by Robert Bloch
On the basis of what Steiner had just reported, Dr. Claiborne sounded like an impossibility. She’d have to count on getting a fix on him from what Steiner could tell her. Meantime, a scrub for Adam Claiborne, M.D. A scrub for Bob Peterson too, and another for Dr. Rawson; as for people like Reverend Archer, there was no sense in even listing their names.
Hank Gibbs? Might be worthwhile talking to him again, and Sheriff Engstrom too, if she could only find a chink in his armor. So far the little man seemed to be an Achilles without a heel.
Who else was left? Instinctively Amy recoiled from the notion of a personal interview with Terry Dowson’s parents. There was no reason to exploit their grief, no point in sensationalizing the sorrow of the victim’s friends and classmates. It wasn’t going to be that kind of a book.
But just what kind of a book would it be? Amy tried to deal with that question as she scanned her notes. Face it, so far she hadn’t really come up with all that much new material; maybe because it was nonexistent. Perhaps this attorney, Charlie Pitkin, knew where the bodies were buried, but she had a strong hunch he wouldn’t be doing any grave-digging for her. You don’t get to be a hotshot state senator by giving away secrets, and from what Otto Remsbach had told her, good old Charlie wasn’t in the habit of giving away anything.
Amy quickly considered and disgarded Irene Grovesmith, Doris Huntley, Dr. Rawson’s receptionist—Marge or Margie, whatever she went by. Scrub Captain Banning too; she hadn’t seen him around, and even if available the chances were he’d be another Engstrom type.
Dick Reno was no Engstrom, that’s for sure, but she already knew what she could get out of him. And if she hung in here for another couple of days she’d probably accept it, out of sheer boredom. So scrub him too; the last thing Amy needed right now was to get tangled up with a small-town deputy and his problems. The book was still going to be about the Bates case and had nothing to do with hang-ups over ex-wives or the custody of eleven-year-old sons. You’re a nice guy, Dick Reno, but right now I’ve got no time for hitting or getting hit on; go cry in your own beer, not mine.
Still, Amy knew that in a way she owed him after what he’d told her over dinner about Otto Remsbach’s future plans. These would be very much a part of the story and Remsbach himself had dropped hints about them last night, but only hints. Amy was sure there was more if she could only pry it out of him.
But when? That was the question. Even if she hadn’t made an appointment with Steiner that tied her up during part of the afternoon, it was a good bet Remsbach would be tied up himself all day and all night in preparation for his Grand Opening the following morning.
Which left her with no alternative except to wait until after the Opening. And it was strange how her thinking had changed about that.
When she arrived, attending the event had been a top priority, but now she no longer felt any commitment. Amy wondered why; was it the result of the hostility she felt directed toward her in town here, at the Country Club, or the memorial services today? If so, appearing at the Grand Opening would be another ordeal. And, actually, an unnecessary one. No matter how few or how many customers showed up, this was one event that was bound to attract plenty of press coverage, to say nothing of radio and TV. As far as getting information about the event itself there’d be more than enough in print or on tape to provide her with all the gory details.
As for herself, Amy wasn’t interested in gore. The details she needed concerned the actual reconstruction of the house and the motel. How authentic was it, had some actual artifacts from the original structures been salvaged for use here, did the settings convey the feel and the atmosphere of the place where Norman lived—and others died?
A complicated question, but one with a simple answer; she’d just have to go out there and see for herself. Not alone, of course, but not as part of a guided tour mob scene at the Opening, either. What she needed was an opportunity to examine whatever interested her, in depth and at leisure.
Once again Amy reviewed her options. Tomorrow was out. The day after tomorrow, the Grand Opening, was out too. Even if she changed her mind and stayed yet another day the place would still be open for business; she’d have no privacy. There had to be some other solution.
Was tomorrow really out? As far as she knew now, her only commitment was the afternoon appointment with Steiner. That Remsbach would be tied up all day was a natural assumption. But suppose she could talk him out of it? Suppose she could get him to drive her over there in the morning, or when she returned from the interview with Steiner?
Amy glanced at her watch; the time was nine twenty-two. Not too late for someone to give Remsbach a call—
Someone else, that is. It was too late for her; had been, ever since she’d walked out on him at the Country Club. What made her think that all she had to do was pick up the phone and say, “Hi, Fatso, remember me? That’s right, Amy Haines, the gal who did the dump on you in front of all your buddies last night. I know you’re going to be busy tomorrow, but why don’t you just drop everything and drive me out to the Bates place when I’m ready to go?”
Amy shook her head. Fat chance she had of selling that idea to Fatso. But what other chance would she have, what other choice?
Frowning, she crossed to the window and gazed out over the flat rooftop. The clouds had thickened and it was only for a moment that she caught a glimpse of the crescent moon before it vanished. Her frown vanished with it.
Crescent. Female sexual symbol. What did it have to do with her situation? Why was she suddenly thinking about Tricks or Treats?
Because of Bonnie Walton, that’s why. True, Amy had written the book, but Bonnie had lived it. She’d wasted no time mooning over female sex symbols; there was little or nothing she didn’t know about the realities. And if she had found herself facing a problem like this she’d come up with a solution.
And so would Amy. All she had to do was to think like Bonnie. It had been easy enough to adopt Bonnie’s mind-set while writing about her. Now the time had come to make use of it for a practical purpose.
Suppose Bonnie had insulted a trick by walking out on him in public—and that now she needed a special favor from him?
Only two steps were involved and their order was obvious. First the apology, then the request. But Amy already knew this; she didn’t need to get inside Bonnie Walton’s head just to find that out. And she also knew Remsbach wasn’t going to accept her apology or honor her request. At least—
“Not over the phone, dummy!”
Amy gave a start. Was she inside Bonnie’s head, or was Bonnie inside hers? For an instant there she could have sworn she’d actually heard Bonnie Walton speaking.
In any case, she knew what Bonnie was thinking. Gaining Otto Remsbach’s forgiveness would require not just a personal apology but a personalized, in-person one, and a lot of stroking. Pitching a request for a special favor would almost certainly involve physical presence; perhaps even a bit of physical activity. Just a bit, because the mere idea was repugnant. The phone call was still necessary, but only as a means of gaining access to her mistreated trick.
That’s the way Bonnie would have figured it and Bonnie was a smart girl. Amy remembered one of the things she’d said. “All the world can be divided into three kinds of people—whores, pimps, and customers.”
Amy picked up the phone.
She knew what she was.
— 13 —
When she hung up Amy didn’t know whether to smile or to frown.
There’d been no difficulty arranging a meeting after her preliminary apology, so she didn’t anticipate any trouble when she repeated it after her arrival. That was something to smile about.
The problem, and the frown it inspired, rose from the realization that Otto Remsbach was skunk-drunk.
Not that she was afraid; if Bonnie Walton could deal with drunks, so could she. On the other hand, she really hadn’t promised Otto Remsbach that she’d be coming out alone.
She glanced at the door on
the far wall. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go alone. If Eric Dunstable was in his room it shouldn’t be too hard to persuade him to accompany her. What would Bonnie say? Probably tell him Fatso Otto was possessed by evil spirits. Mainly alcoholic ones, but there’d be no need to be that specific.
Amy went into the hall and tapped softly on the upper panel of his door. Tapping gradually became rapping but there was no response.
On the off-chance that he still might be in there sleeping, Amy decided that the best way to rouse him was by phone. She dialed direct and waited, hearing the ring echoing both from the receiver and beyond the wall, but there was no answer.
Where could he be?
A useless question, under the circumstances. A more useful one concerned who else she might get to go with her. Hank Gibbs, perhaps?
Reno had said Gibbs would be at work getting out the paper for tomorrow, but asking him was worth a try. And as in the case of Remsbach, Bonnie Walton would probably advise her to make her request in person rather than just a phone call.
Amy decided to stop by the newspaper office on her way. One trip to the bathroom, one last-minute inspection of hair and makeup, then time to get moving.
The desk clerk gave no indication that she had improved her appearance; he didn’t even bother to look up from his comic as she crossed the lobby to the exit.
It seemed warmer outside now than it had been half an hour ago. The clouds overhead had thickened into a lid clamping down to confine the heat, and the air had the deceptive stillness of water just before it starts to boil.
There would be rain before the night was over, no doubt about it. Instinctively Amy quickened her pace as she made her way to the car.
Main Street was a morgue aside from a few bars where, presumably, wakes were being held. Not just for Terry Dowson but for what had once been a way of life for youngsters in small-town America. Main Street was mourning the passing of its movie house, the bowling alley, the soda parlor. Kids didn’t patronize such places anymore, and neither did their parents.
Rural residents had changed over the years. Today farmers were pudgy, middle-aged men wearing baseball caps and horn-rims; big heads on TV screens complaining about not getting enough rain or getting too much rain. In either case the price of foodstuffs would rise in the fall and they wanted more government subsidies.
These weren’t the kind of people who needed to go to the movies, and neither did their kids. Television was their window on the world; given the circumstances it was difficult to understand how Hank Gibbs could compete with the prime-time nightly news.
But the lights were on in the building fronted by the Fairvale Weekly Herald office. When Amy parked and stepped out of the car she could hear the muffled combination of hum and clatter that serves as a lullaby whenever a paper is put to bed.
Once she entered the office the sound was scarcely soothing, and the accompanying vibrations were more nerve-wracking than the noise.
Amy had opened and closed the door quietly; it was difficult to believe anyone could have heard her come in with all this racket. But he did.
He waddled through the print-shop doorway and peered up at her through the lower hemispheres of his bifocals. That’s when the shouting match began.
“Yes, miss. Something I can do for you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Gibbs.”
“Hank? He ain’t here.”
“You happen to know where I might reach him?”
The man in the leather apron shook his head. “He left about an hour ago. Didn’t say where he was going.”
Amy smiled. “Thank you, Mr.—”
“Homer.” He raised his eyes and his voice simultaneously. “Be back anytime now. You want to leave word?”
“Just tell him Amy Haines stopped by. I’ll phone him tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
They exchanged good nights but Amy’s heart wasn’t in it. As far as she was concerned this wasn’t really a good night—not if she had to go up to Otto Remsbach’s house alone. But at least there was a moment of welcome relief when she escaped from the newspaper office; the noise was bad enough but the vibrations had set her teeth on edge.
It was quieter here on the street. Hot and humid too. She hoped the rain would come quickly now, breaking up the clouds and easing the pressure. Perhaps Gibbs would also be coming soon, but she had no time left to wait for his arrival.
Reluctantly Amy climbed back into the car, switching on ignition and lights, then the air-conditioning. Where could Gibbs have gone this evening? Maybe he’d just stepped out for a bite to eat after getting the press-run started. She probably should have asked Homer if there were any fast-food places open nearby. And while she was at it, she could have asked whether Homer was his first name or his last. Not that it mattered one way or the other, any more than it mattered where Hank Gibbs might be at the moment.
Besides, what was she worrying about? Fatso Otto wasn’t going to attack her, and she didn’t have to worry about being stopped or mugged here on the street. This was Fairvale, remember? Good old Fairvale, U.S.A., where you don’t have to worry about crime and violence.
So who killed Terry Dowson?
And why did Eric Dunstable pick this place to come looking for demons? Because it was so quiet? Because it was so dark?
Ominously quiet and ominously dark, here on the side street slanting up the hillside to the house that stood alone within the semicircle of trees. Tall trees, motionless in the sweltering still of the clouded night.
Amy made a right turn which took her into the driveway, then braked quickly. There was something wrong about the imposing two-story house looming ahead, the red-brick house with the white wooden pillars flanking the entryway. If not wrong, at least odd or peculiar.
There were eight windows visible from the angle at which she was approaching—four upper and four lower—but not one of them was lighted from within. Gazing ahead, Amy noted the ornate iron grill-work supporting the two outside lamps on either side of the double-paneled front door. At least these should be lit in expectation of a guest’s arrival, but both were dark.
Dark night, dark trees, dark house. Amy switched foot pressure from the brake to the gas pedal, gliding along the driveway past the entrance. Common sense told her there was probably nothing wrong here; Fatso Otto was just so bombed he’d forgotten to turn on the lights. In which case there wasn’t much sense trying to talk to him.
But more important than mere common sense was the fact that she was frightened. It was the real reason she had no intention of going into this darkened house alone. What she was going to do was get the hell out of here, right now.
Or almost now. Because as she reached the other side of the driveway she noted its bifurcation; at her right was a stretch of pavement bordering the far side of the house and leading to a garage at the rear. Again she paused, long enough to observe its door was raised and Remsbach’s big Caddy had been parked within.
But what about that other car, that beat-up old red Pontiac standing just outside the garage, facing inward? It certainly couldn’t be Otto Remsbach’s second car, not a junker like that. And if it belonged to another guest why wasn’t it parked in the outer driveway? Unless, of course, the purpose was to conceal its presence from anyone passing by on the street.
In which case somebody had been careless and left the car radio on. The music was clearly audible, probably loud enough to be heard from the street. Of course it was possible that the driver had just entered the car, turned on the radio, and was preparing to leave. Highly possible; what Amy had failed to note at first glance was that the Pontiac’s headlights were on, and it was their beams which had so clearly revealed the presence of Remsbach’s car in the opened garage.
Amy waited for a moment, ready to reverse if the Pontiac started to back out of the side driveway. The car didn’t move, but the lights stayed on and the music continued to sound. Had the driver left it like that and gone into the house?
Amy peered down the d
riveway, focusing on the shadowy blur vaguely visible beyond the Pontiac’s rear window. The car was occupied; someone was sitting behind the wheel. And something was wrong.
Amy switched off her lights, turned the key in the ignition, then dropped it into her purse as she left the car and walked up the driveway along the far side of the house. The air was stifling still; the calm before the storm. It had to come soon.
As she moved up to the left side of the Pontiac the blare grew louder from behind the glass and the seated shape became more distinct.
Only the figure wasn’t seated; it was slumped forward over the wheel. Was the driver drunk, ill, passed out from the heat?
Amy tapped the window glass, her nails counterpointing the car radio’s raucous rhythm. There was no response, so she added a vocal accompaniment. “Hey—anything wrong? Open up—”
Still no answer. Something was definitely wrong, and Amy reached down to grip the handle below the closed window. The door swung wide, releasing a blast of sound and a blur of moving shadow.
She must have been partially leaning against the door because when it opened she fell sideways, to land face upward on the pavement. In the shadow cast by the car her features were indistinct and Amy frowned for a moment before recognition came. Yesterday’s meeting had been brief but she remembered the name.
It was Doris Huntley.
Doris Huntley, lying there with eyes wide open, head cradled by a swirl of blond hair. She wore a dark dress, its exact color indeterminate in the shadows, and a pendant necklace.
As Amy looked down the lightning came, flashing from above and behind and only for an instant, but that was long enough. Enough to reveal that Doris Huntley wore no necklace. The beads were blood, trickling from the crimson slash encircling her throat.
Amy’s gasp was lost in the roar as thunder came. Then something touched her shoulder. Turning, she stared into the face of Sheriff Engstrom.
