Psycho - Three Complete Novels (48 page)

Besides, there was no resemblance between Mary Crane and herself. She hadn’t ripped off a bundle of cash from her employer and fled town, switching cars
en route
to avoid detection. Most importantly she had not stopped off to spend a night at the Bates Motel. Part of a night, really—a night that ended with the splashing of a shower and the slashing of a knife.

There were only two things she had in common with the unfortunate girl who had died before she herself had been born. Like Mary Crane on her last evening of existence, she was driving through a rainstorm—and she was on her way to Fairvale.

But she was on the freeway, not on a side road leading to the Bates Motel. And both the actual motel and the house above it were long gone, as was the transvestite who murdered the girl and, later, the detective who came seeking her.

Gone, but not forgotten. And there were things that she’d better not forget. The off-ramps, for example; here was a sign announcing the location of an upcoming exit for Montrose and Rock Center. Fairvale would be next, or so she guessed.

And correctly.

As the car spinned and spiraled down the ramp Amy’s sigh of relief was drowned in thunder. Turning right onto the county highway leading into town, relief gave way to anticipation, underscored by a flash of lightning that slashed across the sky the way Norman Bates’ knife had slashed across the—

But what put
that
into her head? This was no time for such thoughts, now that she was entering Fairvale itself. Rain and darkness dampened and dulled her first impressions of the town; at first glimpse and first glance it seemed no different from a thousand other small communities scattered throughout the heartland of midwest America.

Which, of course, was what made it so fascinating, she reminded herself. So many similarities between Fairvale and all the others, with only one significant difference—it had happened here.
Here was where the knife slashed down.

Hard to believe and, of course, strictly speaking, the actual murders took place some seventeen miles away from Fairvale’s main street. But Norman Bates had gone to school in this town, he had walked these streets as an adult. Local citizens knew him as a friend and neighbor. He’d probably visited some of them in their homes here, done business in the local stores. From the looks of them, most of the residences and shops had been around back then. Fairvale itself was like something preserved in a time capsule.

Self-preservation, the first law of nature. Norman Bates had gone a step farther—he’d preserved his mother in himself. Which made him a time bomb, not capsule, a bomb that had long since exploded.

But now was not the time to think of that. Now was the time to peer ahead at oncoming local traffic and thank God that the windshield wipers were still working. Outside of a few drivers inside their cars there was no one to take note of Amy’s arrival at the courthouse square. She recognized it from photographs; the granite shaft of the World War II memorial, the Spanish-American War trench mortar and the Civil War statue of a Union veteran flanking it on either side of the block. Preservation was Fairvale’s way of life.

But the annex adjoining the main courthouse was comparatively new and so was the Fairvale Hotel in the next block on the opposite side of the street. The parking lot next to the building was almost empty and Amy slid into a space close to the overhang above the entrance. Even so, she wished she’d brought an umbrella, because just lugging her bag from the car to the shelter of the overhang was enough to expose her to the chill of the undiminished downpour.

But the lobby was warm and dry and, somewhat to her surprise, comfortably well furnished. There were no other guests visible in the area at this moment and no sign of a bellhop or porter waiting to relieve her of the overnight bag. But there was a clerk on duty behind the reception counter; a tall, gangling young man with a sallow complexion, green eyes, and hair the color of used kitty litter.

Placing his comic book to one side, he devoted his full attention to the needs and welfare of the arriving guest.

“Looking for somebody?” he asked.

“I’m Amelia Haines. I believe you have a reservation for me.”

“Oh.” The greenish eyes slipped sideways toward the discarded comic book, but only for a moment. “What did you say that that name was again?”

“Haines.” She spelled it for him as he consulted a register which apparently rested on a lower level beneath the countertop. Obviously the Fairvale Hotel was no more into computers than its clerk was into neckties.

But he did find her reservation and she had no problem signing in, except for the fact that she couldn’t fill out the space assigned to
Name of Company.
When she pushed the completed form across the counter the clerk glanced down at the card and noted the omission. “You’re not working for anybody, lady?”

“Self-employed,” Amy said. “Not that it’s any of your goddamned business.”

At least that’s what she would like to have said, but due to the somewhat delicate nature of her situation, she merely nodded. No sense making waves or even reaching across the counter to give this nosy young jerk a slight belt across the chops. She even managed a smile of pseudo-gratitude as she accepted the key to room 205.

No mention was made of bellboy assistance and she didn’t bother to ask; long before she crossed the lobby and reached the single elevator, the green eyes behind the counter were again eagerly attempting to decipher the lettering inside the balloons above the heads of the comic’s characters.

Room 205 was state-of-the-art, if one considers plastic
décor
an art form. But at least it contained the feminine essentials—a mirror, a closet, and a telephone. Amy glanced out of the window at the flat rooftop, wondering if it covered a restaurant or kitchen area below. She hadn’t bothered to ask if the hotel had a coffee shop and/or dining room, but she hoped so; the last thing in the world she wanted right now was to expose herself to what was happening beyond the window-pane. Closing the drapes obscured the sight but did little to muffle the sound of the rain drumming down on the adjacent roof.

The thing now was to get out of her travel-creased and still slightly dampened clothes, but what she really wanted to do this very moment was find out about food. Her watch told her it was eight o’clock and her stomach added as a postscript that it had received no consideration whatsoever since she’d stopped the car to gas up during the noon hour.

She picked up the phone and called the hotel operator. At least that was her intention, but his voice on the other end of the line was that of the comic book reader behind the reception counter. Restraining herself from apologizing for interrupting his studies, she asked about the dining situation.

“We don’t have a dining room here,” he told her. “Coffee shop’s open until nine.”

“Thank you.” Amy hung up without bothering to ask about room service; this being state-of-the-art she was willing to settle for the serendipity of a small supply of toilet paper instead of those little squares from the dispenser. Such are the hopes and dreams of the seasoned traveler.

In that capacity Amy had no great expectations of what she might encounter when she entered the downstairs coffee shop through a side entrance off the lobby. It proved to be the usual fast-food setup; stools closely aligning the three-sided counter so that each bite-grabber could get a good view of the fry-cook’s acitvities through the rectangular opening in the rear wall. Small booths offered imitation-leather seats, imitation comfort, and outside-window views. Tonight, however, the drapes were drawn; nobody wanted to look out at the rain. Apparently nobody wanted to eat either because when Amy entered she saw no other customers. Booths and stools were empty and so were the expressionless eyes of the waitress-cashier who plodded out from the kitchen area to plunk a glass of ice water down on the table mat of the corner booth that Amy selected.

“Evening.” The word could be construed either as a greeting or a statement of fact; the waitress’ voice was expressionless. “Menu?”

“Please.” Amy could be monosyllabic too. Not out of rudeness, but because she sensed that the weary woman with the wilted uniform and hairdo wasn’t in the mood for idle conversation; all she really wanted was nine o’clock closing and a chance to kick her shoes off.

So Amy gave her order
—pot roast of beef w. choice of 2 vegs
was usually a safe bet in light of previous experiences—and quickly added, “Coffee, now.”

Then she relaxed as the waitress headed kitchenward. At least fry-cooks can’t do too much damage to a pot roast, and when it came to coffee she’d learned that wherever you dined you’d just have to take a chance.

Amy sipped her water and settled back in her seat. Her feet didn’t hurt, but now, at the end of the long day’s driving, she could empathize with the waitress. At best, waiting on tables in a place like this must be a boring occupation, almost as boring as being a customer.

Outside the rain thudded down but here there was no source of sound, not even from the kitchen where the waitress and the fry-cook were presumably puzzling over the order, since Amy had forgotten to specify her choice of veggies. Oh well, sometimes you’ve got to resign yourself to living dangerously. Let it be their decision and her surprise. She just hoped they wouldn’t be trying to get rid of yesterday’s squash or creamed rutabagas.

A pity she couldn’t hear their conversation. At the moment she felt the need for some distraction, and gazing at the glass-coffined slices of embalmed pies and pastries really did nothing for her. Alone in the bleak, forlorn flare of the fluorescence she scanned the booths nearby, hoping to catch sight of a discarded newspaper. Fairvale wouldn’t have a daily, of course, but perhaps some salesman out of Springfield might have discarded one after his meal.

No such luck. Amy abandoned her efforts with a sigh of resignation. In cases like this there was nothing one could do except read the menu.

Two events spared her that fate. The first was the return of the waitress, coffeepot in one hand, cup and saucer in the other. The second was the arrival of additional customers, a male trio clad in rainwear. By the time Amy announced and received her choice of cream and sugar the three men had seated themselves on stools at the end of the counter. As the waitress departed to serve them, Amy creamed, sugared, and sipped her coffee. A trifle too hot, but the addition of an ice cube from her water glass solved that problem.

Satisfied, she turned her attention to the newcomers. From where she sat all she could see were two backs and a semiprofile. The backs were broad and burly, the heads above them surmounted by the inevitable baseball caps. The semiprofile sat beside them at the angle closest to Amy’s observation post. He was a small man, sharp-featured, his mustache a grey wisp beneath a beaked nose. His headgear was traditional, immediately identifying him as a lawman—a member of the local constabulary, the Sheriff’s Department, perhaps State Highway Patrol. Then Amy glanced down, saw the black boots with their pointed toes, and made her ID. Only the Sheriff’s Department would indulge in this form of foot-fetishism, and any man this small could bypass departmental qualifications solely through election. This had to be the Sheriff himself.

And his name was Engstrom. Milt Engstrom, to be exact. This information was relayed in the conversation between the counter customers, along with the announcement that they too wanted coffee and yeah, it sure as hell was coming down cats and dogs outside.

It was at this point that the waitress returned with Amy’s dinner platter and set it down on the mat before her. The 2 vegs. turned out to be peas and carrots, neither of them fried, creamed, scalloped, or the victims of any other unnatural practices. And the pot roast was good.

So was the distraction. Like many of those accustomed to solitary dining, Amy had consciously or unconsciously perfected the art of people-watching and eavesdropping. And while in this instance the watching was nothing to write home about, what she was hearing might definitely be worth putting down on paper. In the absence of pen and pad she made a mental note of the conversation at the counter.

Reduced to its essenitals, the Sheriff and his two anonymous companions were talking about Terry Dowson’s murder last week and Mick Sontag’s alibi.

Amy paid little heed to the exact phrasing of the questions but she paid strict attention to Sheriff Engstrom’s answers.

No, he didn’t mind talking, now that the goddamned reporters had cleared out. Hank would be running most of the stuff in this week’s paper anyhow.

Way it added up, Joe Sontag went out to the garage for something and found out his keys were missing. According to him, he guessed right away where his kid must have gone and went after her in his pickup. When he got to the Bates place she was already running up the road. He pulled up alongside her and she was just climbing in when they both heard what sounded like screams coming from the house. Not all that loud and clear, understand, because when he backed up to park and started running to the porch he saw that the front door was closed.

“The kid didn’t come with him?” one of the baseball caps asked.

“He told her to stay in the truck, and a damn good thing he did too, considering what he found in the hall when he yanked that door open.”

“Pretty bad,” said the other baseball cap.

The Sheriff nodded. That in itself told Amy nothing, but the
way
he nodded was eloquent.

“You say he didn’t see anybody?”

“He says.” Again the Sheriff nodded. “And I believe him. According to his story he went straight back to the pickup and drove down to the Fawcett place, which was the closest he could find a phone. Irene took the call and got hold of me just as I was heading out to check Crosby Corners. Only took me another three, four minutes to get there, but by then young Mick was really having hysterics—which was only natural after that damfool father of hers blabbed about what he’d found up at the house. When the ambulance from Montrose Hospital got there, Mick was the one who needed attention. It was too late to do anything for Terry.”