by Robert Bloch
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 —
Norman 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.
The directory was missing. He’d have to call the operator for information.
Norman reached for the receiver, then pulled his hand away. He couldn’t call. Nobody asks for addresses; even if she gave it out, the operator would remember. In a place like this, everybody was curious about strangers. The minute he hung up, she’d probably call Sam and Lila and tell them someone was looking for them. It would be a dead giveaway.
Dead. He wasn’t dead and wouldn’t be, if only he took care. But he had to act quickly. No time—
Norman left the booth, moved out from under the light, and crossed at the corner, passing the tavern there. Its windows were darkened, thanks to Sunday-closing laws. All the windows on the street were dark, all but one.
One storefront up ahead was lighted. He couldn’t see it clearly until he started forward, then peered across the street at the sign.
Loomis Hardware.
A light in the window, but that was just for display. It was the other light that mattered—the one overhead, shining dimly from the back of the store.
Someone was inside.
Norman started across the street, then slowed.
Careful now, stop and think. Be cautious. The thing to do was move on, cross at the corner, and come back along the side of the store, in case anyone might be looking out. Stay in the shadows. Out of sight, out of mind.
Norman nodded to himself, then moved quietly. It was only when he reached the shadowed shelter of the narrow walkway between the store and the adjoining building that he began to giggle softly. He had to, because the old saying was wrong. As he came around to the back door and fumbled with the latch, he was out of sight.
But he wasn’t out of his mind.
— 10 —
Lila Loomis was at home when it happened, sitting in the darkened living room and watching some stupid game show on television. The program wasn’t her choice; reception was poor because of the storm, and Channel 5 was the only one coming through clearly. At least the show served to distract her attention from what was going on outside.
For the hundredth time she found herself wondering about what she was seeing. The game was silly and the questions offered to its contestants were even sillier. Here we go now with the Giant Jackpot! For ten thousand dollars in cash, a brand-new Ford Galaxie, and a fun-filled, all-expenses-paid week’s vacation for two at the beautiful Acapulco Hilton … What was Jackie Onassis’ maiden name?
“Minnie Schwartz,” Lila murmured. Then, catching herself, she smiled at her own silliness. Talking back to the tube made no sense at all, but lately she’d fallen into the habit. And she wasn’t the only one; other people seemed to be responding to quizmasters, talk-show hosts, and the anonymous idiots who shouted out commercials over a background of some unseen heavenly choir lifting angel voices in praise of a liquid fertilizer. A few more years of this, and everybody would end up talking to themselves.
Lila was just about to get up and go into the kitchen when the evening news came on. She settled back and listened gratefully. The normal voice and features of the commentator offered welcome relief after the phony hysteria of the gameshow’s MC and the shrieking responses of the grinning contestants.
Most of the bulletins concerned the recent storm, and the top story dealt with the terrible bus accident over at Montrose. Fortunately for Lila’s peace of mind, there was no live coverage of the scene, though the newscaster promised film at eleven. She made a mental note not to tune in; maybe it was childish of her, but she just couldn’t stand the sight of death or suffering.
Lila shook her head, dismissing the self-criticism. It wasn’t just a childish reaction; she of all people had the right to feel that way, after what had happened. Of course it had been years ago, ancient history, and she hadn’t been present when her sister and the detective were murdered by that maniac. But Lila had seen Norman Bates coming at her with a knife in his hand, and the fear remained. Sometimes it returned in dreams; she’d shiver and cry out until Sam took her in his arms and comforted her. Honey, it’s all right. Then he’d switch on the light beside the bed. See? No one’s there. You had a nightmare.
Even now, Lila wished Sam were here. Way past seven, and he was still at the store, working on those figures. He had to, of course, with the quarterly tax payment coming up, and Sunday afternoon was the best time to do the books. But it ruined plans for a decent dinner, and there was no point in even thinking about going out later in the evening.
Not that they’d want to anyway, after this storm. Still, it was over now, thank goodness, and reports of local damage and power outages around the country didn’t really concern her. Lila was only half listening when the newscaster started to talk about the all-points alert for a patient who’d escaped from the State Hospital this afternoon after murdering a visitor.
“Authorities believe he fled in a van belonging to the murder victim, who was a member of a religious order, the Little Sisters of Charity. The patient, Norman Bates, is still at large.”
Norman Bates.
Lila froze.
Murdering. Escaped. Still at large.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. Everything was frozen now, the way it was in the nightmares. But she was wide awake. And Norman—
Somehow she managed to externalize her perception again, listening closely as the commentator brought her another late bulletin. “Lightning struck the Weiland Nurseries greenhouse in Rock Center late this afternoon, with damages estimated at—”
Was that all? She’d missed the rest of the report about Norman when she panicked. But damn it, she had a right to panic, every right. And if that ignoramus reading the news had any brains, he’d panic too. This isn’t just another bulletin. Norman’s loose!
And she was talking to the tube again, talking to herself. When the one she should be talking to was Sam.
Lila rose, went to the TV set, shut it off. Then, crossing the room in darkness, she turned to switch on the lamps, but stopped herself in time.
No lights. What if he was out there?
But how could he be? Even if Norman knew where she lived, there was no real reason to think he’d come here. Except that people like Norman weren’t guided by reason or reality.
Lila was still standing beside the lamp when she heard the sound.
Suddenly alert, she strained to listen, but now there was silence. Just nerves. Imagining things.
Then she flinched as it came again—a muffled scraping.
Footsteps?
She couldn’t identify the noise, only locate its source. It was coming from outside.
Now, once more, silence. Silence and darkness. Not hearing, not seeing, Lila edged her way to the front window. Her hand trembled as she raised the shade to one side. Slowly, just an inch, enough to look out and see—
Nothing.
The walk, the lawn, the street beyond, stood empty in the night.
And the sound came again as the tree beside the house swayed in the wind, its upper branches brushing against the eaves of the roof.
Norman wasn’t here.
Lila didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she found herself exhaling in sudden relief. You see, it was your imagination. Why should Norman want to harm you? You’re not his enemy. He wouldn’t come here.
Then, as she let the shade swing back into place, the relief faded into realization.
Of course he’s not here. In Norman’s mind there was another enemy. He’d be coming after Sam.
Lila was trembling again by the time she reached the end table and found the phone. Fumbling in the dark, she forced herself to concentrate, counting off the unseen digits as she dialed the number of the store.
Then she waited for the ring, but it didn’t come; all she heard was a buzzing sound. Busy signal? No, the tone was wrong. What had they said on the news about a power outage?
As she replaced the receiver, the scraping noise resumed outside. Now, even though she knew its source, she held her breath once more. Perhaps this time she could hear another sound over it, the sound of a car motor. Sam’s car coming down the street, pulling into the driveway—
Silence.
If Sam had been listening to the radio at the store, he’d have heard some kind of news report and come home to her. But there was no car, so he hadn’t listened, didn’t know.
She glanced at her watch; the luminous hands on the dial told her it was eight o’clock.
Eight o’clock. Even if he hadn’t heard anything, he should be home by now. Unless—
There was no need to pursue the thought. The need was to stumble across the room into the kitchen, grope for her purse on the serving counter, carry it to the back door. And then to peer out through the door-window toward the
walk beyond, making sure no one was standing there.
The walk was empty. Slowly she opened the kitchen door and stepped outside. Night wind fanned her face as she turned and surveyed the backyard, the side lawn, the stretch of walk leading to the street. All clear.
Gripping her purse, she shut the door and went up the walk, glancing at the darkened outline of the house next door. Maybe she ought to tell the Dempsters, let Ted drive her to the store. Then she remembered that her neighbors were away; they’d said something about visiting their married daughter in Ravenswood over the weekend. And the people across the street had left this morning for a vacation at the lake.
Lila emerged onto the street, slowing to scan the sidewalk leading to the right. Nothing moved there but the shadows under the trees. But in the shadows—
Don’t panic. Just keep your eyes open, take your time, only three blocks to go.
She kept telling herself that, over and over again, but in spite of everything, Lila found herself hurrying. The shadows were merely shadows and the night was silent except for the sigh of wind and the quickening clatter of her heels against the wet cement of the sidewalk.
Then, turning onto Main Street, Lila saw the headlights of a car coming from the left.
Sam?
She halted, ready to wave, but it wasn’t their station wagon that swept past her, and the face of the driver was unfamiliar. Perhaps she ought to have waved anyway; now it was too late, for the car rounded the corner up the street, making a right turn. Main Street was empty again.
Lila moved forward. One more block. She was approaching the store now, glancing ahead to look through the lighted window.
But the light was out.
She slowed, staring through the glass into the darkened store beyond.
Don’t panic. Maybe he’s just closed up, gone out the back way to the car.
Lila started along the walk at the side of the building, moving slowly, cautiously. She gone only a few yards when she caught sight of the station wagon parked next to the alley exit in back. Its doors were closed and the driver’s seat was empty. Sam hadn’t left.
