “If you need anything else, feel free.”

  “Thanks.”

  Claiborne went out to the car for his bag and briefcase, then carried them down the patio walk to Number Six.

  The room was like an oversize microwave oven, but he located the thermostat on the window air conditioning unit and turned it on high. The ancient appliance rasped in senile response. He shed his jacket, sprawled out on the double bed, and picked up the telephone.

  It was after six-thirty now, probably too late to reach anyone at Coronet, but he took a chance and dialed the operator for the number. Then he called the studio, and a girl on the switchboard put him through to Driscoll’s office. Much to his surprise, he heard the click of the phone being picked up.

  “Yeah?” Marty Driscoll’s deep voice was instantly identifiable.

  “This is Adam Claiborne, Mr. Driscoll.”

  “Who?” The question conveyed casual irritation rather than actual interest.

  “Dr. Claiborne. We spoke on Sunday, when you called the hospital.”

  “Oh sure Doc, I remember.” Annoyance vanished from Driscoll’s voice. “Glad to hear from you. Maybe you can set me straight on what’s coming down.”

  “I’d be happy to, if you’ll give me an appointment.”

  “Appointment?” A brief pause. “You here in town?”

  “Just arrived. I was hoping we might be able to get together sometime tomorrow—”

  “Whenever you say. I’ll be in all day.”

  “Nine o’clock?”

  “Make it nine-thirty. There’ll be a pass waiting
for you at the gate.”

  “Good enough,” Claiborne said. “Nine-thirty.”

  “Wait,” Driscoll cut in quickly. “That boss of yours, Dr. Steiner—I called him yesterday and all I got was a brush. What’s the real poop on Norman Bates?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about.” Claiborne started to lower the receiver as he spoke. “See you tomorrow.”

  He hung up, leaving Driscoll hanging. A cheap ploy but an effective one, or so he hoped. It was good to find that the producer worried. So far, nobody else seemed to give a damn.

  Twilight invaded the room as the air conditioner whined in feeble protest. Claiborne debated before switching on the bedlamp. What he really wanted to do was stretch out and sleep around the clock. Seven o’clock here now—that meant it would be nine o’clock home. And he’d promised to give Steiner a call when he got in.

  Picking up the receiver again, he dialed the private number. A hollow ringing echoed in response. For whom Ma Bell tolls. On the tenth ring he hung up. Wearily he tried again, this time on the regular hospital line, and Clara answered from the reception desk.

  Steiner was out, she said. Something about a dinner meeting with the Fairvale Rotary.

  Good public relations, business as usual. Don’t you understand, Nick? The bell tolls for thee.

  Controlling his voice with an effort, Claiborne gave Clara his motel address and the phone number, telling her he’d call Dr. Steiner sometime tomorrow. No point in asking what was happening back there; she’d be the last to know. And very probably nothing had happened, if Steiner was free to go off and eat rubber chicken with the Rotary.

  By the time he set the phone down again, his annoyance had faded with the last rays of sunset. For a moment he debated going out for some food, then rejected the notion. Let Steiner chase the canned peas around his plate. Right now, for Claiborne, rest was more important.

  He kicked off his shoes and hung his clothing in the narrow closet. He opened the bag, unpacked, stowed garments in the bureau drawers, put his second suit on a hanger, carried the shaver and toiletries to the bathroom. If traveling salesmen had to go through this boring routine every night, no wonder they got drunk and picked up hookers.

  He used the toilet and considered a shower, then decided it could wait until morning. After donning his pajamas, he returned to the bedroom and pulled down the shade, then the bedcovers.

  As he did so, he noticed his briefcase resting on top of the bureau and remembered its contents. The script of Crazy Lady had remained untouched on the plane. He could read it now, but what would be the point? He wasn’t seeing Driscoll to discuss the script; tomorrow’s meeting had another purpose.

  Claiborne silenced the air conditioner, lowered himself onto the bed, and flicked off the lamp on the nightstand. Tomorrow’s meeting. How was he going to handle Marty Driscoll? What was the case entry here?

  Case entry. Of course, that was it. Lead from strength, establish a doctor-patient relationship. Dr. Claiborne, the authority figure. Stripped of all the Latin and Greek buzzwords, that was what therapeutic technique amounted to: let the patient talk. Break through the reaction formation.

  Let Driscoll argue himself hoarse about the spectacular potential of the picture, the money it would make. Listen to him the way you’d listen to a man standing on the window ledge of a tall building, ready to jump.

  Then and only then, explain his position to him. Certainly the picture would be spectacular and attract attention—just like jumping out of that high window. And it would probably make a lot of money. But if the man who jumped out of the window was insured, that could mean a lot of money too. The trouble was he wouldn’t be alive to enjoy it.

  So look before you leap, look down into the darkness below and you’ll see what I see. Norman Bates, waiting for you. Mark my words, he’s waiting for you to jump into this thing. I’d stake my life on it. And that’s why I’m warning you not to stake yours—

  Stake my life.

  The phrase echoed. He still thought of Norman as a friend, but what did Norman think? To him, Claiborne might be an enemy.

  And perhaps it was true, in a way. In his dream he’d come here to punish himself. But in reality maybe he’d come to punish Norman for running away, ruining his plans.

  The book, that was it. The book had been the key to the whole thing. He’d hoped to write it as a record, a report, on five years of successful therapy. Reputations had been made with less.

  To hell with reputations! It didn’t matter now. What mattered was what had happened to those innocent people back in Fairvale and to those who survived them.

  Claiborne frowned up into the darkness. It was time to stop worrying about himself, stop worrying about whether Norman was his friend, his patient, his enemy. The important thing was the trauma, the suffering of the victims’ families. They were the ones who deserved concern, needed help. And it was his duty to give it to them. Not because he was a psychiatrist—to hell with that, too!—but because he was a decent, caring human being.

  He couldn’t change the past, but at least he could try to alleviate some of their anguish and anxiety in the future, save them from exploitation and exacerbation, relieve their fears of further danger. That’s why he had to stop this picture, find Norman and bring him back, even if his own life was on the line—

  The sound was so faint that Claiborne scarcely heard it. Only the fact that his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness gave him a clue. Lying on his side, facing the door, and seeing the doorknob turning—

  Click.

  And the thump of Claiborne’s bare feet hitting the floor as he bounded off the bed. Impulse impelled him; there was no time to think until it was too late, he’d already unlocked the door, flung it open—

  A shadow stood in the doorway.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” said Tom Post.

  “What’s the idea? You could have knocked.”

  “Thought you were asleep.” Turning, half-profiled in the outside patio light, the leathery lizard face wrinkled into a grin. “Just a security check. I always make sure the doors are locked before I turn in for the night.” Post peered into the darkened room. “Everything all right?”

  Claiborne nodded, his tension draining.

  “Then I won’t bother you. Have a good night’s rest.”

  “I intend to.” Claiborne started to close the door.

  As he did so, Post chuckled. “Don’t worry, you’re safe here. Remember, this isn’t the Bates Motel.”

  The door closed.

  The lock clicked.

  The footsteps moved away along the walk.

  And Claiborne stood enshrouded amidst the darkness, hearing nothing but the echo of the old man’s chuckle in the night.

  — 16 —

  The caterpillar was gone.

  Jan stared at Santo Vizzini as he rose from behind his desk.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Your mustache—you shaved it off.”

  Vizzini nodded as he moved toward her in a swirl of scent, running a pudgy forefinger over the bare spot between his nose and upper lip.

  “You approve?”

  “I’ll have to get used to it. You look so different.”

  Which was true, of course. Without the mustache, the director seemed to have shed his ethnic stereotype. But he was still gesticulating nervously, still smelled as if he mainlined cologne. And there was nothing different about his approach.

  Jan managed to drop the copy of the script she was holding and stooped to retrieve it just in time to avoid the touch of his hand on her arm.

  “Clumsy,” she said, stepping back.

  “Relax,” Vizzini told her. “I won’t bite you.” He grinned, exhibiting a serration of yellow molars and incisors that seemed to belie the statement. What big teeth you have, Grandma.

  Jan smoothed the crumpled cover of the script. “About the reading—”

  “Reading?” Vizzini’s grin faded into a puzzled po
ut. His lips seemed thicker without the protection of a mustache.

  Jan nodded. “Tuesday afternoon, three o’clock,” she said. “Here I am, right on the button.”

  Vizzini struck his forehead with the flat of his palm, an exaggeratedly melodramatic gesture he would never have permitted in an actor under his direction. “Of course! That stupid cow, Linda—I told her to call you this morning—”

  “Problems?”

  “Paul Morgan. He’s coming in for a rehearsal. I promised to walk him through the scene on the parlor set.”

  “But I’m in that scene too. Couldn’t we do it together?”

  “That’s what I suggested. He says he prefers to work alone.”

  “I get it,” Jan said. “The star treatment.”

  “Star, no. Treatment, yes. Just between us, he is very unsure of himself. Playing a transvestite, he has to go against his image. It is important that I help him.”

  “What about me?” Jan did her best to conceal her irritation. “I’ve got some questions about my own part—”

  “They will be answered, I promise you.” Vizzini perfumed the air with his gesture. “We will schedule another reading later in the week. I’ll have Linda check and let you know when to set it up. Perhaps by that time you will have a better grasp of the character.” He led her to the door, patting her shoulder, and this time she didn’t flinch away from his touch. “Believe me, if you get up in your lines there will be nothing to worry about. I trust my instinct. When I selected you for the part, I knew you would come through.”

  Not for you, buster, Jan told herself. Stuff yourself.

  But when she drove back up the hillside to the apartment in the humid heat of late afternoon, she did decide to have another go at the script.

  Connie was gone, out on a casting call for a commercial, so there were no distractions. Once she’d changed into slacks and settled down on the living room sofa, Jan opened the pages of Crazy Lady and addressed herself to the sides of dialogue she’d carefully underscored in vivid green.