by Robert Bloch
No one had been in a position to make such a mistake recently, worse luck. She dismissed the thought; this was neither the time nor the place for such activity. Outside, the cold rain was still coming down. But here in the shower stall the water was warm. The only chill came from a sudden, unexpected comparison of what she was presently doing and what Mary Crane had done those many long years ago or, more precisely, what had been done to her under the same circumstances.
How old was the Crane girl when she died? Amy withdrew a number from her memory-bank. Twenty-nine. In order to reach that age she’d have to stay here under the spray for an additional two years. In any case, enough of this shower-stalling.
Time to towel-dry her hair—there just wasn’t enough room to bring everything, which meant either she needed a larger bag or a smaller hair dryer. Time for powder, deodorant, and a fresh nightie for a wilted bod. Time to snuggle under the sheets and cast a final sidelong glance at the face of the wristwatch resting on the nightstand. Time to tell time.
It was exactly ten P.M. No need to ask for a wakeup call; her eyes would open automatically at seven A.M.
Amy switched the lamp off. Somehow the rain sounded louder in the darkness. Perhaps it would stop before morning. Sunshine makes no sound.
No sound, nothing to disturb her, not even raindrops now. For a moment inner vision behind closed eyelids gave flickering glimpses of highways stretching ahead; it was as though she was reenacting the hours of driving today, editing them visually, then miniaturizing them on a microchip of memory.
Now both sound and vision had vanished, together with sensation. No rain, no pain, no Crane. Because Mary Crane was two years older, she’d died before Amy was born, so what was the point in bringing her back to life? Points were for knives and knives were for killing and nothing would happen as long as she remembered that, remembered next time to bring a bigger bag, buy a smaller dryer, stay out of the shower.
But she was in the shower again, because all at once she heard the water running, opened her eyes to see the shower curtain waving.
Only the water wasn’t coming from the showerhead and the curtain wasn’t flapping in the stall. Amy sat up quickly, switching on the lamp beside her. What she heard was the rain and what she saw flapping was the curtain before the window opening outward.
Open. Amy was out of bed and halfway across the room before she fully realized the potential significance of the term. The window had been closed when she went to bed; although she remembered glancing out of it after her initial arrival, she couldn’t recall opening it then. Considering that there was a storm going on outside, there’d be no point.
She halted in midstride. Suppose there was a point? That’s what she’d been thinking about when she fell asleep, the point of a knife.
Amy glanced around the room. She’d left the closet open and its contents were plainly visible. The clothing on the hangers stirred slightly in the draft from the open window but the spaces between and behind the garments revealed nothing but their shadows.
The bathroom door was open too, and Amy tried to remember if it was poised at the same angle when she retired. Not that this would really make any difference; if the opening had been wide enough for her to exit, it was wide enough for someone else to enter.
Amy edged up to the bathroom doorway as quietly and cautiously as she could. Anyone lurking inside wouldn’t hear her barefoot passage across the room or the sudden thudding of her heart beneath the slight sag of her left breast.
All of which was stupid, she reminded herself, because she’d switched the lamp on and that would be signal enough for anyone in the bathroom to stop lurking and start—
Forget it. There was nobody in that bathroom. Amy quickened her pace, peered around the edge of the doorway, and slowed her heartbeat as she saw that the room and shower held nothing to be afraid of.
Except the nothing itself.
Turning, she made her way to the flapping curtain and the open window. The curtain billowed inward, giving her a glimpse of the rain pelting down on the bare expanse of the flat one-story roof directly below. Someone could have come to the window by way of that rooftop, clambered to the ledge, pushed the window up to enter.
Again she reminded herself there was no point, none that she could see and none—thank God—that she had felt. The explanation was simple; she’d forgotten to lock the window and it blew open.
Too simple. Amy pulled the window shut, adjusted the curtains, returned to bed, and—after a surprisingly short interval—fell asleep once again.
So it wasn’t until seven o’clock the following morning that she realized how easy it would have been to determine whether or not there had been a visitor.
But by then it was too late. There were no visible markings and the carpet was dry.
— 3 —
Dr. Nicholas Steiner awoke that morning at five forty-five, beating the clock by a full fifteen minutes.
He reached out to switch off the alarm, then settled back again on his pillow with a self-congratulatory smile imposing itself upon his wrinkled face. At this point in time beating the clock was always an occasion for a victory celebration. Or, in this instance, at least an excuse to lounge in bed for another fifteen minutes until his official rising time.
Glancing toward the window he noted that the rain had stopped and the clouds were clearing. That was something to be grateful for; meteorologists, psychologists, and all the other -ologists might dispute him, but Steiner knew from his own experience that weather patterns affected the behavior patterns of his patients. Wind, moisture, barometric pressure, sunspots perhaps, but above all the moon. Just because they didn’t call them “lunatics” today didn’t change the facts. Tides, menses, and cerebral stimulation were still governed by the goddess when her shining countenance came fully into view.
Now what brought that on? There was enough to think about without wasting his time mooning around. At his age he could no longer afford such musings; his poetic license had been revoked. Forget the lunar flights, the fancies, come down to earth, rejoin the human race.
But not just yet. Steiner cocked an eye at the clock. He still had another eight minutes and until then there was no need to enter the human race or the rat race it was forever running.
Once up and dressed, once shaved and breakfasted, it was necessary for Dr. Steiner to assume his professional posture as a humanitarian and, hopefully, a healer. But right now during those eight precious minutes still left to him, his posture would remain recumbent and his private opinion unchanged.
Simply stated, Steiner had come to the conclusion, after long years of observation, that his mentally disturbed charges were less disturbing than the concept of the so-called normal person roaming unconfined in our society. Except for cases involving physiological damage, the problems of the average mental patient might be construed as symptoms of sensitivity. The problems of the so-called normal person were usually symptomatic of mere stupidity.
The majority of the normal population cannot draw a map of the world in which they live. Most of the citizens of this country can’t tell you its history. They are unable to identify quotations from the Bill of Rights, the Constitution, or its amendments. They can’t list the Ten Commandments. They can’t even tell you the number of bones in their own bodies or accurately locate the principal organs, let alone describe their functions.
The average person doesn’t know the earth is moving as well as revolving; he can’t name the planets of our solar system. Ask him to identify some great men and he’ll rattle off a variety of Johns, depending on his age—John Wayne, Johnny Carson, John Lennon, John Belushi. Inside his head is a gaggle of jocks, rock performers, and “media personalities” including talk-show hosts and currently popular guest bimbos. He cannot name two Nobel Prize winners. Don’t expect him to explain the workings of the electoral college or the function of photosynthesis. Nevertheless, he’s a mine of information—and misinformation—about cars, sexual practices, and other sport
s.
But the eight minutes were up now and so was Steiner. Dr. Nicholas Steiner, the caring, sympathetic, understanding, empathizing and consoling counselor whose lifelong career was dedicated to restoring the mentally ill to the ranks of normal society.
In addition to attendance upon his bodily needs and functions Dr. Steiner had certain diurnal duties to perform, and it was a good two hours before he was able to see Adam Claiborne.
But out of sight doesn’t necessarily mean out of mind, and the problem of Claiborne occupied Steiner’s thoughts for some while prior to their actual meeting.
For that matter, Steiner’s mind had never really been free since Claiborne had been confined. It’s not easy to deal with the fact that a former professional colleague is now a patient in the same institution where he once served as your assistant.
Not easy to deal, not easy to heal. But at least some progress had been made in the years since Claiborne had been undergoing therapy. According to Steiner’s evaluation he seemed to be making significant gains. At least he was able to talk about himself as himself again—there was no longer any evidence of that “Norman Bates will never die” delusion. Odd, Steiner parenthetically observed to himself, how many patients suffering from psychotic disorders seemed to identify with Norman over the years. It was as though he had somehow touched a nerve, as the saying goes.
The saying went, because it was meaningless in this situation. The problem confronting Dr. Steiner this morning was how to confront Claiborne with what was going to happen this afternoon. And he’d better come to grips with it and quit stalling. A man his age could no longer afford the luxury of delay. Don’t waste time or time will waste you.
Sound advice, but it didn’t solve his problem and he found himself reaching Claiborne’s room before reaching a solution.
At least what Claiborne occupied could legitimately be described as a room, in contrast with the quarters to which most patients were assigned. Perhaps the State Board would take a dim view of the matter, but thus far none of its members had ever set eyes on Claiborne’s room. Except for the presence of the standard bunk bed occupying the far corner and the security bars crisscrossing the window, Claiborne’s quarters might be mistaken for a small private office. Once his initial disorientation vanished and the possibility of violent reaction or overreaction gave way to abreaction, Steiner had furnished him with the desk, swivel lamp, bookshelves, and the volumes he requested with which to fill them. A final aesthetic touch was the rug on the floor, something to which any inspector from the State Board would object. That had been Steiner’s own idea; at least it lent a hint of comfort to the surroundings in which his old colleague was destined to live out the rest of his days, poor devil. There was no television set in the room; Claiborne had never been that crazy.
Male nurse Lloyd Semple accompanied Steiner to the door, then halted, keys dangling, as Steiner took a precautionary squint through the peephole.
Claiborne had apparently been lying on the lower level of the bunk bed, but now as the keys clinked, he swung his legs over the side and eased himself into a sitting position. A quick glance reassured Steiner that his reaction indicated alertness, not alarm, though it was still difficult to reconcile himself to the evidence of how Claiborne had aged. Over the past few years he’d gone quite grey and his forehead seemed permanently furrowed in a frown. But there was nothing out of the ordinary about his manner and Steiner, satisfied, knocked on the door.
“Adam, I’d like to talk to you. Mind if I come in?”
“By all means, Nick. My house is yours.”
Steiner turned, signaling to the male nurse. As Semple selected the proper key, the doctor issued his instructions in a low murmur. “I don’t think we have any problems, but I’d like you to stand by outside, just on the off-chance.”
Nodding, Semple unlocked the door, pushing it open far enough for Dr. Steiner to enter the room, then closed and relocked it behind him.
Claiborne, on his feet now, advanced and extended his hand in greeting. “Good to see you,” he said. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Steiner noted that his patient seemed bright, cheerful, and loquacious. As for himself at this moment, he wished to hell he hadn’t given up smoking. He didn’t know what to do with his hands because he had a problem on them.
“Sit down,” Claiborne said, indicating the swivel chair before the desk. Turning, he moved to the bunk bed and again seated himself on the side, leaning forward to keep his head clear of the upper level.
“Sure you’ll be comfortable there?” Steiner asked.
“No sweat.”
No sweat, just small talk, Steiner told himself. He still hadn’t figured out a way of leading up to what he wanted to say. Had to say, rather; given a preference, he wouldn’t discuss the matter at all. But since it concerned a patient’s interest, there was no choice.
Sometimes intimacy involves actions rather than words. Steiner wondered if he should draw his chair back from the desk and bring it closer to the bunkside. Hesitation vanished as he reminded himself that Claiborne’s right hand had been partially but permanently crippled when a shot in the wrist put an end to his rampage out there on the coast. Since then the injury had rendered him comparatively harmless. Steiner suddenly remembered that Maurice Ravel had once written a Piano Concerto for the Left Hand Alone. Not to worry—Claiborne didn’t play piano.
Telling himself to relax, he swiveled around and propelled himself into position close beside Claiborne.
“What’s on your mind?” Claiborne said.
Steiner smiled. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
It was Claiborne’s turn to smile now. “I forgot.”
“Frankly, so did I.” Dr. Steiner nodded. “Just between us, you’ve made remarkable progress.”
“Thanks to your help.” For a moment Adam Claiborne’s smile twisted wryly. “Or maybe I’m just undergoing temporary remission.”
Steiner shrugged. “There are times I wonder if all of what passes for sanity isn’t just a form of remission from our natural state. What was it Norman Bates used to say? Something like ‘everybody goes a little crazy at times.’ ”
“I remember,” Claiborne said softly. “He said a lot of things that made sense. Come to think of it, between the two of us, you and I probably know more about Norman than anyone else still alive.”
Steiner breathed a silent sigh of relief. This was the opening he’d been hoping for. “That could change,” he said.
“In what way?”
“I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the work of Amelia Haines,” he said.
“Should I be?”
“Not necessarily, but under the circumstances I wish you were. Two years ago she published a book titled Tricks or Treats, about the Walton case.”
Claiborne’s reaction was a puzzled frown and Steiner reminded himself that without access to television or newspapers it was unlikely that his patient could keep abreast of recent or current crime waves.
“The case itself goes back about five years or so,” Steiner said. “Bonnie Walton was a prostitute who committed the serial murders of eight clients before she was apprehended. As I understand it, Miss Haines was commissioned to do a magazine article on the case, but what she learned led to a book-length, thoroughly researched study. For some reason or other, the publishers sent me a copy when it first came out; I thought it was an honest, objective job, without the usual sensationalism you might expect.”
Claiborne’s smile had vanished. “Why are you giving me a book review?”
“I’m not giving a review,” Steiner told him. “I’m offering you an option.” He leaned forward. “Miss Haines contacted me recently to request an interview. Because of the success of Tricks or Treats, her publishers are interested in having her do a similar book about Norman Bates.”
“Similar?” Claiborne’s voice was strident. “But there’s no comparison. Norman wasn’t a serial killer, not if you stop to analyze the circumstances—”<
br />
Dr. Steiner gestured quickly. “That’s exactly it. What Miss Haines wants to do is analyze the circumstances rather than conduct a postmortem on Norman himself. She’s already accumulated quite a bit of material. As a matter of fact, she happens to be in Fairvale right now. I got a call from her last night, asking if she might come and talk to me this afternoon.”
He paused, waiting for a response, but none came. “Would you have any objection if I discussed Norman Bates with her?”
“That’s your privilege.”
Steiner took a deep breath. “Yours also. Would you like to speak to her yourself?”
“Why should I?”
“I can’t presume to provide you with reasons. Mine are simple enough; I think it could help give her a greater insight into what really happened, make it a better book. I believe she’s sincere about finding the truth. That’s why she came here, because she’d like to contact everyone left who might still have some connection with the case.”
“Case?” Claiborne echoed.
Steiner cursed himself silently for making the slip; he might have known it was a mistake to use that word in this connotation. But it was too late now. The best he could do was to try concealing any outward sign of reaction as Claiborne voiced his paranoia.
“How can you say that? You make it sound as though there were some kind of criminal proceedings. Norman never stood trial. There’s no such thing as a Bates ‘case’!”
“I’m afraid there is now,” said Steiner softly. “At least that’s what they’re calling it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A child was murdered last week, a little girl name Terry Dowson.”
Claiborne’s eyes widened in surprise, then slitted in angry accusation. “And you’re accusing me?”
Steiner shook his head quickly. “Of course not.”
