Psycho - Three Complete Novels (25 page)

“I’ve got to know.”

“Okay, Doc.” Banning’s head dropped and he stepped back. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Claiborne leaned forward, glancing into the cab. The leather was burned away from the seats, and plastic had fused on the dash. The sickly sweet odor was stronger here, almost overpowering. Now he saw its source.

Lying crossways on the floorboard frame below was a charcoal-colored blob with two stumps outthrust on either side. The reeking mass was only vaguely recognizable as a human torso, and the rounded protuberance atop it was just a burnt black ball from which all trace of features had been seared away. Eyeless, noseless, no vestige of skin or hair remained, and what had been a mouth was now just a yawning, tongueless opening, grimacing in a silent scream.

He turned, choking from the smell and the sight of it, and peered down at the interior of the van behind the seats.

Another blob lay in the shadows, its limbless bulk crisped like a barbecued side of beef. There was no head; apparently the gas tank explosion had shattered the skull. Only one anatomical detail identified the remains as female: the charred cavity of the vagina. Here a single sliver of skin had curled away, revealing a fleck of pinkish flesh beneath.

Claiborne backed out of the cab, breathing deeply. Conscious of Banning’s scrutiny, he fought to control his features and his voice.

“You’re right, it’s useless. You’ll need a complete autopsy.”

“That’ll take a while,” Banning said. “Coroner’s going to have his hands full after that bus crash over at Montrose. But I’ve got a rough idea of what happened here.” He ran two fingers across the grayish stubble on his chin. “Way I figure, Sister Cupertine was either knocked out or killed and shoved out of sight in the back of the van. Next move was to find a spot off the main highway and—”

“Wait a minute.” Claiborne frowned. “First you tell me you don’t know if it was an accident or not, and now you’re saying there was a murder.”

“Never had any doubt about that part,” Banning told him. “Body in back tells us that much. If she hadn’t been dead or at least unconscious, Sister Cupertine would have been up front trying to fight her way out of the cab when the fire started.”

“But we still have no way of knowing what caused the van to explode,” Claiborne said.

The salesman moved up beside him, silent and shaken, as Banning reached down into the shadows at his feet and picked up a blackened metal cylinder.

“Here’s your answer,” he said. “Found this gasoline can here in the road while you were looking around inside. It’s arson, all right. The idea was to soak the body and van, let the fire take care of the evidence.” Banning nodded. “But somewhere along the line something went wrong, and he got himself trapped in the cab.”

“He?”

“Your patient. Norman Bates.”

Trapped. That thing up front in the van was Norman. Of course, it had to be.

“No!”

“What do you mean?”

Claiborne stared at Banning without answering. Because there was no answer, only the conviction, born of years of professional experience, years of working with his patient.

The salesman glanced at him, puzzled, and Banning shook his head. “Makes sense, Doc. We know Bates got away in the van, and Sister Cupertine must have gone with him. Get the picture? She doesn’t recognize him in the nun’s outfit at first, and when she does it’s too late—he clobbers her and comes here, like I said. Then, when he touches off the gasoline, whammo! What else could have happened?”

“I don’t know,” Claiborne said. “I don’t know.”

“Take my word for it. Bates is dead—”

The rest of his words were lost in the wailing.

The three men looked up, finding its source as lights flashed and whirled on the roadway ahead. A screech of brakes announced the rumbling arrival of the fire truck. It slammed to a halt and spotlighted the scene.

Turning, Banning started toward it, with the salesman tagging along behind. Claiborne hesitated, watching the uniformed men clamber down and cross to the wreckage of the van. A bareheaded fire captain stood waiting beside the truck, then began talking as Banning and the salesman approached.

From now on there’d be a lot of talking, endless talking, because talking was all anyone could do. An ambulance would come to haul the burned blobs away, but the talk would go on—useless, meaningless talk. It was all meaningless now, and there was no need for Claiborne to hear it again. He’d given his testimony, his presence wasn’t required here.
Leave the postmortems to the coroner. You’re just an innocent bystander.

He walked back to his car and slid behind the wheel. Nobody noticed and nobody tried to stop him as he drove off, turning back to retrace his route to the main highway.

Gradually the smell and the sound faded, at least externally. But the sight remained, looming before his eyes more vividly than the road ahead—the sight of the blackened, twisted torsos, the charred creatures at the scene of the crime.

No postmortems. Innocent bystander.

But the postmortems went on, somewhere deep inside, and the protestations of innocence died.

Because Norman was dead.

Norman was dead, and Claiborne was guilty. Guilty of misjudgment for allowing Norman and Sister Barbara to meet. Guilty of negligence in leaving them alone together. By the same token he was indirectly responsible for Sister Cupertine’s death too. But above all, he was guilty of failing Norman. His professional errors of diagnosis and prognosis were the real crimes.

Claiborne reached the highway and made his turn almost automatically. The fresh air helped clear his lungs and his head.

Now he could face facts. Now he could understand his resistance to the reality of Norman’s death. For in a way it wasn’t Norman who’d died back there in the flaming van; it was Claiborne himself. It was
his
self-image that had been burned beyond all recognition; his plans, his hopes, his dreams had exploded, his life had gone up in smoke.

There would be no book now, no scholarly but subtly self-congratulatory account of restoring reason to an apparently incurable psychotic without the use of ECT, psychosurgery, or ataractics. That, he knew, had been the goal all along: write the book, make a name and a reputation, get out from under Steiner’s shadow, out of the dead-end job, and into a decent post. He’d been as much a prisoner there in the hospital as Norman was, and if only things had gone right, they could both have been free.

And he’d come close, so very close. Close to succeeding, close to Norman himself. They’d worked together so long, he knew the man, or thought he did. How could he have made such a mistake?

Hubris.

Pride, the belief in the superiority of science, the omniscience of intellect. That was the fatal error.

Sometimes it was better to trust to the gut feeling, the way he had when he’d almost blurted out that Norman wasn’t dead.

With a start, he realized the feeling was still there.

Suppose it was true?

Of course that made no sense, but what had happened to the van made no sense either. Banning was jumping to conclusions; he had his hubris too, needed an easy answer. But why would Norman spread gasoline around and ignite it without first getting out of the van? No matter what else might be, Norman was neither suicidal nor stupid.

There had to be another answer. What if someone else was involved—a third party?

But who?

That didn’t make sense either. Nothing made sense except the gnawing feeling. Unless it was just wishful thinking, voicing itself over and over again.
Norman is alive, alive, alive—

Claiborne blinked, forcing himself to focus full attention on the highway ahead. And it was then, at that precise instant, that he saw what was lying in the ditch on the left-hand side of the road. Saw it, slowed, and stopped.

Climbing out, he crossed over for a closer look. Perhaps his eyes had played a trick on him.

But as he picked up the soggy cardboard sign mounted on the makeshift pole, he knew there was no mistake. The lettering was still plainly visible.

Fairvale.

Claiborne stood staring down at the sign, and suddenly everything fell into place. He glanced at the shoulder of the road beside it.

The van could have stopped here and picked up a hitchhiker.

If so, there ought to be tire tracks in the mud. He stooped for a closer look, but all he saw was a puddle of water. Of course; the rain must have washed the marks away. And it didn’t matter, nothing mattered but the truth.
Trust your instincts. There was a third party after all.

And if there was a third party, then everything was possible. The hitchhiker could have been lured to the spot where the van was to be destroyed, knocked over the head there, and left to the flames after being stripped of his clothing. While Norman—

Claiborne picked up the sign and carried it over to the car. He placed it carefully on the back seat, then started the engine racing. His thoughts raced with it.

The car made a U-turn. Fairvale was back up the highway, beyond the fork. And that was where Norman would be heading after leaving the burning van. A man capable of killing innocent strangers in a manic state would certainly not hesitate to kill known enemies.

Sam Loomis and his wife, Lila, lived in Fairvale.

The fork loomed ahead. For an instant Claiborne debated; should he turn off and alert Banning? But that meant talk, more talk, and he already knew what the reaction would be if he told him what he suspected.

Okay, but where’s your proof? All you’ve got is a sign you found lying in a ditch. From this you expect me to believe a whole number about Norman killing a hitchhiker and stashing his body in the van? And even if he did, how do you know he’d go after the Loomises? You may be a shrink, but that doesn’t make you a mind reader. Look, Doc, you’re tired. Why don’t you go on back to the hospital and get some rest, leave the police work to us?

Banning’s voice. The voice of
hubris.

Claiborne shook his head. He did feel tired, completely spent, that much was true. And he wasn’t a mind reader. How could he convince Banning that he did know, knew for a certainty, what Norman was thinking?

No way. And no time.

The car moved past the fork, gaining speed as Claiborne’s foot pressed down on the gas pedal in sudden decision.

Coming abreast of the roadside marker on the right, he read the legend without slowing down.
Fairvale—12 mi.

The car zoomed forward.

Now the feeling was stronger than ever—the feeling of moving toward some dreadful destination in a dream.

But this wasn’t a dream.

And there was no time.

— 9 —

N
orman walked down the street and it was dead.

The storm had killed it; the storm, and Sunday night. Every small town has its Main Street, and when sundown comes on Sunday, death arrives. The stores close, parking spaces stand empty, and if any life lingers at all, it retreats to the residences beyond, hiding behind drawn blinds.

That was where Sam and Lila would be—hiding in one of the houses. Sam, who ran the hardware store, and Lila, his wife. She was Mary Crane’s sister, and she’d come here looking for Mary after she disappeared. She’d gone to Sam, knowing that he and her sister were lovers.

No one would have known what had happened if it wasn’t for their meddling. Mary Crane and the detective who’d tried to find her were both dead, and Sam and Lila should have gone to their graves too. Instead they’d come to the Bates Motel and discovered Norman, and he was the one who got buried—buried alive in that asylum all those years.

Shutting him away was a worse punishment than death—punishment for crimes he’d never committed. It was Mother who did it, taking over his mind and body and putting them through the motions of murder. He wasn’t responsible, everybody admitted that. If he were, they would have held a trial.

But there was no trial, only the long years of punishment, while Sam and Lila went free.
And so they were married and lived happily ever after.

Until now.

Tonight it would end. Not because he was crazy; he was sane again and he, not Mother, would be the avenger. Thank God for that.

No, not God. Thank Dr. Claiborne. He was the Savior, the one who had saved him from madness. If it weren’t for Dr. Claiborne, Norman wouldn’t be here.

And perhaps he shouldn’t be, because Dr. Claiborne wouldn’t approve. All these years together, talking it out, helping him find himself again, get rid of Mother, get rid of the fear and the hatred—wonderful man, so much kindness and caring, so much empathy. If things had been different, maybe Norman would have become a doctor himself.

But things weren’t different. And they couldn’t be until justice was done. Justice, not vengeance. Surely Dr. Claiborne must realize that.

There could be no justice as long as Sam and Lila lived. They were the ones who’d branded and sentenced him with their testimony—but who were they to pass judgment? Lila, giving her warm body to satisfy the lust of her dead sister’s lover. And Sam, living on the blood of the innocent, selling guns and knives in his store—hunting rifles to shoot down helpless animals, and knives to cut them up with. He was the killer, the butcher, the dealer in death—why couldn’t anyone see that?

Dr. Claiborne would never understand, but Norman did. Those who live by the sword must die by the sword. Tonight.

But Main Street was dead and the side-street homes were dark. Sam and Lila were hiding from him, hiding behind the windowshades. Where—in which house? He couldn’t go around knocking on doors. How could he find them?

Norman halted at the corner, frowning. No one saw him standing there under the streetlight, but he wouldn’t go unnoticed forever. He was a fugitive, they’d come looking for him. If he meant to act, it must be now. There wasn’t time—

Then he noticed the phone booth in the shadows at the side of the darkened filling station. Of course, that was the answer. Look in the telephone directory.

He moved past the deserted gas pumps and entered the glass cubicle. There he stood, eyes fixed on the rusty length of chain dangling empty-ended beside the phone.