Psycho - Three Complete Novels (30 page)

“While Norman is running loose?”

Dr. Steiner shrugged. “All right. I still don’t buy it, but let’s say he’s still alive. Engstrom tells me his department is cooperating with Captain Banning. They’ve put out an all-points, they’re making appeals asking possible witnesses to come forward, they’re going over the available evidence. But until they come up with something concrete, you can’t stop stop them from having their own opinions, any more than you can stop these people out in Hollywood from making their picture—”

Claiborne looked up, a question in his eyes, and Dr. Steiner nodded.

“Forgot to mention it. I had a call from that producer, the one you talked to yesterday.”

“Marty Driscoll?”

“He phoned this morning, right after I got back. Said he’d heard the news and wanted more details on what happened yesterday.”

“And you gave them to him?”

“Of course not.” Steiner frowned. “I’ve no intention of helping him, never did. I haven’t read his script, don’t want to talk to his writer. And in view of the circumstances, my advice to him was to cancel the picture entirely.”

“Did he agree?”

“He as much as told me to go to hell. He thinks all this is great publicity. They’re going to start shooting next Monday.”

“But they can’t!” Claiborne shook his head. “Nick, we have to do something.”

“Of course.” Dr. Steiner pushed his chair back, rising. “I’m going to work. And you’re going to take a few days off, get some rest.”

“I don’t want—”

“Never mind what you want, it’s what you need. I’ll take over your case load this week. You’re overtired and you’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting?”

“This business about the picture. When you come right down to it, what’s the difference whether they go ahead or not? We can’t stop them.”

“Maybe not,” said Claiborne. “But if we don’t, Norman will.”

— 15 —

I
t had been a mistake to tell Steiner anything.

Claiborne should have known the minute Nick started talking about overreacting. But he hadn’t caught the implication then; he’d gone on explaining about the newspaper item in the hardware store, how Norman must have seen it, where he guessed Norman would be going and what he’d do. He should have realized that Steiner wouldn’t understand, but it was too late now.

Now they had him in the hospital.

God knew what the diagnosis was—they wouldn’t tell him, weren’t going to tell him. The nurses and orderlies never forgot to call him “Doctor” when they addressed him; they were all very courteous, but they were also very firm.

Claiborne understood the need for firmness. It was a necessary measure, a professional procedure that he himself had followed, something he’d accepted as part of the job he had to do. But now they were doing a job on him. And he couldn’t take it.

He couldn’t get used to being a patient, being ordered around, treated like a child. Getting examined, inspected, searched as though he were some kind of criminal. Told to stand there, sit here, served his meals on a tray.

And then there were the noises. The syrupy, supposedly soothing sound of canned music, interrupted by buzzing voices issuing commands. And always the droning that music couldn’t disguise, the droning that set up a vibration inside his head, a pressure that made his ears ring. Even with his eyes closed, Claiborne couldn’t escape; there was no escape.

Because he was strapped down.

That was when it really hit him, when he knew he couldn’t move.
They had him in restraint!

Claiborne began to tremble. He forced himself forward, his body arching up against the confinement of the unyielding straps. But the straps held, they were firm, everyone was firm, no escape, no way.
Got to get out of here, out of here—

His eyes opened and he stared down.

At the seat belt.

Relax. You’re on the plane.

He sank back, conscious that he was smiling, relieved and ashamed at the same time. Steiner had been right; he was overtired, and that’s why he’d fallen asleep during the flight. And overreaction had emerged in his nightmare.

Its elements seemed obvious. The nurses and orderlies were the airline personnel. In dream, going through the airport security check became a physical examination. The directions—being told to wait for boarding, to remain seated and fasten his belt—were self-explanatory. And of course they’d served him a meal on a tray.

The canned music and the pilot’s messages had come over the cabin intercom. Now there was only the drone of the engines as the plane began its long, gliding descent. But the vibration was real enough, and he did feel pressure in his ears.

He felt pressure, period. But now was not the time to think about it. Now was the time to
please remain seated until the aircraft reaches the terminal
—although all around him, Claiborne noted, passengers were rifling the overhead storage compartments for their hand luggage and crowding down the aisle, propelled by competitive compulsion to be first in line.

Now was the time to pick up his own briefcase and move through the exit, running the gauntlet of mechanical smiles and automated goodbyes from the perspiring stewardesses stationed there.

Welcome to Los Angeles International.

In the airport’s upper lobby, friends and family greeted his fellow passengers. For a moment Claiborne caught himself scanning faces in the crowds clustering around the semicircle of arrival and departure gates, then smiled self-consciously. Who the hell was he looking for? Norman wasn’t waiting at the terminal to say hello—if, indeed, he was waiting anywhere at all. Suppose Steiner had been right and all this was a fool’s errand?

Only one way to find out. Claiborne started forward, shouldering through the throng and escalating down—neat contradiction in terms, that!—to the lower level. Now he began to plod the interminable tunnel leading to the outer lobby.

The symbolism of these movements didn’t go unnoticed; it was like reenacting one’s birth. Once in the tunnel, everyone became impatient, anxious to reach the exit, emerge reborn into the new world beyond.

But actual birth was a simple phenomenon compared to what still had to be endured. Making the car-rental arrangements, buying the street guide, locating his baggage and snatching it from the conveyor—everything took time, taxed patience, enhanced irritation.

How long had it been since travel had transformed itself from pleasure to an endless ordeal? Perhaps he had a low pain threshold, or maybe he was just too damned tired; whatever the reason, he resented the regimentation and the herding, the hordes jabbering and jostling at the luggage stations. No amount of soporific sound could disguise the discomfort, whether it came from the speaker system or rose in recollection of the television commercials chorusing the delights of flight.

Flight, escape—all he wanted was to get out of here. And even after he’d reached the rented car, stowed his bag, consulted the map for guidance, appraised the instrument panel on the dash, and started moving, there was still the problem of leaving the airport. Inching along in bumper-to-bumper traffic, interpreting the constantly confusing overhead signs, fighting to change lanes, Claiborne finally reached Century Boulevard and crawled east to the San Diego Freeway. Here, exhausted by exhaust, he located the northbound entrance ramp and moved up, swerving left between a thundering semi and lurching camper. Life in the fast lane wasn’t all that great, either, but at least now he was headed in the right direction.

Or so he hoped.

The mere mechanics of driving at a regular speed, of functioning as a comparatively free agent once again, had a relaxing effect. Now he was calm enough to review the situation objectivity.

No point in faulting Steiner; actually, Nick had been extremely supportive. Once he’d realized Claiborne’s mind was made up, he’d put his skepticism aside and cooperated fully. Maybe he didn’t give the trip his unqualified blessing, but he helped get plane reservations, ordered Otis to drive Claiborne to the airport, promised to stay in touch and pass on a report of autopsy findings or any other developments as soon as possible.

Best of all, he’d called a halt to that cheap-shot analysis of motivations, perhaps because Steiner knew Claiborne would be doing the job for him.

And he was, now.

The nightmare on the plane—sorting outs its elements had been easy enough, but unimportant. The meaning behind those elements was what counted.

His dream of incarceration was a dream of punishment. Nobody had punished him for letting Norman escape, so he was punishing himself.

The actual trip was another expression of guilt feelings. He’d taken a flight, and flight was
fugue,
running away. But he couldn’t run away from his responsibility.

And that was where he parted company with Steiner. He
was
responsible. If Norman had come out here, he must find him, and quickly. Maybe he had no solid proof to support his position, but Steiner and Engstrom had none to support theirs. Not yet, anyway. And until proof was forthcoming, he must go with his instincts, his convictions, his training.

So much for the professional reaction, but there was more to it than that. Norman wasn’t just another patient. When you saw someone every day for years, shared his confidence, learned his innermost secrets, counseled and guided him in moments of stress, there was only one word to describe the relationship. Norman was his friend.

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?”