Psycho - Three Complete Novels (68 page)

“Not entirely, but you can’t dismiss the necrology. First Mrs. Bates, then her lover, Ed Considine. Next were Mary Crane and Arbogast, the insurance investigator. Then the two nuns, Sister Barbara and Sister Cupertine.” His fingers rose and fell in accompanying enumeration. “After which came Norman himself. But it didn’t stop there. There was that producer, Driscoll, out in Hollywood, and Vicinzi, the director. Now we’ve had Terry Dowson, Doris Huntley, and Otto Remsbach here. An even dozen.”

As the list mounted Amy felt her own apprehension mounting with it. She knew the names, but somehow, up until this moment, she had never consciously realized the chain had so many links. And while possession might be a preposterous explanation, the linkage remained. The thought disturbed her and she strove for a light dismissal.

“Let’s hope there’s no more. Thirteen is an unlucky number.”

“I don’t believe in superstitions.” Dunstable was actually serious, Amy realized. And, she mustn’t forget, crazy as a bedbug. Except there was something about what he said, or the way he said it, that continued to trouble her.

Eric Dunstable seemed aware of that, because now he attempted to relieve her mind. “Don’t worry about the number,” he said. “The entity has already passed to take over another.”

“If that’s the case, you’re right back to square one,” Amy said. “You still have to identify whoever is being possessed.”

“Now the circumstances are different. This time I think it will be comparatively easy.”

Amy’s fingers pressed hard against the bedspread and the mattress beneath. “Aren’t you going to tell me whom you suspect?”

“I’m not quite ready to do so yet.”

“But when you are—”

“Exorcism.”

“How?”

“By whatever method proves necessary.” Dunstable stared at her. “Words banish. Water purifies. Fire cleanses.”

His eye blinked.

— 20 —

S
heriff Milt Engstrom parked his car a little way up and off the road.

And it was his own car, not the Department’s. Anyone passing by wouldn’t be apt to give it a second look and nobody would be trying to reach him on the squawk. In fact no one knew where he was and that’s the way he wanted it.

His pointed boots moved soundlessly along the elbow at the right-hand side of the road, still silent as he crossed to the door.

It was only after he unlocked it and entered the office that his heels clicked against the floorboards.

“Hello, Norman,” he said.

The figure on the pivot pedestal did not turn, nor did it reply.

“What’s the matter?” Engstrom said. “You got wax in your ears?”

Just a little joke. A very little one, but right now he’d settle for whatever might lighten things up, even for a moment. Just too damn bad the power hadn’t been turned on here; even in the shadows and with his back turned Engstrom didn’t particularly care for Norman’s looks.

Looks. Better case the room and bath, just to make sure. Floorboards creaked as he crossed to the door of number one. New lumber and old lumber; both creak the same. Engstrom wondered if the floorboards were silent when someone walked on them in the old motel. Had to be, of course. That’s how Norman managed to sneak into the room and the bath beyond, just the way he was sneaking now.

Only he didn’t have to sneak. There was no need, because for the first time since last night he was alone. No phones, no messages, nobody yapping questions. Which meant he didn’t have to give any answers. That was one of the reasons why he was here, to get away from giving answers.

There were none to be found in the bedroom when Engstrom opened the door and switched on the flashlight he’d lifted from his waistband. Its beam traveled with him into the bathroom; no answers here, from the wax figure of the victim standing under the shower.

He wondered what Fatso Otto might have done about it if he’d lived. How long would it’ve taken him to pipe water out here and set his prices? Five bucks to use the john, ten bucks for a shower. Just the thing for the tourist trade. Nice conversation piece for the ladies when they got back home. Tell all your friends you used the bathroom in the Bates Motel. Give ’em a gift certificate. Get your picture taken with the dummy.

Engstrom shook his head. Come to think of it, Fatso Otto would never think of it. This was the kind of stuff Charlie Pitkin would try to pull; he was the brains and Otto was just the blubber.

Right now the coroner would be carving away at the blubber over at Baldwin Memorial. But where was the brains? Nobody at the office since noon, and at the house his daughter said he’d left right after lunch, she didn’t know for where.

Lot of things she didn’t know about dear old Daddy, or did she? How much was she onto some of those deals he had going for him up at the legislature, or even here at the Fairvale office? How much and how often did she cover for him?

Troubling questions, but there was another one which bothered him even more. How much did he really know about that girl? When you got right down to it, damned little except with the kind of gossip Irene Grovesmith brought back from the beauty parlor, which didn’t count because Irene hated that girl almost as much as she hated this place. All the women seemed to hate it; Sandy Oliver, Marge Gifford in Doc Rawson’s office, the waitresses, store clerks, even the girls in the steamy back room over at Qwik Dry Cleaners. Emma hated it too, and it was a good thing she was off visiting her sister Frances in Springfield this week. She’d missed all of the excitement and he’d missed all the static he would have gotten about how it served Otto Remsbach right, why didn’t somebody stop him from building out there in the first place, why doesn’t somebody just burn it down?

In his own mind Engstrom could almost hear her saying just that, but he couldn’t picture her burning anything down. Some of those other women, yes, and some of the men too.

He retraced his steps to the office, flashlight fanning the silver bell on the counter and the figure facing the wall behind it. Certainly was some piece of work, that one. And so was the pivot mechanism in the pedestal. He’d already checked the battery setup that operated it when you pressed the bell on the counter and turned on the little strip of voice-tape. No clear print on the bell, and of course Banning’s people couldn’t get anything off the connecting wire that ran down behind the desk and into the base of the pedestal. Pretty cute the way they’d figured that one out, but then the outfit Charlie had hired did a lot more complicated things for some of those special effects in the movies.

Engstrom’s lips tightened as he left the office. Don’t look now, but your age is showing. They don’t make movies anymore; it’s all films. Got to keep up with the times.

And got to keep up with the present situation too. Switching off the flash, he started for the house. Where were all of those potential arsonists right now?

Irene was at the office handling calls and reporters, God help her; she wouldn’t even have time to light a match. Sandy Oliver’d phoned in sick, so she was probably at home, but Doc Rawson’s office hadn’t heard from her. That’s where Marge Gifford worked and she was on the job today. He’d talked to Pitkin’s daughter less than an hour ago, out at the lake cottage. But where the hell was Amelia Haines?

Not in her room this morning, that’s for sure, and nobody downstairs saw her leave. The lobby was like a snake pit; if somebody talked to her on the house phone the desk had been too busy to notice. She could even have used the service elevator and sneaked out the back way but her car hadn’t been moved. He should have checked again before coming out here, but you can’t think of everything.

Or everyone. The weirdo, Dunstable, there was no excuse to hold him after checking out his alibi this morning; he said he was going back to the hotel, but Christ only knew where he was now. And He wasn’t talking to anyone, not even Reverend Archer, who’d been asking for divine intervention to help destroy this place. Maybe Archer would lose patience and act on his own. Meanwhile, as of his wife’s response to a noontime call, the Reverend was not at home, she didn’t know when to expect him and couldn’t say where he’d gone.

Homer was holding the fort at the
Fairvale Weekly Herald
office but his boss was out. According to Homer, Hank Gibbs was slated to tape an interview over at the hotel sometime around four o’clock; TV and radio people had rented—and were taking turns using—the banquet room, which was a fancy name for the place where the Kiwanis Club held breakfast meetings every Friday morning. Today the meeting had been called off, which meant there were that many more prospective firebugs on the loose. They hadn’t been happy about Fatso Otto’s project from its beginning and now they’d be anxious to see it end. Then there was Dick Reno to consider. Tall man, short fuse. He didn’t take kindly to being fired, but you can’t depend on someone who doesn’t know enough to keep his mouth shut. He’d sneaked off while he was on duty last night; where could he have sneaked off to now?

Again Engstrom’s hand dipped to his waistband, this time not to locate the flashlight but to reassure himself his revolver was ready before he opened the front door of the Bates house. After considering all those likely to have incendiary intentions it was possible that he might not be the first visitor here.

Sunlight hazy, clouds coming in from the west. More rain coming?

If so it didn’t concern him; not at the moment, anyway. Truth to tell, a little rain this evening might be just the thing. Nothing like a good storm to put out fires. Unless, of course, the fire started before the rain did.

Once inside the house he closed the door quietly behind him. It was time to use the flashlight again. Here in the hall nothing seemed changed; a big sheet of plastic still covered the area where Terry Dowson’s body had lain and the stained flooring beneath. Didn’t look as though anyone had disturbed it since blood samples had been collected. Whole mess would have to be cleaned up sooner or later, but not right now. Maid’s day off.

The flashbeam aided vision but it didn’t help his hearing or other senses. As far as these were concerned, he’d have to depend on himself. Up until now all he heard was the sound of his own footsteps and all he smelled was a lingering trace of semi-glossy paint. He didn’t expect to be touching or tasting anything; then again, one never knows.

One never knows, but one had damn well better find out. Move slowly, softly, carefully. Upstairs first; switch the flash to your left hand and keep the right hand close to the holster. Dick Reno turned in his revolver this morning, but he had one of his own. How many more of those jokers on his list might have revolvers, target pistols, deer rifles, shotguns, or other weapons? For that matter, an ordinary butcher knife would do; it had done before, several times, and most efficiently.

Darkness hid his grim smile as he mounted the stairs, keeping the flash low so that its light wouldn’t advertise his approach. Once on the upper landing he pointed his boots down the hall and made a slow-motion survey door by door, room by room, closet by closet. All clear.

Satisfied, he retraced his route down the hall and the stairs, then duplicated his efforts on the first floor. Nobody had been hiding under the bed up above, nobody lurked behind the furniture down here. The drapes in the parlor were less than floor-length and stirred only in response to his passage.

Funny thing, though; no pictures on the walls, upstairs or here below. Maybe they’d been ordered but hadn’t arrived. Perhaps they’d come in at the last moment, too late for hanging. Only it was never too late for hanging, not in this state. Or framing, either.

Again the grim smile. Wonder what kind of pictures were supposed to go on the walls here—regular old-fashioned paintings or maybe blowup photos of Norman and his mother? Have to ask Charlie Pitkin the next time he saw him.
If
he saw him.

Hopefully that wouldn’t be in the basement. Or the fruit cellar.

Boot tips teetered on the steps. Down and dirty. That’s what they used to say in stud poker games when he was a kid. But this wasn’t a game and he wasn’t a kid anymore; just a grey-mustached man who had plans for living to a ripe old age. Should have sent somebody else out here in the first place, but with Reno gone he was left shorthanded. Besides, it would be too risky.

Either it was darker in the basement or his flashlight was starting to give out. That had happened here before, or was it just his imagination? In any case he’d come too far to turn back now. Now that he knew the basement was empty. Now that he had to look into the fruit cellar.

The door was slightly ajar.

Had it been that way before? He couldn’t remember.

Point the flashlight forward. Pull out the revolver and point it too. Ease the door open very gently, very slowly, using the tip of the left boot. Now fan the beam in on—

Emptiness.

It was a relief, of course. A relief, but strange; strange not to see Mother there, where she belonged. Should have had a pivot installed for her. Here, or in Otto Remsbach’s bed.

This time the smile was not quite as grim. The tension was easing now that he could be sure—reasonably sure—the house hadn’t been invaded. And wouldn’t be, if he could prevent it. Eventually those news-media turkeys would be coming out here but all they were going to get was what they’d gotten the first time around; exterior shots of the house and the motel setup. If Captain Banning pitched in they wouldn’t even get that much, but Banning’s nose was out of joint because the Highway Patrol didn’t get any exposure on the Remsbach case. He wasn’t about to detail any round-the-clock surveillance here, not even on a drive-by basis.

Banning wasn’t worrying about the media or about possible arson either. And when you came right down to it, why should he?

Coming right down to it was something to think about when coming right up the stairs again. Better check out the situation just to be on the safe side. In arson, matches are less important than motives.

Once more he reviewed the reasons that might motivate potential pyromaniacs. Only the people on his list weren’t maniacs, he reminded himself, except perhaps for Eric Dunstable. Do demonologists start fires? It didn’t matter; this character was weird enough or wired enough to do anything. Too bad the laws on substance abuse didn’t allow for a test when they’d pulled Dunstable in: both times Engstrom could have sworn the guy was on something.