Psycho - Three Complete Novels (24 page)

Bo shivered and edged back under the tree, trying to keep the sign dry. Fat chance in this storm. If he had any smarts he would’ve took the bus. When they sprung him yesterday, they popped for the ticket.

Cashing it in was a big mistake, but he got what he craved: six joints and sack time with that jungle bunny he’d flashed on at the bus station. And today, when he split, it looked like it would be easy to thumb his way. First off, he lucked out with the oil rig—trucker said he was routed smack through Fairvale, he could of dropped him off right in front of Jack’s pad. But then the frigging storm come up and the guy chickened out on him.
Sorry, buddy, can’t take a chance, I’m laying over right here in Rock Center until it clears up.

So it was over and out. Out on the highway in the rain, up the creek without a paddle, only this goddamn cardboard sign on a stick.

But he had to get to Fairvale tonight before old buddy Jack cut out for the coast, like he wrote him last month. Jack owed him some bread, maybe he’d take him along for the ride. He sure to Christ had to, because there was nobody else who gave a diddly-damn what happened to him, no other way to go. Not with half a pack of butts and thirty-seven cents in change.

The wind was blowing so hard now that the rain came down almost sideways, and standing under the tree didn’t help much. Bo shivered, holding the sign in front of his face like a shield. You could goddam well drown out here in the middle of nowhere. What he needed was an umbrella.

No way. What he needed was a score. Face it, Fairvale was a crock and so was old buddy Jack. But if he could score, score big enough to get hold of some real bread and his own wheels—

Something flickered off to the right. It wasn’t lightning, it kept flashing steadily. A car was coming along the road.

Bo stepped out in front of the tree, holding up the sign. As the headlights moved closer he squinted at the outlines of a van.

Stop. Stop, you mother—

It did. The van stopped and Bo moved up to the door.

The driver peered down at him from the far side of the darkened cab.

“Do you need a lift?”

What the hell do you think I’m standing here for, dummy?
Only he wasn’t about to say so.
Play it cool.

“You going to Fairvale?”

“That’s right.”

Bo tossed the cardboard sign into the ditch and climbed in, slamming the door as the van started off. Neat in here with the heater on, warm and dry. He settled back in his seat, then glanced over at the driver.

For a minute he thought he’d flipped out. Who the hell goes around driving a van wearing a big black cloak, the kind you see in one of those Dracula movies?

Then he flashed on the head—the cowl, whatever they called it—and he knew. The driver was a nun.

Bo wasn’t one of those born-again Jesus freaks, he didn’t go for that crap, but this was like somebody answered his prayers.
A nun, driving a van. His own wheels.
Right away, other wheels began spinning in his head. If he could only figure how to orchestrate.
Play it cool. Go with the flow.

The van moved on. The cowled figure glanced at him, but only for a second, not long enough for Bo to get a good make on her face in the dark. He laid a smile on her, just in case his gear put her off.

Mostly she watched the road, but he knew she was watching him too, out of the corner of her eye. And all at once she started talking in a kind of a husky voice, like she was coming down with a cold.

“Do you live in Fairvale?”

“No, Sister.”
Play it cool.
“Just passing through. I got friends there.”

“Then you know the town?”

“Sort of. Is that where you come from?”

She nodded. “I grew up near there. But I haven’t been back for years.”

“I guess when you’re in a convent they don’t let you get around very much.”

She kind of giggled—funny sound, coming from a nun. “That’s true.”

“Well, you didn’t miss much. I bet Fairvale’s just the same as when you left.”

The rain was coming on hard, and she kept her eyes on the road ahead. “You say you have friends in town?”

“Yeah.”

“I was wondering. You wouldn’t happen to know a Mr. Loomis, would you? Sam Loomis?”

“Seems like I heard the name,” Bo said. “Is he the one who runs the hardware store?”

“Then he’s still there?”

Bo nodded. “It’s like I told you. Nothing much changes.”

But a lot had changed, right here and now. All the while they talked, he’d been trying to set up the action. And then, when the old bitch came out with that last question, he flashed on the answer.

Sam Loomis.
Damned right he’d heard of him. He was the sucker mixed up in that heavy murder case years ago, when they collared some weirdo doing snuff jobs out at the old motel. The Bates Motel, way off in the boondocks on County Trunk A. Place burned down, but the road was still there. Hardly anybody used it on account of the highway going through, and sure as hell nobody’d be using it tonight.

How long had they been driving? If he remembered right, the turn off should be coming up pretty soon. Bo squinted through the windshield, but the rain was so heavy the wipers couldn’t clear it and everything was dark. He heard thunder, and then lightning streaked across the stretch of road ahead just long enough for him to spot what he was looking for.
Play it cool.

“Sister—”

“Yes?”

“See the fork up ahead? If you take a right, it’s a shortcut into town.”

“Thank you.”

Was he hearing things, or did she giggle again? No, it sounded more like coughing.

“You catching cold?”

The sister shook her head. “I’m fine.”

You better believe it, she was. Kind of on the heavy side, almost as big as he was, but he knew he could hack it. One good swipe, just enough to put her out and dump her alongside the road. Then take over the wheel and screw Fairvale, cut out for Ravenswood, across the state line.
Go with the flow.

They were bumping along the county trunk now, hitting those big potholes in the dark. For a minute he thought she was going to give him a hard time about it, but she didn’t say anything. And the storm was letting up a little; maybe the rain would stop soon.

Trick now was to get
her
to stop. Trees up ahead, nice and dark, super. Time to get his act together now.

When he opened his mouth, he was the one who sounded like he had a cold. His throat went all dry and cottony and he started to tighten up inside.
Go with the flow, goddammit!

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled a butt out of the pack. “Mind if I smoke?” he said.

She jerked her head around fast, like he’d just come out with a dirty remark, but there was just enough light for him to see she was smiling.

“Do you have matches?” she said.

Jesus, what a dumb question!
Instead of saying anything, he fished them out for her to see. Then he gave her the nod.

“Maybe if you slowed down for a minute, so’s I can get a light—”

“Of course.”

And she pulled over and stopped next to the trees. Beautiful!

He stalled for a second, making sure he had his moves figured out. Light the butt first, then quickly shove it in her face. She’ll jerk away, put up her hands, and that’s when to let her have it, whammo, right in the gut. Then, when her hands come down, give her one good chop on the jaw.
Over and out.

Bo lipped the butt, struck a match, cupped his hands around the flame. When the match flared up, he lost her in the glare, but only for a moment or two.

Just long enough for her to bend forward and pick up something lying between her feet . . .

— 8 —

C
laiborne had lost track of time.

It seemed to take forever for the highway patrol to arrive, and when they finally drove into the hospital parking lot, the rain had stopped.

There were three men in the car. The driver remained seated behind the wheel while the other two climbed out and started toward the entrance, where Claiborne stood waiting.

Introductions were brief. The big, thick-necked, gray-haired man was Captain Banning and the thin one was a trooper named Novotny. Claiborne found himself wondering about that. Why are the mesomorphs always the chiefs and the ectomorphs always the Indians?

Not that Banning didn’t seem capable. He was firing questions at Claiborne even before they entered the lobby, and he ordered Novotny to stay there and take a statement from Clara at the reception desk.

Banning and Claiborne went straight to the elevator. “Sorry about the delay,” Banning told him as the car ascended. “You hear about the accident?”

“What accident?”

“Greyhound bus smacked head-on into a big semi and flipped over, right outside Montrose. Seven dead so far, and around twenty other passengers injured. Damn near every unit in the county’s over there right now—sheriff’s department, ambulances, and our people. On top of that, we got a problem with power outages on account of the storm. You lucked out, getting through to us at all. Hell of a mess.”

Claiborne listened, nodding at the appropriate intervals, but somehow the captain’s remarks weren’t registering. The thing that mattered to him was the one right here, in the library.

And that was where the questions began again.

On Claiborne’s orders, Otis had draped a sheet over the body, but nothing else had been touched. Now Banning was interrogating them both, jotting down their replies on a pad. Halfway through the session he sent Otis away to fetch Allen and when the security guard appeared there was another go-round.

Yes, the grounds had been covered—everything, including storage sheds and the employee’s quarters. At Claiborne’s direction there’d been a quiet but thorough checkout of the hospital itself: patients’ rooms, lavatories, kitchen, laundry, even the broom closets.

“Waste of time,” Banning said, flipping the notepad shut. “Your man put on the victim’s outfit and walked right out the front door. Chances are he headed straight for that van the sisters came in.”

“But Sister Cupertine left, too,” Claiborne said. “Wouldn’t she have recognized him?”

“Captain—”

Banning turned as another uniformed man came through the doorway. It was the trooper who’d remained in the patrol car, and now Banning started down the aisle to where the newcomer stood waiting. “What’s up?” he asked.

The trooper’s reply was muffled. But when Banning spoke, his words came loud and clear.

“Jesus H. Christ!” he said.

Claiborne moved toward him between the stacks. “What’s the problem?”

“The van.” Banning scowled. “Some salesman spotted it just now, when he was coming down County Trunk A. Had a phone in his car and he called the fire department right away—”

“Fire department? What happened?”

Banning shoved the notepad into his pocket. “When I find out, I’ll let you know.”

Fire department.
Claiborne’s dreamlike feeling returned, the way it had when Otis summoned him here to the library; the nightmare feeling of something waiting. No sense in running now; sooner or later you had to face it. Only then could you wake up.

“Can I come with you?” Claiborne asked. “My car’s outside.”

“Okay if you want to follow.” Banning headed for the doorway. “In case you lose me, it’s County Trunk A—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t lose you,” Claiborne said.

But he did.

By the time he’d instructed Otis to take over, and cautioned him to keep the staff silent about what was happening, Banning’s patrol car was already backing out of the parking lot.

The two troopers had stayed behind to take further statements and call an ambulance for Sister Barbara’s body. But Banning didn’t need any help driving; his taillights were winking in the distance before Claiborne wheeled onto the road.

He gunned the motor, watching the needle arc over to seventy. No use; the car ahead must be doing ninety or better, and he couldn’t hope to match its speed on the wet pavement.

In a moment or so the patrol car rounded a curve and disappeared completely. Claiborne slackened his speed to sixty, but even then it required his full concentration to keep from going into a skid. As a result he overshot the fork in the road and had to head back when he realized his mistake. Then, after turning onto County Trunk A, he needed no further guidance.

On the highway the rain-cleansed night air had been cool and fresh. Here there was an acrid odor mingling with a sickly sweet stench, and in the glare ahead, Claiborne found its source.

He’d expected to see fire trucks, but only two cars stood parked on the shoulder of the road, their headlight beams focused on a third vehicle.

Claiborne recognized the van, or what was left of it. The windshield was gone and there was a gaping hole in the charred roof of the cab; its doors hung open on melted hinges. The back had blown out completely, and the hood was gone up front, exposing a tangle of melted metal from which wisps of smoke still curled upward to mingle with the reek of gasoline fumes. Beneath bubbling tires lay a litter of broken glass and unidentifiable debris.

Leaning against the trunk of his car, the salesman was vomiting noisily into the ditch. The patrol car on the other side of the road was empty, but as Claiborne parked and emerged, he saw Banning turn away from the cab of the van. He glanced up, his face livid in the light.

“Gas tank exploded,” he said.

“Accident?”

“Can’t tell. Could be arson. Fire department ought to know, if they ever get here.” Banning peered up the road, frowning.

The air was poisonous; Claiborne’s stomach churned. “What’s your theory?” he said.

“Something’s wrong somewhere. The van was parked when it happened—the brake’s still on. And the fire started up front, from the looks of things. Seems to me like they’d have had time to get out before the tank blew.”

Claiborne stiffened. “They?”

He moved up to the open cab, but Banning put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “No point looking.” He nodded toward the retching salesman across the road. “Bet he wishes he hadn’t.”