by Robert Bloch
“When they finally discovered what Norman had done over and above the call of duty, it was too late for Archer to do anything except condemn himself for not ever coming forward with his suspicions. I needn’t tell you what the man has gone through in the years that followed.”
“He hated Norman?”
Steiner shook his head. “He hated what Norman did to Fairvale and its reputation. He hated the notoriety he felt would follow Otto Remsbach’s plans to rebuild the house and the Bates Motel as a tourist attraction.”
“Enough for him to kill Remsbach?”
“Enough for him to make every effort that might prevent Remsbach’s plans from going through.” Dr. Steiner’s brow furrowed to betoken the thought behind it. “I’d say he was highly motivated, determined, perhaps obsessed to the point of fanaticism—but I’d draw the line at describing him as murderous. What I saw this afternoon was a sorrowing and deeply disturbed man.”
“Where was he last night?” Amy asked.
“He doesn’t know.” Steiner shrugged. “Amnesic fugue. Could be triggered by emotional distress. It happens.”
“It happened to Norman.” Amy paused. “Could Archer—”
Steiner gestured before she could continue. “We’re talking about an elderly diabetic.”
“I know this may sound foolish, but isn’t there such a thing as maniacal strength?”
“Rubbish.” Steiner’s smile softened his reply. “You might as well suggest I got up out of this wheelchair and sneaked off to commit those murders myself.”
“Anything is possible.” Amy could smile too. “Adam Claiborne almost did you in with just one hand.”
“True,” Steiner said. “I should have been more cautious. I was supposed to have a male nurse standing by but he went to the washroom. You might call it a security leak.”
He chuckled, then sobered. “Wasn’t so funny at the time.”
“What reason did Dr. Claiborne have for attacking you?”
Steiner’s voice was very sober now. “Because of my own stupidity. I ought never to have gotten into a discussion about the Grand Opening plans for the Bates place.”
Amy nodded. “You’re saying he took all this personally?”
“Very.” Steiner paused reflectively. “I should’ve remembered something he told me in one of our early sessions. ‘Norman Bates will never die.’ And in a way, of course, he didn’t. Because there was part of Claiborne therapy never reached; a part that still believed he was Norman.”
“Maybe he was.”
Dr. Steiner glanced up quickly. “You’re not serious—”
“Eric Dunstable is.”
“The self-styled demonologist?”
“I take it you know about him.”
“Bits and pieces. Not enough.” Steiner leaned forward. “I’d appreciate hearing more.”
He listened intently as Amy recited her contacts with Dunstable from the first momentary meeting in Chicago up until their most recent encounter a few hours ago. “So according to his theory Norman did live on through Dr. Claiborne and has taken possession of someone else after his death.”
“His theory?” Steiner’s right hand rose in a gesture of dismissal. “Demonic possession is one of the oldest and most widespread concepts in human history.”
“Does that mean you believe in it?”
“Quite the contrary. No amount of age or faith transforms fantasy into reality. Stop and think. There was a time, up until a few centuries ago, when it was generally accepted that the mentally ill were possessed by demons. Today we’re starting to believe there may be a physiological basis for certain types of schizophrenia—evil organisms instead of evil spirits. For all we know demons may turn out to be just molecules in a DNA chain.”
“That’s not what Dunstable believes,” Amy said. “He’s convinced that Norman lives on.”
“And must be exorcised.” Steiner frowned. “Did he mention any details about the ritual he had in mind?”
“Not directly.” Amy tapped the point of her pen against the page beneath it. “I remember something he did say, though. ‘Words banish. Water purifies. Fire cleanses.’ ”
“Mean anything to you?”
“He told me about stealing holy water from the church. My guess would be he needed it as part of the ceremony.”
“That sounds logical.” Steiner nodded. “And I assume that the words he refers to would be in the form of invocation and prayer. Fire probably involves the lighting of candles.”
“He wasn’t specific about that.”
Dr. Steiner frowned. “Where is Eric Dunstable?”
“I don’t know,” Amy said.
But now, of course, she did.
— 22 —
Steiner had a sandwich and coffee in his room.
The sandwich was hard to chew, the coffee difficult to swallow. The same applied to much of what he’d been thinking and hearing about this Bates business. Hard to chew over some of the facts, difficult to swallow some of the fantasies.
Or even to separate one from the other. He certainly didn’t believe everything he’d heard. Some people aren’t on speaking terms with the truth.
On the other hand, who was he to expect anything better? Most of us want more than we deserve. “Help—I’m drowning! Throw me a yacht!”
Perhaps he was being presumptuous. There was no reason to assume that those he’d spoken with could differentiate between the real and the false. The parade is endless, the crowds cheer, and the Emperor strides naked through the streets.
So much for rock-lyric philosophy.
If he really wanted to come to grips with this problem it might be necessary to invent a philosophy of his own. Or at least make use of what he’d developed over a lifetime of professional practice. Not that practice makes perfect; but the best course for him now was to be professional. In which case his philosophy was simple enough.
People wear masks to hide behind from others. Sometimes they wear masks to hide from themselves. And his job was to remove those masks.
Steiner pushed himself back, away from the food tray on the table-top, away from the lamplight and into the shadows. Closing his eyes he evoked images behind the lowered lids.
Masks. Two masks—Comedy and Tragedy. Who wore them, and why? And which other disguises did they don, the people involved in this affair?
Hank Gibbs wore Comedy, Dick Reno’s wife affected Tragedy. What did they conceal? He knew what was under Reverend Archer’s mask of piety, but wasn’t certain he could recognize the real Engstrom behind the false face of authority.
Dick Reno? He wore a half mask that only half concealed the bitterness beneath. And that ex-wife of his, Sandy Oliver; she too wore a domino, though it didn’t prevent the violence in her eyes from blazing through.
Masks. Sometimes they slipped in moments of stress, sometimes they were ripped off in rage. Wearing them permanently was an art that few could master. But of course there were physical aids; cosmetics and cosmetic surgery, beards and mustaches for men, eyeglasses for both sexes.
He remembered Amy’s description of Eric Dunstable. Beard, mustache, glasses—he had them all. Plus the twitch. Symbolic, of course. Demonologists wear death masks.
Now he wondered what lay under that particular mask. Was it too good to be true, or just too bad to be true?
And why was it being worn?
He slipped the forefinger of his right hand beneath the scarf to trace a gentle semicircle around his bruised and tender neck. Nicholas Steiner, M.D. Was the degree a mask in itself? Was he hiding something just like the others, Archer, Gibbs, Reno, Pitkin—
Charlie Pitkin. He’d forgotten about prim and proper Pitkin, with the corners of his mouth turned down even when he smiled. The mask of Tragedy. But in Pitkin’s case, it wasn’t a mask.
Then he knew.
— 23 —
Amy left the hospital as darkness deepened in the parking lot and clouds converged overhead. The night air was chill and still; the calm bef
ore the storm.
But Amy wasn’t calm, hadn’t been since she’d realized what Eric Dunstable must have in mind. Or had. Perhaps by now she was already too late.
That’s why she’d terminated her visit with Dr. Steiner so abruptly. She tried to appear calm then because there was no sense alarming him; all he could do was sit in his wheelchair and stew. But she made no effort to conceal her concern when she called Hank Gibbs from the hospital lobby.
“Has anything happened?” she said.
“I just finished my interview session. How did yours go?”
“That’s not important now. Did any news come in? Anything about the Bates place?”
“Not to my knowledge. Why should there be?”
“Have you seen Eric Dunstable this afternoon?”
“No.” Gibbs’ voice conveyed concern. “Slow down, Amy. Tell me what this is all about.”
She told him, but not slowly. Not slowly and not calmly because there wasn’t time. “When Dunstable mentioned using fire in exorcism, I thought he was talking about lighting candles. But now it hit me—maybe he believes the demons came from the Bates place. And he’s just flaky enough to exorcise them by burning it down. Or am I crazy too?”
“I don’t think so,” Gibbs said. “Did you call Engstrom?”
“Not yet. I was thinking about the fire department too.”
“Let me ask Engstrom; maybe he can lean on them to take a run-by, just in case. I’ll wait for you here at the office.”
“No,” Amy said. “I’m going out there now. Dunstable doesn’t trust anyone but I think he’ll listen to me.”
“Stay away! Suppose something happens—”
“What kind of a question is that for a newspaperman to ask?”
“All right. I’ll meet you there. Half an hour?”
“Okay.” She prepared to hang up but the voice from the receiver forestalled her.
“One more thing,” Gibbs said. “If by any chance you arrive ahead of me or Engstrom, for God’s sake don’t go looking for him alone.”
“Right.”
And that was it, or almost so. One of the reasons Amy used a notebook was because she couldn’t recall conversations verbatim. Even her own past thoughts were paraphrased unless taken down at the moment of inception. Since she’d promised Dr. Steiner she wouldn’t write during their meeting there were things he’d told her, things she’d told herself, that were already forgotten. What exactly had Steiner said about the psychological equivalents of demonic possession? And why had he said nothing at all when she described Eric Dunstable and the way he impressed her?
Never mind. Concentrate on trying to remember the route back to the freeway, getting dark now so better switch on the lights, make sure you’re not on brights, should have had that damned air conditioner checked the other day, open the window and get a little air, here’s the turnoff sign for the on-ramp, didn’t realize rush-hour traffic was this heavy around here.
It’s almost as bad as the expressway to O’Hare back home, bumper-to-bumper, just crawling. What’s the matter with these people, where did they call come from, where are they going? Don’t tell me there’s some kind of accident up ahead.
Yes, that’s got to be it, all those lights. And everyone trying to inch into the left lane. There it is, flares on the pavement, man in uniform swinging a flashlight. Brown uniform, different hat, not like one of Engstrom’s people, must be Highway Patrol.
What happened here? Two cars piled on shoulder, white van behind, probably paramedics. That awful smell. Don’t look, don’t try to look, he’s waving you on with the flashlight, keeping going, keep your eyes on the road. Moving faster now, clearing up ahead. Get out of this mess, get away from that smell. Gasoline. Maybe one of the cars caught fire.
Was I right about Dunstable? I hope not.
Quit lying to yourself, part of you hopes not but part of you doesn’t, that’s why you want out from this damned crawl-along traffic because if anything did happen, if anything is happening, you don’t want to miss it. This could be the big chance, the big break, hello Geraldo, good-bye to crummy apartments forever.
Really dark now. Turnoff ahead, not far, right fork or left? Why did you leave the county map at the hotel, dummy? Try to visualize it. Got to be left, right leads to the swamp, swamp leads to discovery of car, car leads to discovery of Mary Crane’s corpse inside, corpse leads to shower, shower leads to motel room, motel room leads to Norman Bates waiting, waiting for someone to come down the side road in the storm then just as she was coming down that road now.
Then and now.
One and the same. Or almost the same. Then it was raining, now it was going to rain. Both times rain, the corpse was Crane’s and she was Haines. Also an idiot for allowing herself to pollute her stream of consciousness this way.
No stream outside yet, not even a drizzle, just mist. Better clear the windshield. Blades squeak. Blades, swooping back and forth, up and down. Stop them, stop thinking like that, the windshield’s clear and you’ve got to clear your mind of all that.
It wasn’t easy, but Amy managed. Moving through the mist, feeling the tremor as she peered ahead. Was it fear, excitement, or just anticipation? Perhaps all three, plus a surge of anxiety when a curve in the road brought her destination into view.
The low outline of the motel loomed beyond and to the right. Behind it on the slope, the house raised a rooftop against a clouded sky. No lights shone from the windows of either structure, and there was no hint of flame.
Amy’s sigh of relief was augmented as she caught side of Hank Gibbs’ car parked near the motel entrance. Then vision blurred as her windshield misted over again. It would be raining soon now.
As she turned into the driveway that circled past the entrance Amy signaled her arrival with the horn. Unnecessarily, of course, because he could see the headlights.
Or could he? The beam swept forward, moving across the car ahead and revealing no occupant.
Nobody behind the wheel. And no sign of anyone from the Sheriff’s Department. Which meant Gibbs had come alone. Had he gone inside too?
Judging from the phone conversation, he’d expected she would arrive first, but neither of them could foresee her delay on the freeway. Still it was only logical he’d wait for her to get there before going in. Unless something had happened.
Amy braked, horn blasting as she halted.
Then she waited, motor running, windshield wipers working, apprehension mounting.
The wipers screeched. She leaned on the horn again, staring out into the mist that shrouded the empty windows and dark door of the motel. Nothing stirred except for a swirl of rising fog.
Now she glanced ahead, switching on the brights to bring the outline of the house into better focus against the foggy slope and solemn sky. Still no sign of light in the windows, no sign of life anywhere.
Once more Amy used the horn. If Gibbs had gone into the house for any reason he should still be able to hear the racket she was making; the sound of this horn was loud enough to wake the dead.
To wake the dead—
Abruptly Amy lifted her hand. Then she switched off the lights and wipers, cut the motor, dropped the car keys into her purse, opened the door, and stepped out into the mist-chilled night.
As she moved forward her voice rose. “Hank! Where are you?” Her cry brought no echo from the fog; no echo and no response.
Amy came up along the right-hand side of Gibbs’s car, gazing through its windows, dreading what she might see.
Nothing.
Nothing except for the key still lodged in the ignition. What did that indicate—absentmindedness or sudden need for haste? And if the latter, where had he gone?
No answer. Nothing but silence. Dead silence.
Turning, she glanced again at the motel; its office windows dark, its door closed, or nearly so.
Nearly? Amy blinked, then stared again.
The office door was ajar.
Suppose that was the answer? Suppose
Hank Gibbs had gone inside because he was there?
Amy started across the driveway, calling softly as she neared the door. “Hank—?”
No response came.
But the door was ajar, her purse open, the cigarette lighter was in her right hand. The left zipped the purse shut, then pulled the door outward.
Beyond the threshold was the darkness, darkness that the glow of her lighter could pierce but not dispel. And if there was anything within that darkness, the lighter was scarcely an adequate weapon.
Fire cleanses.
Taking a deep breath, Amy thumbed the lighter, then hastily extinguished the flame. Because now she could smell the odor, just as she had on the freeway. But this time the reek of gasoline rose from within the room before her.
“Eric!”
Her shout rose; no sense in silence, no hope in hiding. The odor told her who it was and what he was doing; what he must have done when Hank surprised him.
“Eric—stop!”
But there was no stopping now for her as she moved into the silence and the shadows. Shadow of the reception desk, shadow of the wax figure on the pedestal, shadow on the floor.
Amy swerved just in time to avoid colliding with what lay there, sprawled facedown.
Her scream broke the silence. As she backed away against the countertop, her elbow struck the bell. Then everything seemed to happen at once.
The bell sounded.
She turned to face the counter.
From somewhere behind her a glimmer of light flashed across the open doorway.
The pivot revolved, revealing the figure atop the pedestal.
“Welcome to the Bates Motel,” the taped voice said, and Norman faced Amy with a waxen grin of greeting.
But the knife came from behind her.
— 24 —
The knife that hurtled past Amy’s head buried itself in the wall, but the revolver of the uniformed man in the doorway behind her found its target.
The uniformed man was the red-haired, skinny sheriff’s deputy named Al.
Amy was properly grateful. Though, given a choice, she would have preferred that her rescuer had been Dick Reno.
