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

  Claiborne stared at him. “What are you trying to tell me? The Bates house burned down years ago.”

  “True. We both know about it. But what you don’t know is that the house has recently been rebuilt.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  Steiner nodded again. “Rebuilt and restored,” he said. “Apparently someone located an old photograph album with pictures taken against the background of various interiors, plus enough exterior shots to guide reconstruction. Of course there was no way to duplicate furnishings exactly, but I understand they managed to come pretty close to the originals.”

  Claiborne had continued to stare and now he spoke in a shocked whisper. “How could they do a thing like that? And why?”

  Try as he would, Steiner could not bring himself to maintain eye contact. And it didn’t matter now, because he was flying blind. Flying into the face of misfortune, into the face of a patient whom he should have protected, not traumatized.

  And while he was at it, he’d better rid his mind of all this nonsense about traps, flying blind, and putting a face on misfortune. What he really needed was a security lock on his tongue, but it was too late for silence now. And come to think of it, this security lock business was just another example of what he’d promised himself to avoid. It was time to choose his words carefully—very carefully.

  “There’s one obvious reason for rebuilding the Bates house,” he said. “Profit.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that anyone would want to buy the place and live there? It doesn’t make sense!”

  “It wasn’t built as a permanent residence,” Steiner said. “Just for visitors.”

  “They can’t do that.” Something was happening to Claiborne’s voice. “Making a hotel out of the house? They must be insane!”

  “It’s not supposed to be used as a hotel.” Steiner softened his tone, hoping Claiborne would follow suit. “Neither is the motel, for that matter.”

  “They rebuilt that too?” If anything, Claiborne’s response was louder than before.

  “Only the office and one room,” Steiner told him. “The rest of the building is just a shell.”

  “Then where’s the profit coming from?”

  Steiner pitched his own voice lower. “Tourism,” he said.

  “You mean they’re turning the property into a tourist attraction?”

  Steiner shrugged. “So I’m told.”

  Claiborne leaned forward, his features distorted. “What are they going to do, charge people so much a head to take a look at the murder mansion? Will they have tour guides give a canned speech about what happened? Are they going to offer family rates or let the kiddies in for free?”

  “Take it easy,” Steiner said. “It’s not that bad.” But it was. He’d been an idiot not to anticipate the problem. Ordinarily he went counter to today’s trend of substituting sedation for solutions, but right now he wished he’d relaxed his opinions and his patient.

  Claiborne started at him. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

  “I think you know the answer to that question, Adam. We’re twenty miles away from Fairvale. I’m not a resident, I have no say-so in community affairs. For that matter, when you get right down to it, it’s not even a question of Fairvale’s choice. From what I understand, the Bates property comes under the jurisdiction of the County Board of Supervisors.”

  Claiborne’s scowl was deep-set. “Don’t you think I know that? You could have talked to Joe Gunderson.”

  Steiner shook his head. “I don’t know anybody by that name.” And yet, very faintly, it rang a bell.

  “Don’t give me that! Everybody knows Joe Gunderson. He runs this county. Mother went to him about a permit before she started building—”

  This time the bell clanged loud and clear. Gunderson, the county’s political boss, famous throughout the area for twenty years. And dead for ten.

  Steiner took a deep breath. “Adam, I want you to listen to me now very carefully.”

  Claiborne wasn’t listening to anything but the sound of his own voice. Or was it his own? “You’re not fooling me. The reason you didn’t talk to Gunderson is because you don’t care what happens, nobody cares what happens, you’re going to let them go ahead and do anything they like, turn the motel into some kind of carnival sideshow!”

  “I’ve told you, there’s nothing I can do—”

  “You’ve told me a lot of things, haven’t you, about who I am and what I should do. But I don’t believe you anymore. I know who I am.”

  The bell inside Steiner’s head clanged again, this time in warning. Its tone changed as Claiborne’s voice was changing. And now, incredibly, his distorted features were changing too.

  Steiner pushed his chair back.

  “Stop it, Adam! Calm down now, and relax.”

  “I know who I am and what I must do!” Adam Claiborne shouted.

  But it was not Adam’s face that Steiner saw before him now as Claiborne rose; nor was it himself that Claiborne got hold of as the long fingers found his visitor’s throat.

  Dr. Steiner gasped, clawing at his attacker. Gasp became gurgle, gurgle trickling into silence as the pressure tightened, cutting off the blood supply to the brain.

  Steiner’s last conscious thought came as a simple observation. Perhaps Claiborne didn’t play the piano but he’d certainly learned how to use his left hand.

  — 4 —

  Morning sunshine filtered through the bathroom blinds as Amy finished applying minimal makeup in the fluorescence illuminating the mirror above the washstand. That would suffice while she was indoors; this afternoon, before leaving, she’d subject herself to natural light from outside the window and do a more thorough job. What she did now would serve her purpose—which was to go downstairs and have someone serve her breakfast.

  Why was she so hungry? Must be all this fresh air. Thinking of air brought back the memory of her fleeting panic upon awakening last night to confront that open window. Once again she reassured herself that it must have been unlocked, blowing open when the wind did its work. In any case, nothing had happened and it seemed silly to be uptight about it.

  Nevertheless she started at the sound of the phone jangling in the bedroom beyond. She picked it up after the fourth ring, but hesitated for a fraction of a second before speaking.

  For some reason or other, answering the phone had always presented problems. “Hello” seemed meaningless; ritualism, like asking “How are you?” when opening conversation with a total stranger whose welfare was really not a matter for concern at the moment. “Amy Haines speaking” or “Amy Haines here” both sounded superfluous; of course she was the one who was speaking and since she was not a machine she certainly had to be here in order to do so. Which really left her with little choice but to say, “Yes?”

  So, of course, she said “Hi!” instead.

  “Miss Haines?” A man’s voice, deep and resonant. “Hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  “You didn’t.” Amy flicked her left forefinger at the lower lash of her left eye; apparently a speck of mascara was causing a problem there. “Who is this?”

  “Hank Gibbs—Fairvale Weekly Herald. I’m calling from the lobby. Thought maybe if you were free I could invite you to come down and have breakfast.”

  Amy hadn’t put on her watch yet; it still lay on the nightstand. Twisting her neck, she glanced down to read the time. Nine A.M. Apparently her finger had done a good job because her eye was clear, with no further feeling of discomfort. And if Fairvale was like most of the other small towns she knew, the courthouse wouldn’t be opening until ten o’clock.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gibbs,” she said. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”

  After hanging up Amy went to retrieve the larger of the two plastic-bound notebooks she’d placed on the bureau while unpacking last night. Opening it she scanned the contents of the second page until she found what she was looking for. Yes, here he was on the list—Hank Gibbs, nwspr. ed., Fairvale. The fact he’d sought her ou
t instead of vice versa might be a good omen. In any case, she wanted to see him.

  By the same token, it might be a good idea if nobody saw the list, or for that matter, the rest of the contents of this particular notebook. Carrying it over to the closet, she opened her overnight case and placed it under lock and key. When she crossed the room again she slipped the smaller notebook into her bag. One last reassurance from the mirror and she was off.

  The elevator was empty when it arrived and she was the sole passenger when it descended. All of which made for a meeting that was quick and easy because Hank Gibbs was the sole occupant of the lobby when she stepped forth into it.

  At first glance Gibbs appeared to be a man pushing forty, and forty was pushing back. About five-eight, Amy judged, with the mesomorphic build of a former football player who has allowed himself to go out of training and into McDonald’s. He wore tan slacks, a blue-and-white checked shirt open at the collar, and a brown jacket with the leather elbows popular a dozen or more years ago. His blond hair was cut short in a manner that clearly indicated that the local barber wasn’t much for all that newfangled hairstyling. But somehow Gibbs, with his tanned face and surprisingly vivid blue eyes, seemed quite appropriate to the setting in which she was encountering him. Amy’s first impression was that he might have stepped out of one of those old-time Norman Rockwell cover illustrations for The Saturday Evening Post.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Apparently Amy’s first impression was correct; Hank Gibbs accompanied his statement by shaking hands—a custom she tended to believe had gone out of fashion around the time Gloria Steinem reached puberty.

  His hand was warm, his grip firm; body language reinforcing his greeting. For a moment she regretted not having taken a little more time on her makeup, then pushed the thought aside. This was business.

  But breakfast itself was pleasure. Their waitress was tall, angular, bespectacled, and briskly efficient; the coffee was stronger, the service prompt and unobtrusive. Even so, Amy was aware that the young woman who served her, together with the waitress assigned to counter-trade, checked Hank Gibbs and herself whenever their eyes were free to do so. The eyes of other patrons also searched out the activities of what they presumably regarded as the odd couple. Apparently Amy and her companion were considered an item; but if Gibbs didn’t seem concerned about the possibility of gossip, why should she?

  His eggs were fried, with a side order of ham; hers were scrambled, with bacon. Both had toast and passed on the fried potatoes. But before their orders arrived Amy had already removed the small notebook from her purse.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions,” she said.

  “Not at all.” Hank Gibbs smiled. “Matter of fact, you took the words right out of my mouth.” His smile broadened. “I guess the first thing we’ll have to decide is just who is interviewing who.”

  Amy peeked at her watch. “To be perfectly frank, I think it will help if you’d let me interview you first. Maybe we could set up another meeting later, at your convenience. I’ve got to check some things out this morning over at the courthouse, and perhaps you’ll have some information to assist me.”

  “What’s your hurry?” Gibbs sipped his coffee, then held out the half-empty cup to the waitress as she approached. “I take it you expect to be here all day.”

  “Not really. I have an early afternoon appointment.”

  Gibbs nodded. “At State Hospital.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I stopped by Sheriff Engstrom’s office on my way over here. His secretary told me.” Gibbs rescued his refilled coffee cup from the waitress. “In case you’re wondering, she got the information from the desk clerk here.”

  “Since when—”

  “Since time immemorial.” Gibbs reached for the sugar. “This is a small town, Miss Haines. Word gets around. The desk clerk is Les Chambers; his father used to be the sheriff here when Engstrom just started out as a deputy. Les and Engstrom are almost like family, you could say, so whenever anything happens over here at the hotel it gets back to the Sheriff’s office right away.”

  “All I did was place a phone call,” Amy said. “But nothing happened.”

  “Not until about half an hour ago.” Gibbs stirred the sugar in his cup. “Word came through while I was still at the Sheriff’s office.” He hesitated for a moment, frowning. “Guess I should have told you earlier.”

  “Told me what?”

  “Dr. Steiner won’t be seeing you this afternoon. He’s in Montrose Hospital.” Gibbs lifted his spoon from the coffee cup in a quick gesture of response to Amy’s sudden look of alarm. “Far as they know, it’s not all that serious but he’s going to need a couple of days’ rest. It’s Claiborne who’s in a bad way.”

  “What happened?”

  “No details yet. It seems Dr. Steiner was talking to Claiborne in his room; there was some kind of flare-up, and Claiborne tried to strangle him. By the time the male nurse broke in Steiner had passed out. Nobody’s given the straight story about how Claiborne was pulled off but somewhere along the line he suffered what they’re calling a coronary embolism. He’s at the hospital too, listed in critical condition.”

  “My fault,” Amy murmured.

  “What did you say?”

  “It’s my fault that it happened. When I called Dr. Steiner last night I asked about the possibility of seeing Adam Claiborne when I came out and he said he’d speak to him this morning. According to what you tell me, I should have left well enough alone.”

  “Wrong. First of all you can’t judge anything on the basis of what I have told you because there’s not enough information to go on. Secondly, you don’t strike me as the type who’d ever settle for leaving well enough alone. If you did, you wouldn’t be a journalist. Any more than I would.” Gibbs shook his head. “But the bottom line is, don’t blame yourself for what you think may have happened or what did happen. There’s no need for a rush to judgment.”

  True enough, Amy told herself. It doesn’t pay to be judgmental about anything without getting sufficient input first. She glanced up at Hank Gibbs; his appearance hadn’t changed since their meeting, but he was a perfect illustration of misjudgment, because he no longer looked like a Norman Rockwell illustration at all.

  “Relax,” Gibbs said. “Steiner’s going to be okay and Claiborne will probably make it too. Point is you don’t have to be such a hurry to get over to the courthouse because now you have all day. But if you want to ask any questions, feel free.”

  Amy did relax enough to take another sip of her coffee, and while she didn’t feel entirely free, at least what he’d said lifted some of the burden from her conscience. Enough so that she was able to accept his invitation.

  “How long have you been editing the paper?” she asked.

  “Nine years. Why?”

  “I was wondering about the files. Would there be anything going back about thirty years ago?”

  “Not that I know of.” Gibbs smiled. “Believe me, I looked. Then I asked around, trying to find out if some of the older folks happened to save copies from back in those days. If anyone did, they won’t admit it; people here didn’t want to talk about Norman Bates back then and chances are they didn’t want to read about him either. Most of them still don’t seem to want to know the details.” He leaned forward. “Why do you?”

  “Because he’s a symbol,” she said. “In some ways he seems to be more alive today than he was thirty years ago. Or is it just that we’ve turned into a violent society?”

  “I think our society has always been violent,” Gibbs said. “The only difference is that now we’re beginning to admit it. And we’ve still got a long way to go. People fool themselves into thinking that reading about it or watching it on screen is ‘facing reality.’ But actually what they see or read is preselected. I think that we turn our backs on violence in its worst and most commonplace forms—penning and butchering fowl and livestock, death on the highways, crime in the streets.” Gibbs shook
his head. “But who am I to get on a soapbox? Isn’t that what your book was all about?”

  Amy nodded. “I started to tell the story of Bonnie Walton, try to find out why her grungy life as a common hooker could lead to committing a series of cold-blooded murders. But Tricks or Treats ended up dealing more with her johns than with herself. When I researched their past histories it seemed to me that all of them were victims of society before they became victims of murder. A couple of them turned out to be just kids sampling what they thought would be more sophisticated sex, the same way they’d experiment with designer drugs in preference to pot.”

  Hank Gibbs arched his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty heavy way to describe it,” he said.

  “Caught me out?” Amy smiled as she spoke. “Most of what I just said is a direct quote from the book. I don’t usually talk that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “No audience, I suppose.”

  “Try me.” Gibbs reached for his coffee cup. “You were saying about the johns—”

  “All they seemed to be looking for was a little excitement to ease the monotony of a dull existence. In the case of the three middle-aged men you could strike out the word ‘existence’ and substitute ‘marriage.’ The older men weren’t looking for great sex—from what I was able to find out, they weren’t looking for sex at all. A little conversation, a little sympathy, the temporary illusion of being the center of attention; that’s what they were buying. But they got more than they bargained for. Sad.”

  “I agree.” Gibbs finished his coffee and centered his cup in the saucer. “I’m glad you don’t sound like one of those feminists.”

  “I believe in equal rights,” she told him, “but that means looking at both sides of the question. There’s no doubt that Bonnie Walton was also a victim; forces in her early life drove her into prostitution, and prostitution drove her into mental illness. You might say that her psyche, as well as her body, was bedridden.”

  “I might, but I’ll bet you beat me to it.” Gibbs smiled. “Something tells me that’s a line from your book too.”