Psycho - Three Complete Novels (34 page)

It must be a dismal existence for a man still in full possession of his faculties to just sit there in a rundown motel day after day and night after night. Judging by the absence of other vehicles in the parking slots, Claiborne was presently the only tenant. No wonder Tom Post brought the beer to his room, asked questions, talked a blue streak. The old man was lonely.

Either that, or damned devious. What was that remark he made about all writers being professional liars?

Roy Ames was a writer too. Full of facile phrases. Claiborne recalled the intuitive suspicion that his glib one-liners had seen service before. Like the table-hoppers, he’d trotted out his jokes seeking approval.

But for what reason? On the face of things, he must know that Claiborne was his ally; he saw eye-to-eye with him about toning down the script. Though, if so, why hadn’t he fought harder, earlier on, to do the job himself? He was the one responsible for the violence in the first place.

That too could be a masking mechanism. In a sense, the Norman of the script was Roy Ames’s creation. He supplied the character with his own frustrations, his own furies. And if spilling it out on paper wasn’t catharsis, then it might be
cathexis,
a means of strengthening an unconscious attachment to Norman’s
persona.
Which could be dangerous.

All writers are professional liars. A
statement made by a writer. Which meant it was also a lie. But everyone lied, including his own patients, whose problem was that they lied not only to him but to themselves. In a way, they were the most professional liars of all. And he was a professional truth-finder.

Truth
-seeker,
he amended. And is search wasn’t always successful; Norman was a case in point.

After finishing his meal and leaving the restaurant, Claiborne moved along the boulevard. Automatically, as he thought of Norman, he caught himself glancing around for the sight of a figure that wasn’t there.

The cars sped by, the vans and Broncos and Jeeps, as well as an occasional motorcycle snarling through the snarl. Youth on the prowl.

But not on the sidewalks. Claiborne squinted at his watch; scarcely nine o’clock, and he was the sole visible pedestrian.

In spite of the gas situation, everyone drove. Walking city streets by night was too risky; even the cop on the beat made his rounds on wheels. Police were suspicious of strolling strangers, people like himself.

Passing by the darkened shopfronts, Claiborne peered at the unlit passageways between the buildings, knowing as he did so that his apprehension was absurd. Norman wasn’t going to pop out from one of the passageways. Norman wasn’t here. Or was he?

Damn that script! Reading it had brought everything back with a vengeance. Vengeance was the rationale.

Either that, or the whole thing was a paranoid delusion. If Norman had preceded him out here, he should have found his way to the studio by now. In the interval between psychotic episodes he was certainly capable of making plans, taking action to implement his vengeance. But everything pointed to one inescapable conclusion: Norman was dead. It was only the script that brought him to life again.

Even so, Claiborne found himself hastening toward the shopping mall looming ahead on his left. He turned into the parking area, welcoming the lights, the sounds, the presence of people.

Crossing the lot, he qualified his reaction. The presence of people wasn’t all that welcomed a phenomenon, now that he observed their cars.
You are what you eat,
Roy Ames had said. Perhaps
you are what you drive
would be a more accurate observation. One can judge people by their motor-reflexes.

He noted the frantic maneuvering of vehicles entering the lot; the way in which aggressive drivers jockeyed for position, impeding the movement of those behind as they competed for vacated spaces close to the store entrance while other motorists hurled mechanical curses at them with their horns. The banged fenders of cars already parked attested to previous encounters, and the ultimate contempt for common courtesy was evident in those that occupied positions in the
Absolutely No Parking
zone.

In the market itself, the pattern continued. Old ladies with dyed orange hair squeezed the dyed oranges at the produce counter, blithely blocking the passage with their shopping carts. Tank-topped, barefooted beach bums crashed down the aisles, aiming their carts like weapons. Mom-and-Pop couples crowded single customers away from the displays of brain specials, though in nearly all instances it was bulldog-jawed Mom who took the initiative while little old dried-up Pop stood meekly by.
They also serve who only pay the freight.

Claiborne took a quart of milk from the dairy shelves, brushing against a Japanese youth in a mesh blouse. The young man hissed and shook his head, causing his earring to bob about furiously.

At the deli counter he selected a modest assortment of packaged cold cuts. Picking over the cellophane-wrapped cheese, he found a small slab, but as he reached for it, a hand snaked around from behind and snared the prize. He turned to confront a grinning girl in a bumpy T-shirt emblazoned with the classic motto:
Up Yours.

Moving on to the next section, he halted there to pick up a dozen eggs, waiting patiently while a middle-aged housewife in curlers opened cartons to inspect their contents while lipping a cigarette.

The smoke was acrid, and Claiborne turned away. Never mind the eggs, he could do without. Right now all he wanted to do was leave. It had been a long day and he was tired—tired of people, tired of noise and lights and confusion. The smarmy strains of amplified music dulled his hearing, the overly bright fluorescence made his vision blur.

As he reached the bakery goods display, he cast an irritated glance upwards, seeking the source of the piped-in sound. But the big rounded discs hanging at intervals between walls and ceiling were not amplifiers; their shiny surfaces reflected the movements of the customers below. Spotting devices, installed to detect shoplifters. And when he looked up, the long, livid fluorescent tubes cast a glittering glare.

Claiborne turned away. As he did so, another mirror installed directly behind him caught his eye. It was angled to reflect the image of shoppers approaching the left-hand checkout counter at the front of the store, but at the moment only one man was moving through the checkout. He stared up and Claiborne saw his face.

The face of Norman Bates.

— 19 —

T
hrusting his cart to one side, Claiborne raced down the aisle toward the front of the store, swerving midway to avoid a gaggle of oncoming shoppers, who scowled in annoyance as he careened past them.

Their irritation scarcely registered; it was Norman’s image that impelled him to the checkout, which in thirty seconds had already attracted a line-up of carts and customers.

But Norman was gone.

Claiborne halted, eyeing the unfamiliar faces, then pushed his way through the queue to confront the gum-chewing, bovine blonde behind the counter.

“Where is he?”

The rumination ceased as the blonde looked up.

“Your last customer—he was here just a minute ago—”

She shrugged, glancing automatically toward the nearest exit. Even as she did so, he elbowed his way past the counter, striding to the door.

The parking lot was almost full now; cars were moving in and out, patrons zigzagging across the open areas. Claiborne scanned the scene, searching for a familiar figure. He moved onto the lot, trying to locate vehicles on the point of pulling out.

There were three—no, four—and still another, way down at the far right. He hurried toward it as the car backed hastily into the open lane and then moved forward. In the glare of overhead floodlights he glimpsed a woman’s face behind the windshield and, beside it, the knoblike silhouette of a child’s head.

Turning, he started back to the center of the lot, then jumped at the blare of a horn directly behind him. He stepped aside just in time as a dune buggy zoomed past, the roar of its motor blending with the profanity of the mustached driver, who thrust his hand out to give him the finger.

Breathing heavily, Claiborne stared out across the area beyond, knowing as he did so that it just wasted effort now. Norman was gone.

But to where?

If he’d come here, it must mean that he was holed up someplace nearby, perhaps in one of the other motels lining the length of the boulevard.

Could they be checked out? There were dozens of places, not counting the big hotels, and Norman certainly wouldn’t have registered under his own name, if in fact he was registered at all. Trying to identify every one of the single men who might have occupied motel rooms during the past three days would be a major project, even for a police task force. A project they weren’t about to undertake unless Claiborne could offer them something more tangible than just his word.

Yes, I realize the man’s supposed to be dead, but I saw him there in the supermarket. No, I didn’t speak to him, he was up at the front of the store and I was at the back. Not directly, I saw him in one of those overhead mirrors, but I’m positive—

A lost cause. Claiborne sighed. There was nothing to do now except return to the market, retrieve his cart, and check out.

Walking back to the motel with his bag of groceries, he glanced around warily, searching the striations of light and shadow in the street. He’d seen Norman—but had Norman seen him? Had Norman followed him to the store, was he following him now?

Nothing stirred in the darkness.

Even so, he was relieved when he reached his room. The locked door yielded to the turn of the key, and when he switched on the light, the room revealed no sign of present occupancy or prior disturbance.

If Norman didn’t know his whereabouts, Claiborne was secure here, at least for now. And there was always the possibility of subjective error. Noise, light, fatigue, tension—they could all add up to a simple case of mistaken identity. That was what the police would say; that was what he himself would probably say if some patient came to him with a similar story.

Under the circumstances, there was no point in talking to Driscoll and the others. Telling them what he’d seen, or thought he’d seen, would only weaken his position unless he could offer proof. The thing to do now was exercise caution, watch and wait, and continue to emphasize the need for security. If Norman was here, he’d make his presence known soon enough.

If
Norman was here.

Claiborne unpacked his groceries, put them away, shed his clothing, donned pajamas, and sank down on the bed. The air conditioner whispered to him.

Norman. Here. Planning something. Where? What?

Thank God he’d decided to stay on. At least he could keep his eyes and ears open, act as a sort of guardian angel to the others.

But even as he surrendered to sleep, a further question came.

Who would be guarding him if Norman acted?

There was no answer to that one. All he knew was that whatever happened, it would be soon.

— 20 —

R
oy Ames’s office was in the same building as Driscoll’s, but there was no resemblance between the two. The cramped cubicle with its single window was smaller than the producer’s private washroom, and by no means as lavishly appointed.

When Claiborne opened the door, he found Ames already seated behind his desk, midway between the file cabinet and the single extra chair. Apparently he was accustomed to these close quarters; whatever his hangups, claustrophobia wasn’t one of them.

Blinking against morning sunlight radiating from the open window, Claiborne nodded a greeting and put his copy of the script down on the desktop.

Ames glanced at him expectantly. “Well, what do you think?” he said.

Claiborne hesitated, once again debating whether or not to reveal last night’s experience. No sense in taking that chance. And right now the script had priority.

“I’ve got some notes here,” Claiborne said. “If you’d like to go over them—”

“Great.”

Claiborne opened his briefcase and pulled out the yellow pages. “Hope you can read my handwriting.”

Ames managed.

His eyes moved rapidly over the scrawled sheets, revealing nothing. But Claiborne had no trouble recognizing his reactions. Long ago he’d learned that mouths are often most eloquent when not speaking. Ames’s mouth was no exception. At first the lips curved upward in a slight smile; then, as he read on, they tightened. And finally the upper lip curled, forming a fixed frown.

It was time to intervene. “Please remember one thing,” Claiborne said. “I’m not criticizing the writing. Just content, the violence.”

Ames looked up. “We use another term now. As in ‘box-office gross.’ ”

“I’m aware of that. But I thought you were trying to avoid it.”

“I did, in my first draft.” Ames was on the defensive. “Most of the stuff you object to here is Vizzini’s work. He did a partial rewrite and Driscoll went along with it.”

“Sounds as if I’m wasting my time,” Claiborne said. “As technical advisor, I thought I was the one to suggest changes.”

“Technical, yes. Suggest, yes. But Vizzini has the clout—script approval, casting, the works. I told you how he insisted on Jan just because she was a lookalike for Mary Crane.”

“That’s another thing,” Claiborne said. “Did you notice my comments on her scenes?”

“I noticed.” Ames’s voice was tight, and Claiborne cut in quickly.

“It just seems to me that her character comes across as a bit too simple, too one-dimensional—”

“Okay, so it shows.” Ames shrugged. “If you must know, I wrote it that way on purpose. Jan’s not ready for anything heavy, even though she thinks so, and I want to keep her from screwing up. She comes on pretty strong, but when you know her better, you’ll see there’s something else behind it.”

“I hope to,” Claiborne said. “Matter of fact, I ran into her on the lot just now. She invited me to have dinner tonight.”

Ames didn’t reply, but the sudden set of his silent lips spoke for him.