Psycho - Three Complete Novels (29 page)

Jan dismissed the thought quickly. Driscoll wasn’t a phony; he had a long track record as a producer of top-grossers. At least he’d taken credit for them, and that was what counted. He knew the business, knew where the money was, knew where the bodies were buried.

Bodies.
Five victims, Roy said.
Don’t think about it.

She glanced across the room and saw Roy, already seated in the corner with his back to the doorway. Oblivious to her quiet entrance, he was leaning forward and talking to Paul Morgan, her co-star in the picture.

Come off it,
she told herself.
You’re no co-star—he gets the billing.

And why not? Paul Morgan was almost an institution. Standing there silhouetted in profile against the light from the window, he looked like a miniature model of his oversize screen image. It still puzzled her to think he’d take an offbeat role like Norman Bates.

But then, he was probably just as puzzled to have her as his female lead instead of a name star. Maybe that was why he ignored her now as she came in; come to think of it, Paul Morgan hadn’t said a dozen words to her directly since the day she was set for the part.

Whatever his reason, she’d better do something about it, and fast. Chat him up, stroke him, make it plain that this was his ego trip and she was only along for the ride.

Jan started toward the two men, then halted at the touch of a hand curling around her waist. A wave of sickly scent accompanied the movement.

A good thing she already had a smile on her face, intended for Morgan; now she could give it to Santo Vizzini. Not that he didn’t deserve a smile for his own sake; after all, he’d been responsible for her getting the role. But it wasn’t easy to register pleasurable emotion at the sight of the man with the caterpillar moustache. The odor of his perfumed presence was overpowering, and his fingers probing and moving downward toward her thigh gave Jan the creeps.

She turned quickly, preserving the smile and hoping it would atone for her evading his touch. “Mr. Vizzini—”

“Santo.” The caterpillar was crawling now as the thick lips parted beneath it. “Please, there is no need to stand on ceremony.”

Jan nodded.
I get the message, buster. You don’t want me to stand on anything—just lie down.

But she didn’t say it. Luckily she didn’t have to say anything, for now all conversation broke off as Marty Driscoll’s voice echoed from the outer office.

“Hold my calls,” he said.

It was part of the ritual, the classic invocation signifying that the conference, the meeting, the ceremony was about to begin.

The next step was Marty Driscoll’s own, as he moved into the room. The fat, balding producer had a tall thin shadow; it glided behind him, closing the door as Driscoll hunkered down into the overstuffed chair behind the big desk. The shadow’s name was George Ward, and its hair and face had gone gray in long years of service as Driscoll’s
eminence grise.
Now the shadow slithered to a halt at the end of the desk, poised for a signal.

It came as Marty Driscoll hunched forward, broad shoulders bowed under the weight of the thick neck and heavy head. “Sit down, everybody,” he said.

Roy Ames and Paul Morgan took the sofa facing the desk. Vizzini lowered himself on a lounger at the right, near George Ward, while Jan settled into a chair on the left.

Now she waited for Driscoll to utter the prescribed opening: “Anyone want coffee?” Instead he sat silently, a tonsured Buddha, staring down at the desk top through heavy-lidded eyes. He might have been meditating on Infinity or contemplating his navel, but Jan doubted it. From what she knew of Driscoll, he was neither a mystic nor a navel-observer. All he did was make her nervous, and perhaps that was his intention. A quick glimpse of the others grouped before the desk told her that they were equally uncomfortable as they waited for him to break the silence.

Then, abruptly, the head arched upward and the eyes widened.

“You all know what happened yesterday,” Driscoll said. “Since then, I’ve had some second thoughts about the picture.”

Second thoughts.
The phrase echoed and Jan stiffened in response.
He’s going to shut down. Roy was right.

And Roy was speaking now. “You’re not the only one. I was just telling Paul the same thing. We’re in trouble.”

“I don’t see it.” Paul Morgan broke in quickly. “Norman Bates’s escape has nothing to do with our story. As long as the script sticks to the facts—”

Roy shook his head. “The facts have changed now.”

“So we change the script.” Vizzini spoke rapidly. “A little fix, perhaps, a few pages. We’ve still got a week. And since I’m shooting the scenes with the Loomis characters in sequence, we won’t be using Steve Hill and the Gordon girl until next month, when they come out from New York.”

“What is this, a story conference?” Roy gestured impatiently. “Forget the script! As long as Bates was in the asylum we had no problem. Our story was only a fairy tale, something that happened a long time ago. Audiences wouldn’t give a damn if it was fact or fiction. But now we’re up against reality.”

“Right.”

Driscoll nodded and Jan felt a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

He was running scared. That meant the picture was dead, she was dead, and all her talk about not letting them stop was dead too.

“But you can’t!” Her voice rose and she was rising with it, ignoring their sudden stares, ignoring everything except the inner urgency. “You can’t quit now.”

“Jan, please—” Roy was moving toward her, his eyes troubled, his hand reaching out to grasp her arm. “This is no time for hysteria—”

“Then stop being hysterical!” She shook herself free, ignoring him, concentrating on the bald man behind the desk. “What’s the matter with you people? You’re behaving like a bunch of old women! It would be crazy to stop. Don’t you see what you’ve got here? You’re sitting right on top of a gold mine and you’re afraid to dig!”

Jan hesitated as Driscoll’s hands came up from the desktop, palms moving inward. For an instant she thought he was assuming an attitude of prayer; then, as the sound came, she realized he was applauding.

“Bravo!” he said. “Cut and print.”

“That isn’t funny, dammit!” Jan felt her face redden as the anger burned outwards. “I’m not doing a performance, I’m telling you the truth. If you’d only stop and think for a minute, you’d realize the publicity—”

Driscoll gestured, halting her. “You stop,” he said. “Give me a chance to say what I’ve been thinking.” He turned and poked a pudgy finger at George Ward. “Here, you tell her.”

The Gray Eminence nodded. “As Mr. Driscoll told you, he had second thoughts about the production. At first we were upset by the reports; like Mr. Ames here, we wondered about having problems. Then we got into what you’re talking about. The news value, the publicity. And we came up with the same answer. Norman Bates’s breakout could be the best thing that ever happened to
Crazy Lady.
It ties us right into front-page headlines, top-of-the-show exposure on every TV and radio newscast in the country. Sure, Bates is dead, but the story will stay alive; they’ll be investigating those murders for months now. A media event like this is something money couldn’t buy. Every mention of the case is a free plug for our film.”

The knot in Jan’s stomach began to loosen. “Does that mean you’re going ahead?”

“Full speed,” Driscoll said. “Make it fast, get it shipped, and laugh all the way to the bank.”

Jan felt the knot unwind.

“Great!” Paul Morgan grinned at Roy. “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

“The hell there isn’t.” Roy stood up, ignoring Morgan, and stood before the desk, facing Driscoll. “You’re forgetting the script. What happened yesterday shoots down our ending.”

“I’m not forgetting.” Driscoll’s index finger jabbed forward. “Like Santo says, you’ve got a week for changes. If you don’t finish by next Monday, you’ll stay on after the start-date. We’ll shoot the production schedule as is and shoot the new scenes last.”

“Now wait a minute, I haven’t made any commitment—”

“Your agent has. I called him this morning and set the deal.”

Jan listened, smiling. The knot in her stomach was gone.

“Don’t worry.” Santo Vizzini moved up beside Roy. “It’s only a few pages. I’ve got some ideas. Think of the material we can work with now—the new murders, and Norman’s death.”

Roy scowled, but when he spoke his voice was soft. “Just one thing,” he said. “What makes you so sure Norman is dead?”

— 14 —

“O
f course he’s dead.”

Dr. Steiner stubbed his cigarette against the side of the ashtray on Claiborne’s desk. “Look, Adam. I know how you feel—”

“Do you?”

“For God’s sake, stop being defensive! Nobody’s blaming you for what happened. So why are you blaming yourself?”

Claiborne shrugged. “It’s not a question of blame,” he said. “What it comes down to is responsibility.”

“Word games.” Steiner took out another cigarette. “Blame, responsibility, what difference does it make? You want to go that route, then Otis was responsible for leaving Bates alone with the nun. And what about Clara? She was on the desk when Bates slipped out. If anyone’s to blame for his escape, it’s those two.”

“But I was in charge.”

“And I’m the guy who put you there.” Steiner reached into his pocket for matches. “If you’re looking for the ultimate responsibility, the buck stops here.” He lit his cigarette, dropped the match into the ashtray, and blew a spiral of smoke toward the ceiling. “When I say I know how you feel, it’s not just a figure of speech. Why do you think I skipped my meeting and scooted back here the minute I got word? I had the same reaction you did—first shock, then guilt. Thank God there was a little time to think things over during the flight. I admit I’m still traumatized by what happened, we all are, but it’s only natural under the circumstances. But the guilt is gone.”

“Not for me.”

Dr. Steiner gestured with his cigarette. “Look, nobody’s perfect. We all make mistakes. Isn’t that what you and I tell our analysands? We can’t go through life blaming ourselves for honest errors. And yesterday was a comedy of errors—a tragedy, if you prefer. But the point is that none of us—Otis, Clara, you, or myself—could foresee what was going to happen. The only thing we can be faulted for, individually and collectively, is lack of infallibility.”

“Now you’re into word games,” Claiborne said. “Whether or not I’m infallible doesn’t matter. I had a job to do and I fell down.”

“Fell down.” Steiner puffed reflectively. “Fell down and tore your stockings and what will Daddy say when he gets home? Come off it, Adam, you’re not a child! And I’m not your father.”

“Jesus, Nick, if you’re going to play doctor with me—”

“Let me finish.” Steiner leaned forward, peering through a gray halo of smoke. “Okay, so you’re guilty. But of what? All you did was instruct Otis to watch the library while you took a phone call. That’s the extent of it.

“You had no way of knowing Otis would leave, no way of knowing Norman was planning a break. And from then on, we’re dealing with hard facts. It was Norman who killed Sister Barbara and took over the van. He was in the van when it exploded, his actions resulted in Sister Cupertine’s death and his own—”

“But that’s just it.” Claiborne rose. “Norman wasn’t killed in the van. They picked up a hitchhiker. I know because I found the sign, back on the other road. Norman got rid of him and Sister Cupertine, set fire to the van, then went after Sam and Lila Loomis in Fairvale. Didn’t Engstrom tell you?”

Steiner nodded. “Yes, I heard all about your theory when I spoke with him this morning. But let’s stay with facts. He’s convinced the Loomises were killed by another party—a sneak thief, maybe even the hitchhiker you’re talking about—”

“Convinced?” Claiborne said. “By what? Where are
his
facts? All he’s got is another theory. A nice, convenient theory that wraps up everything. That is, if you’re willing to accept the Loomises’ deaths as just coincidence.

“Well, I’m not. I think they were deliberately murdered by the one man in the world who had a motive.” He paced the narrow opening between the wall and his desk. “If it’s hard evidence you’re looking for, consider this: Sam and Lila Loomis weren’t just struck down. They were butchered. Put motive and method together and you get a clear picture of Norman Bates at work.”

Dr. Steiner extinguished his second cigarette. “Nothing’s going to be clear until we have the complete autopsy report,” he said. “Engstrom talked to Rigsby at the coroner’s office. He expects to give us his findings by the end of the week—”

“End of the week?” Claiborne halted and turned, frowning. “What’s the matter with those people? Nick, I don’t know a damned thing about forensic procedure, I haven’t even sat in on a PM since medical school, but give me three hours with that corpse and I’ll bet we’ll come up with a firm ID.”

Steiner nodded. “So will Rigsby, when he has the time. But Engstrom tells me it’s like a madhouse over there.” He smiled selfconsciously. “If you’ll pardon the Freudian slip.”

“You mean because of that bus crash?”

Dr. Steiner sighed. “Seven victims yesterday. Two of the injured died during the night. That makes nine. Total of fourteen, when you add the five we’re concerned with.”

“I’m only concerned with one,” Claiborne said. “Couldn’t Engstrom lean on Rigsby to give us priority?”

“He tried. But don’t forget, county coroner’s an elective office.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that Engstrom is one man, and the families of the victims run into several dozen people. They’re leaning too, and all of them are voters. So much for Rigsby’s priorities.” Dr. Steiner produced another cigarette. “I’d hate to be in his shoes right now. He’s going to be working night and day, and until he gets around to us, we’ll just have to sweat it out.”

“Because politics is more important than murder?” Claiborne shook his head. “Maybe Engstrom and Rigsby can believe that, but not me. And I never thought you would, either.”

“I don’t.” Dr. Steiner held up his hand. “Look at this—third one in fifteen minutes!” He scowled ruefully and tossed the unlit cigarette into the ashtray, then settled back in his chair. “Believe me, I’m just as uptight as you are. But we have no options. We’ve got to make up our minds to be patient until the word comes down.”