by Robert Bloch
“I don’t see it.” Paul Morgan broke in quickly. “Norman Bates’s escape has nothing to do with our story. As long as the script sticks to the facts—”
Roy shook his head. “The facts have changed now.”
“So we change the script.” Vizzini spoke rapidly. “A little fix, perhaps, a few pages. We’ve still got a week. And since I’m shooting the scenes with the Loomis characters in sequence, we won’t be using Steve Hill and the Gordon girl until next month, when they come out from New York.”
“What is this, a story conference?” Roy gestured impatiently. “Forget the script! As long as Bates was in the asylum we had no problem. Our story was only a fairy tale, something that happened a long time ago. Audiences wouldn’t give a damn if it was fact or fiction. But now we’re up against reality.”
“Right.”
Driscoll nodded and Jan felt a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.
He was running scared. That meant the picture was dead, she was dead, and all her talk about not letting them stop was dead too.
“But you can’t!” Her voice rose and she was rising with it, ignoring their sudden stares, ignoring everything except the inner urgency. “You can’t quit now.”
“Jan, please—” Roy was moving toward her, his eyes troubled, his hand reaching out to grasp her arm. “This is no time for hysteria—”
“Then stop being hysterical!” She shook herself free, ignoring him, concentrating on the bald man behind the desk. “What’s the matter with you people? You’re behaving like a bunch of old women! It would be crazy to stop. Don’t you see what you’ve got here? You’re sitting right on top of a gold mine and you’re afraid to dig!”
Jan hesitated as Driscoll’s hands came up from the desktop, palms moving inward. For an instant she thought he was assuming an attitude of prayer; then, as the sound came, she realized he was applauding.
“Bravo!” he said. “Cut and print.”
“That isn’t funny, dammit!” Jan felt her face redden as the anger burned outwards. “I’m not doing a performance, I’m telling you the truth. If you’d only stop and think for a minute, you’d realize the publicity—”
Driscoll gestured, halting her. “You stop,” he said. “Give me a chance to say what I’ve been thinking.” He turned and poked a pudgy finger at George Ward. “Here, you tell her.”
The Gray Eminence nodded. “As Mr. Driscoll told you, he had second thoughts about the production. At first we were upset by the reports; like Mr. Ames here, we wondered about having problems. Then we got into what you’re talking about. The news value, the publicity. And we came up with the same answer. Norman Bates’s breakout could be the best thing that ever happened to Crazy Lady. It ties us right into front-page headlines, top-of-the-show exposure on every TV and radio newscast in the country. Sure, Bates is dead, but the story will stay alive; they’ll be investigating those murders for months now. A media event like this is something money couldn’t buy. Every mention of the case is a free plug for our film.”
The knot in Jan’s stomach began to loosen. “Does that mean you’re going ahead?”
“Full speed,” Driscoll said. “Make it fast, get it shipped, and laugh all the way to the bank.”
Jan felt the knot unwind.
“Great!” Paul Morgan grinned at Roy. “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
“The hell there isn’t.” Roy stood up, ignoring Morgan, and stood before the desk, facing Driscoll. “You’re forgetting the script. What happened yesterday shoots down our ending.”
“I’m not forgetting.” Driscoll’s index finger jabbed forward. “Like Santo says, you’ve got a week for changes. If you don’t finish by next Monday, you’ll stay on after the start-date. We’ll shoot the production schedule as is and shoot the new scenes last.”
“Now wait a minute, I haven’t made any commitment—”
“Your agent has. I called him this morning and set the deal.”
Jan listened, smiling. The knot in her stomach was gone.
“Don’t worry.” Santo Vizzini moved up beside Roy. “It’s only a few pages. I’ve got some ideas. Think of the material we can work with now—the new murders, and Norman’s death.”
Roy scowled, but when he spoke his voice was soft. “Just one thing,” he said. “What makes you so sure Norman is dead?”
— 14 —
“Of course he’s dead.”
Dr. Steiner stubbed his cigarette against the side of the ashtray on Claiborne’s desk. “Look, Adam. I know how you feel—”
“Do you?”
“For God’s sake, stop being defensive! Nobody’s blaming you for what happened. So why are you blaming yourself?”
Claiborne shrugged. “It’s not a question of blame,” he said. “What it comes down to is responsibility.”
“Word games.” Steiner took out another cigarette. “Blame, responsibility, what difference does it make? You want to go that route, then Otis was responsible for leaving Bates alone with the nun. And what about Clara? She was on the desk when Bates slipped out. If anyone’s to blame for his escape, it’s those two.”
“But I was in charge.”
“And I’m the guy who put you there.” Steiner reached into his pocket for matches. “If you’re looking for the ultimate responsibility, the buck stops here.” He lit his cigarette, dropped the match into the ashtray, and blew a spiral of smoke toward the ceiling. “When I say I know how you feel, it’s not just a figure of speech. Why do you think I skipped my meeting and scooted back here the minute I got word? I had the same reaction you did—first shock, then guilt. Thank God there was a little time to think things over during the flight. I admit I’m still traumatized by what happened, we all are, but it’s only natural under the circumstances. But the guilt is gone.”
“Not for me.”
Dr. Steiner gestured with his cigarette. “Look, nobody’s perfect. We all make mistakes. Isn’t that what you and I tell our analysands? We can’t go through life blaming ourselves for honest errors. And yesterday was a comedy of errors—a tragedy, if you prefer. But the point is that none of us—Otis, Clara, you, or myself—could foresee what was going to happen. The only thing we can be faulted for, individually and collectively, is lack of infallibility.”
“Now you’re into word games,” Claiborne said. “Whether or not I’m infallible doesn’t matter. I had a job to do and I fell down.”
“Fell down.” Steiner puffed reflectively. “Fell down and tore your stockings and what will Daddy say when he gets home? Come off it, Adam, you’re not a child! And I’m not your father.”
“Jesus, Nick, if you’re going to play doctor with me—”
“Let me finish.” Steiner leaned forward, peering through a gray halo of smoke. “Okay, so you’re guilty. But of what? All you did was instruct Otis to watch the library while you took a phone call. That’s the extent of it.
“You had no way of knowing Otis would leave, no way of knowing Norman was planning a break. And from then on, we’re dealing with hard facts. It was Norman who killed Sister Barbara and took over the van. He was in the van when it exploded, his actions resulted in Sister Cupertine’s death and his own—”
“But that’s just it.” Claiborne rose. “Norman wasn’t killed in the van. They picked up a hitchhiker. I know because I found the sign, back on the other road. Norman got rid of him and Sister Cupertine, set fire to the van, then went after Sam and Lila Loomis in Fairvale. Didn’t Engstrom tell you?”
Steiner nodded. “Yes, I heard all about your theory when I spoke with him this morning. But let’s stay with facts. He’s convinced the Loomises were killed by another party—a sneak thief, maybe even the hitchhiker you’re talking about—”
“Convinced?” Claiborne said. “By what? Where are his facts? All he’s got is another theory. A nice, convenient theory that wraps up everything. That is, if you’re willing to accept the Loomises’ deaths as just coincidence.
“Well, I’m not.
I think they were deliberately murdered by the one man in the world who had a motive.” He paced the narrow opening between the wall and his desk. “If it’s hard evidence you’re looking for, consider this: Sam and Lila Loomis weren’t just struck down. They were butchered. Put motive and method together and you get a clear picture of Norman Bates at work.”
Dr. Steiner extinguished his second cigarette. “Nothing’s going to be clear until we have the complete autopsy report,” he said. “Engstrom talked to Rigsby at the coroner’s office. He expects to give us his findings by the end of the week—”
“End of the week?” Claiborne halted and turned, frowning. “What’s the matter with those people? Nick, I don’t know a damned thing about forensic procedure, I haven’t even sat in on a PM since medical school, but give me three hours with that corpse and I’ll bet we’ll come up with a firm ID.”
Steiner nodded. “So will Rigsby, when he has the time. But Engstrom tells me it’s like a madhouse over there.” He smiled selfconsciously. “If you’ll pardon the Freudian slip.”
“You mean because of that bus crash?”
Dr. Steiner sighed. “Seven victims yesterday. Two of the injured died during the night. That makes nine. Total of fourteen, when you add the five we’re concerned with.”
“I’m only concerned with one,” Claiborne said. “Couldn’t Engstrom lean on Rigsby to give us priority?”
“He tried. But don’t forget, county coroner’s an elective office.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that Engstrom is one man, and the families of the victims run into several dozen people. They’re leaning too, and all of them are voters. So much for Rigsby’s priorities.” Dr. Steiner produced another cigarette. “I’d hate to be in his shoes right now. He’s going to be working night and day, and until he gets around to us, we’ll just have to sweat it out.”
“Because politics is more important than murder?” Claiborne shook his head. “Maybe Engstrom and Rigsby can believe that, but not me. And I never thought you would, either.”
“I don’t.” Dr. Steiner held up his hand. “Look at this—third one in fifteen minutes!” He scowled ruefully and tossed the unlit cigarette into the ashtray, then settled back in his chair. “Believe me, I’m just as uptight as you are. But we have no options. We’ve got to make up our minds to be patient until the word comes down.”
“While Norman is running loose?”
Dr. Steiner shrugged. “All right. I still don’t buy it, but let’s say he’s still alive. Engstrom tells me his department is cooperating with Captain Banning. They’ve put out an all-points, they’re making appeals asking possible witnesses to come forward, they’re going over the available evidence. But until they come up with something concrete, you can’t stop stop them from having their own opinions, any more than you can stop these people out in Hollywood from making their picture—”
Claiborne looked up, a question in his eyes, and Dr. Steiner nodded.
“Forgot to mention it. I had a call from that producer, the one you talked to yesterday.”
“Marty Driscoll?”
“He phoned this morning, right after I got back. Said he’d heard the news and wanted more details on what happened yesterday.”
“And you gave them to him?”
“Of course not.” Steiner frowned. “I’ve no intention of helping him, never did. I haven’t read his script, don’t want to talk to his writer. And in view of the circumstances, my advice to him was to cancel the picture entirely.”
“Did he agree?”
“He as much as told me to go to hell. He thinks all this is great publicity. They’re going to start shooting next Monday.”
“But they can’t!” Claiborne shook his head. “Nick, we have to do something.”
“Of course.” Dr. Steiner pushed his chair back, rising. “I’m going to work. And you’re going to take a few days off, get some rest.”
“I don’t want—”
“Never mind what you want, it’s what you need. I’ll take over your case load this week. You’re overtired and you’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting?”
“This business about the picture. When you come right down to it, what’s the difference whether they go ahead or not? We can’t stop them.”
“Maybe not,” said Claiborne. “But if we don’t, Norman will.”
— 15 —
It had been a mistake to tell Steiner anything.
Claiborne should have known the minute Nick started talking about overreacting. But he hadn’t caught the implication then; he’d gone on explaining about the newspaper item in the hardware store, how Norman must have seen it, where he guessed Norman would be going and what he’d do. He should have realized that Steiner wouldn’t understand, but it was too late now.
Now they had him in the hospital.
God knew what the diagnosis was—they wouldn’t tell him, weren’t going to tell him. The nurses and orderlies never forgot to call him “Doctor” when they addressed him; they were all very courteous, but they were also very firm.
Claiborne understood the need for firmness. It was a necessary measure, a professional procedure that he himself had followed, something he’d accepted as part of the job he had to do. But now they were doing a job on him. And he couldn’t take it.
He couldn’t get used to being a patient, being ordered around, treated like a child. Getting examined, inspected, searched as though he were some kind of criminal. Told to stand there, sit here, served his meals on a tray.
And then there were the noises. The syrupy, supposedly soothing sound of canned music, interrupted by buzzing voices issuing commands. And always the droning that music couldn’t disguise, the droning that set up a vibration inside his head, a pressure that made his ears ring. Even with his eyes closed, Claiborne couldn’t escape; there was no escape.
Because he was strapped down.
That was when it really hit him, when he knew he couldn’t move. They had him in restraint!
Claiborne began to tremble. He forced himself forward, his body arching up against the confinement of the unyielding straps. But the straps held, they were firm, everyone was firm, no escape, no way. Got to get out of here, out of here—
His eyes opened and he stared down.
At the seat belt.
Relax. You’re on the plane.
He sank back, conscious that he was smiling, relieved and ashamed at the same time. Steiner had been right; he was overtired, and that’s why he’d fallen asleep during the flight. And overreaction had emerged in his nightmare.
Its elements seemed obvious. The nurses and orderlies were the airline personnel. In dream, going through the airport security check became a physical examination. The directions—being told to wait for boarding, to remain seated and fasten his belt—were self-explanatory. And of course they’d served him a meal on a tray.
The canned music and the pilot’s messages had come over the cabin intercom. Now there was only the drone of the engines as the plane began its long, gliding descent. But the vibration was real enough, and he did feel pressure in his ears.
He felt pressure, period. But now was not the time to think about it. Now was the time to please remain seated until the aircraft reaches the terminal—although all around him, Claiborne noted, passengers were rifling the overhead storage compartments for their hand luggage and crowding down the aisle, propelled by competitive compulsion to be first in line.
Now was the time to pick up his own briefcase and move through the exit, running the gauntlet of mechanical smiles and automated goodbyes from the perspiring stewardesses stationed there.
Welcome to Los Angeles International.
In the airport’s upper lobby, friends and family greeted his fellow passengers. For a moment Claiborne caught himself scanning faces in the crowds clustering around the semicircle of arrival and departure gates, then smiled self-consciously. Who the hell was he looking for? Norman wasn’t waiting at the termi
nal to say hello—if, indeed, he was waiting anywhere at all. Suppose Steiner had been right and all this was a fool’s errand?
Only one way to find out. Claiborne started forward, shouldering through the throng and escalating down—neat contradiction in terms, that!—to the lower level. Now he began to plod the interminable tunnel leading to the outer lobby.
The symbolism of these movements didn’t go unnoticed; it was like reenacting one’s birth. Once in the tunnel, everyone became impatient, anxious to reach the exit, emerge reborn into the new world beyond.
But actual birth was a simple phenomenon compared to what still had to be endured. Making the car-rental arrangements, buying the street guide, locating his baggage and snatching it from the conveyor—everything took time, taxed patience, enhanced irritation.
How long had it been since travel had transformed itself from pleasure to an endless ordeal? Perhaps he had a low pain threshold, or maybe he was just too damned tired; whatever the reason, he resented the regimentation and the herding, the hordes jabbering and jostling at the luggage stations. No amount of soporific sound could disguise the discomfort, whether it came from the speaker system or rose in recollection of the television commercials chorusing the delights of flight.
Flight, escape—all he wanted was to get out of here. And even after he’d reached the rented car, stowed his bag, consulted the map for guidance, appraised the instrument panel on the dash, and started moving, there was still the problem of leaving the airport. Inching along in bumper-to-bumper traffic, interpreting the constantly confusing overhead signs, fighting to change lanes, Claiborne finally reached Century Boulevard and crawled east to the San Diego Freeway. Here, exhausted by exhaust, he located the northbound entrance ramp and moved up, swerving left between a thundering semi and lurching camper. Life in the fast lane wasn’t all that great, either, but at least now he was headed in the right direction.
Or so he hoped.
The mere mechanics of driving at a regular speed, of functioning as a comparatively free agent once again, had a relaxing effect. Now he was calm enough to review the situation objectivity.
