Three Complete Novels (Psycho, Psycho II, and Psycho House)

by Robert Bloch

  Jan broke off, conscious that the line was dead. Vizzini had hung up and there was only a buzzing.

  As she replaced the receiver the buzzing faded, but now there was another sound—softer, and from a different source.

  Someone was crying.

  Jan went to the window. The fog billowed against the pane, shrouding the hillside beyond. Here, neither shape nor shadow stirred, but the crying continued, faint and forlorn.

  A child, lost in the fog?

  She opened the front door, peering out. The light at the corner was barely visible, and there was no sound here, only a chill stillness.

  Damn Vizzini—it was his fault, getting her all shook up over nothing. That was what he said: nothing. Then why had he called? Disregard the changes, he told her. But the changes were mimeoed at the studio, which meant someone had okayed them, or else why send them up by special messenger? Too much was happening—that business about the fire and what Claiborne had said about seeing Norman Bates—no wonder she was flipping out, hearing things.

  And while she was at it, damn Connie too. Why couldn’t she stay home nights at least once in a while, instead of leaving her all alone like this? Right now, Jan felt the need of someone’s presence, anyone’s. Maybe if she called Roy—

  As she closed and locked the front door, she heard the phone ringing.

  Telepathy?

  No, because it wasn’t Roy. Lifting the receiver, she found herself talking to Adam Claiborne.

  “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “I just thought I’d check and see if you got the new pages.”

  “Yes, I have them.”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  She told him about Vizzini’s call.

  “You mean he’s not going to use the changes?” Claiborne sounded disturbed, and that disturbed her, too.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Won’t anybody level with me?”

  Claiborne didn’t reply for a moment. Then, “It’s rather involved—”

  “So am I,” Jan told him. “Completely involved.” She stared into the grey world beyond the window. “Look, if you’re not busy, why don’t you come by for a drink?”

  Again he hesitated, and it was Jan who broke the silence. “Please. I’ve got to know.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  And that was that.

  But not entirely. Because when she hung up and started down the hall into the kitchen, Jan heard the crying again.

  It seemed louder here, and as she moved forward the sound held a note of urgency that impelled her to the back door.

  Opening it, she saw the kitten.

  The tiny yellow bundle of fur rested on the doorstep, staring up at her with topaz eyes. She picked it up; almost weightless, the kitten snuggled against her arm and the mewing modulated into a purr of pleasure.

  “Where’d you come from, kitty? Are you lost?”

  “Rao.”

  The smoky green eyes regarded her gravely, but now she sensed a shudder rippling across the moist flanks.

  “Poor baby, you’re all wet—”

  Jan closed the door and carried the kitten over to the sink. Taking a dishtowel from the rack, she rubbed it gently over the damp curlicues of fur. Gradually the shivering subsided.

  “There, that’s better.” She let the towel drop to the sink top. “Are you hungry?”

  “Rao.”

  “Okay, let’s see what we can do about that.”

  Jan put the kitten down on the linoleum. It rested there motionless, but the little green eyes followed her movements as she opened the refrigerator and brought out a carton of milk. Taking a saucer from the cupboard, Jan filled it full and placed it on the floor beside her waiting guest.

  And then her other guest arrived.

  At the sound of the chimes she hurried through the hall to the living room, but this time she switched on the outside light and peered through the peephole to identify her caller. Then she swung the door open, admitting a wave of clammy dampness and Adam Claiborne.

  “You made good time,” she said.

  “The motel’s just down the hill, in Ventura.” He glanced toward the window. “But I almost got lost—couldn’t even make out the street signs. No wonder you don’t want to be alone up here.”

  “I’m not alone,” Jan told him. “I have a visitor.”

  She led him into the kitchen and they halted in the doorway. The kitten crouched beside the saucer, its pink tongue lapping lazily at the last drops of milk.

  Claiborne smiled. “Friend of yours?”

  “I hope so. She turned up at the back door a few minutes ago.”

  “She?” Claiborne stared down at the fluffy figure. “How can you be sure of its sex?”

  “Feminine intuition.” Jan went over and scooped the kitten up into her arms. “All right, baby, you’ve had your drink. Now it’s our turn.”

  “Rao.”

  It nestled contentedly against her as she led Claiborne back into the living room, and when she started to put it down, the tiny claws curled into the folds of her sweater. Jan tried to disengage its hold, but the kitten clung fast.

  “Come on, give me a break,” she murmured.

  “Never mind.” Claiborne went over to the bar. “I’ll do the honors. Scotch and rocks?”

  “Super.”

  Jan settled on the sofa while he fixed their drinks, stroking the kitten as it purred. Her fingers found the warm flesh beneath the wisps of fur and she marveled at the softness of its skin. Under the thin texture one could actually feel the purr vibrating through the inner organs. How fragile it was!

  Almost instinctively her free hand went to her own throat, touching the pulse beating there. As it throbbed beneath her fingertips, she marveled anew. Why, were all like that. So vulnerable. This fraction of an inch covering our flesh is our only protection. And if it were to burst, or be cut, here at the artery—

  “Penny.”

  She looked up as Claiborne held a glass out to her.

  “What?”

  “For your thoughts.”

  “Oh.” She reached for her drink and shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Make it a nickel. I keep forgetting about inflation.” He lowered himself beside her on the sofa. The kitten blinked and disengaged its claws. Scampering down onto the rug, it curled up at her feet.

  Claiborne turned to Jan. “That gesture you made just now—what were you thinking about?”

  “Mary Crane.”

  She didn’t consciously intend to say it, and until the words came out she hadn’t even realized it was true.

  “What about her?”

  “Not her. Me.” Jan nodded self-consciously, avoiding his intent gaze. “It’s one of those professional things, I suppose. As you get familiar with a role, you start to identify with the character.”

  “Don’t.”

  She met his eyes, and he wasn’t smiling now. “But I should, really, if I’m going to play the part.”

  “Don’t.”

  Jan raised her glass and drank, but as the scotch went down, resentment rose. Damn it, he’d seemed so nice when he came in that she’d almost forgotten his hangup about the picture. But this time, she promised herself, she wasn’t going to lose her temper.

  “Please.” She kept her voice and expression under control. “We’ve been through this number before. Just because I told you Vizzini isn’t going to make those changes—”

  “There’s more to it than that,” Claiborne said. “Something happened this afternoon.”

  She sat back, sipping her drink as he began to talk. About meting Vizzini, and how he looked like Norman Bates. About seeing Roy and going to Driscoll, hearing his explanation of the fire and his own reservations about Vizzini.

  Jan listened in silence until he finished. “Is that all?” she asked.

  Claiborne’s eyebrows arched. “Isn’t it enough?”

  She lowered her glass. “Maybe it’s too much.”

  “Look, if you don’t believe me,
ask Roy Ames.”

  “Just what am I supposed to believe? First you tell me Norman is alive, now you say he’s dead and Vizzini started the fire.”

  “I’m not sure about Norman, and I’ve no hard proof of Vizzini’s responsibility. But one thing’s certain. He does identify with Norman Bates, and that’s why I warned you about identifying with Mary Crane.”

  Jan reached down to pet the kitten as it rubbed against her ankle. “I identify with kitty here, too. And with all sorts of people, all sorts of things. Maybe because I’m an actress—”

  “Most of us tend to identify, to a degree.”

  “Most of us?” Jan straightened. “But not shrinks, I suppose. They’re above such weaknesses.”

  “Rao.” The kitten nodded in seeming approval.

  But Claiborne frowned. “Stop beating me over the head with a label,” he said. “Shrinks aren’t above or below anything. It’s just that experience tells us complete identification with anyone, whether it’s Jesus Christ or Adolf Hitler, is dangerous. We can still empathize, though, and relate—”

  Jan’s eyes challenged. “And just who do you relate to?”

  “Everyone.” Claiborne shrugged. “At least, I try to. Norman, of course—I share his resentment of confinement and restraint. I understand Marty Driscoll’s drive for success because there’s a little of that in me too. I can see Roy Ames’s position as a writer trying to tell it like it is; I wanted to tell the truth about Norman in a book.”

  As she listened, Jan found herself recalling the other evening here with Claiborne, and her own sudden unexpected surge of feeling. Seeing him now, she felt the same reaction starting to build; it wasn’t what he was saying, but the sound of his voice as he said it. This wasn’t professional put-on, he really wanted her to understand, just as she wanted to reassure him that she did. It was all she could do to restrain herself from reaching out in response, reaching out physically—

  She checked the impulse quickly. Words were safer. “Paul Morgan?” she said.

  Claiborne nodded. “I don’t like what he does—the petty cruelty, the autograffiti thing. But I can share his insecurity, the doubts about one’s self-image. And the same with Vizzini. Perhaps even more so. I know what it’s like to be an orphan.”

  “You?”

  His voice was soft. “Yes. I don’t know who my parents were, or my real name. The only difference is that I didn’t run away from the orphanage.” He paused. “When you told me about your kid sister, it hit home. For all I know, my mother was in the same bind, and your sister’s baby and I are twins.”

  Claiborne looked up at her with a smile. “Are you beginning to see what I mean? You don’t have to completely identify in order to relate; if you just look deeply enough, you’ll find something of yourself in everyone.”

  Jan nodded. “That’s exactly how I feel about Mary Crane. Only it’s closer, somehow, because there’s the physical resemblance too. Sometimes I can’t help thinking that if I play the part right, it could almost be like bringing her back to life again—”

  “Even if it means ending your own?”

  He leaned toward Jan, taking her hand. His voice deepened. “I know how much this means to you. But it’s only a role, just remember that. Mary Crane is dead and you’re alive. What happens to you is what’s important now.”

  She met his gaze, and his eyes told her more than his words. He cares. He really does care. She could feel the warmth and pressure of his fingers, the throb of his pulse matching hers. He was turning her on and that was good, because it turned off the thoughts. Even though she’d kept her cool, the fear was there and she didn’t want to think about it. Maybe he was right and she was wrong, but what did it matter? What mattered was here and now, the touching and the throbbing. That was what she wanted, that was what she needed, because it was real.

  Jan moved into his arms, eyes closing, mouth seeking and opening against his own, and now their bodies were touching and throbbing together, soft fingertips grazing hard nipples, hips arching as hands went to her waist—

  And thrust her away.

  She opened her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Jan, listen to me.” His voice was gentle. “I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t help. Your safety is what matters, not just the threat to your career. Buying me off like this won’t solve anything.”

  She rose quickly. Startled, the kitten sprang to its feet, stubby tail curling.

  “Buying you off? Why, you smug bastard—”

  “I’m sorry.” He was rising, facing her. “I didn’t mean it that way. You know I want you. But not like this, on these terms—”

  The impact of her hand against his cheek halted him. “Terms? You’re the one who’s making terms. But not anymore. Just get the hell out. Out of here, out of my life!”

  Jan turned, striding to the front door, and flung it wide. The kitten was mewing in fright somewhere on the floor below, but she couldn’t see it.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Claiborne said. “You’ve got to realize—”

  The sound of his voice blurred; everything blurred as he came toward her across the room. Sensing that he wanted to touch her, she edged back.

  “No—get out!”

  His hand fell and he moved past her. Then she slammed the door and leaned against it, shaking. It was only when she heard his car start up and pull away that the blurring sensation ebbed and she could see and hear clearly again.

  But now there was nothing to hear, not even the frightened mewing. And as she stared around the living room, there was nothing to see.

  The kitten was gone.

  — 27 —

  Two hours and two scotches later, Jan was still wide awake in her bed.

  Alone, damn him!

  She plumped the pillows, then settled back again. While you’re at it, you might as well damn yourself.

  It was her doing. She was responsible for everything; losing her temper, losing Claiborne, even scaring the kitten out into the fog. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  Only he hadn’t scorned her. All he’d done was tell the truth. She did want him, but that wasn’t her only reason for turning him on; doing so was also a way of turning him off about the picture. Crazy Lady—a good title to describe herself. She must have been crazy not to see that he was really anxious to protect her.

  But from what? Hints and guesses didn’t add up to proof. Was there something more, something he hadn’t told her?

  Maybe Roy would know.

  Switching on the bedlamp, Jan reached for the phone atop the nightstand. She dialed Roy’s number, then listened.

  No answer.

  And no answer to her question.

  She replaced the receiver, turned off the light, pulled the covers back up around her shoulders. Now, oddly enough, she felt relieved that her call hadn’t been completed. Roy would probably just have said the same things, tried to talk her out of doing Crazy Lady. Maybe she was crazy after all, but not that crazy. Unless he and Claiborne came up with something besides conversation, nobody was gong to make her back down. Not after all she’d gone through. Five years. Face it, you’re not getting any younger. This is the heavy trip, so hang in there. You don’t want to end up a nothing, like Connie. Poor Connie . . .

  Poor Connie was having a ball.

  Or was the ball having her?

  It didn’t matter, really. Either way, she was balling. Or about to be balled, as soon as that smartass cameraman stopped fiddling with the focus on her crotch. Probably got his funsies peeking at her, but she was dying here under the lights.

  Dying, but living.

  Because for once nobody was ignoring her. There were seven others in Leo’s rec room, and everyone of them was concentrating on Connie, or some part of Connie. The clown with the hand-held camera had staked out his claim between her legs, the body-makeup girl was rubbing pink goo on her munchies, the klutz handling the lights flooded her face, framed by the black pillowcase. The boom man positioned the mike
above her head, and the sound man squatting behind his controls was concerned with her voice level, and Leo himself—the producer, director, and production designer responsible for erecting this set in his own pad—was eyeballing her approvingly. The sixth person, if you could call that hairy, naked ape a person, was also responsible for some erecting of his own. And when the others finished, he’d begin.

  Okay, so maybe it wasn’t exactly rose-garden time, holed up in a Boyle Heights bungalow to moonlight a porno flick. But who cared?

  I care, that’s who. Me, Connie. Because for once they’re looking at me.

  They were looking at her now, and the audience would be looking at her up on the screen. Not just her hands or feet or ankles, but all of her. So what if the audience was just a bunch of dirty old men with hats on their laps; at least she’d be seen. And nobody was complaining about the size of her boobs or trying to keep her face out of the shots. For this kind of film they could make do with a Japanese sex-doll or even a model of Godzilla, but Leo had picked her personally because he recognized talent when he saw it.

  Connie lay back. They were about to go now. The cameraman nodded at Leo, he waved to the sound engineer, and the ape got ready to haul his banana into the shot on cue.

  “All set, everybody?” Leo said.

  Connie winked at him. Leo was no Marty Driscoll, but it didn’t matter. What mattered what that she was playing the lead in her first feature film.

  The clown who handled the lights stepped forward with his clapper board—a term she hoped was merely a figure of speech. “Scene one, take two,” he told the camera.

  “Speed!” Leo said.

  Connie smiled.

  “Action!”

  Connie spread her legs.

  To hell with Driscoll. She was a star . . .

  Marty Driscoll couldn’t see a star.

  Usually the big glass sliding doors leading onto the patio gave him a magnificent view of the Valley below and the sky above, but tonight nothing was visible outside the den except a solid wall of gray.

  The fog comes on little cat feet—

  And so did the quotation. Driscoll grimaced, wondering just what reaction he’d get if he came up with the line in the presence of coworkers at the studio. Not to wonder, really; he was already quite certain of their response.