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

  Norman found a bottle in the cubbyhole under the counter. It was the second bottle of the three he’d put there over a month ago. That wasn’t bad; just the second bottle. Drinking the first one had gotten him into all this trouble, but it wouldn’t happen that way again. Not now, when he could be sure Mother was safely out of the way. In a little while, when it got dark, he’d see about fixing her some dinner. Maybe tonight they could talk. But right now, he needed this drink. These drinks. The first didn’t really help, but the second did the trick. He was quite relaxed now. Quite relaxed. He could even take a third one if he wanted to.

  And then he wanted to very much, because he saw the car drive in.

  It had nothing to distinguish it from any other car, no out-of-state license or anything like that, but Norman knew right away that they were here. When you’re a psychic sensitive, you can feel the vibrations. And you can feel your heart pound, so you gulp the drink and watch them get out of the car. The man was ordinary looking, and for a moment Norman wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. But then he saw the girl.

  He saw the girl, and he tilted the bottle up—tilted it up to take a hasty swallow and to hide her face at the same time—because it was the girl.

  She’d come back, out of the swamp!

  No. No, she couldn’t. That wasn’t the answer, it couldn’t be. Look at her again. Now, in the light. Her hair wasn’t the same color at all, really; it was brownish blond. And she wasn’t as heavy. But she looked enough like the girl to be her sister.

  Yes, of course. That must be who she was. And it explained everything. This Jane Wilson or whatever her real name was had run away with that money. The detective came after her, and now her sister. That was the answer.

  He knew what Mother would do in a case like this. But thank God he’d never have to run that risk again. All he had to do was stick to his story and they’d go away. Just remember nobody could find anything, nobody could prove anything. And there was nothing to worry about, now that he knew what to expect.

  The liquor had helped. It helped him to stand patiently behind the counter while he waited for them to come in. He could see them talking together outside the office, and that didn’t bother him. He could see the dark clouds coming on out of the west, and that didn’t bother him either. He saw the sky darken as the sun surrendered its splendor. The sun surrendered its splendor—why, it was like poetry; he was a poet; Norman smiled. He was many things. If they only knew—

  But they didn’t know, and they wouldn’t know, and right now he was just a fat, middle-aged motel proprietor who blinked up at the pair of them as they came in and said, “Can I help you?”

  The man came up to the counter. Norman braced himself for the first question, then blinked again when the man didn’t ask it. Instead he was saying, “Could we have a room, please?”

  Norman nodded, unable to answer. Had he made a mistake? But no, now the girl was stepping forward, and she was the sister, no doubt about it.

  “Yes. Would you like to—”

  “No, that’s not necessary. We’re anxious to get into some clean clothes.”

  It was a lie. Their clothing was fresh. But Norman smiled. “All right. It’s ten dollars, double. If you’ll just sign here and pay me now—”

  He pushed the register forward. The man hesitated for a moment, then scribbled. Norman had had long practice when it came to reading names upside down. Mr. and Mrs. Sam Wright. Independence, Mo.

  That was another lie. Wright was wrong. Filthy, stupid liars! They thought they were so clever, coming in here and trying to pull their tricks on him. Well, they’d see!

  The girl was staring at the register now. Not at the name the man had written, but at another one, up on top of the page. Her sister’s name. Jane Wilson, or whatever it was.

  She didn’t think he noticed when she squeezed the man’s arm, but he did.

  “I’ll give you Number one,” Norman said.

  “Where is that?” the girl asked.

  “Down at the end.”

  “How about Number Six?”

  Number Six. Norman remembered now. He’d written it down, as he always did after each signature. Number Six had been the room he’d given the sister, of course. She’d noticed that.

  “Number Six is up at this end,” he said. “But you wouldn’t want that. The fan’s broken.”

  “Oh, we won’t need a fan. Storm’s coming up, it’ll cool in a hurry.”

  Liar. “Besides, six is our lucky number. We were married on the sixth of this month,” Dirty, filthy liar.

  Norman shrugged. “All right,” he said.

  And it was all right. Now that he thought it over, it was even better than all right. Because if that’s the way the liars were going to play it, if they weren’t going to come out with any questions but just sneak around, then Number Six was ideal. He didn’t have to worry about them finding anything in there. And he could keep an eye on them. Yes, he could keep an eye on them. Perfect!

  So he took the key and he escorted them next door to Number Six. It was only a few steps, but already the wind had come up and it felt chilly there in the twilight. He unlocked the unit while the man brought out a bag. One ridiculous little bag, all the way from Independence. Nasty, rotten liars!

  He opened the door and they stepped in. “Will there be anything else?” he asked.

  “No, we’re all right now, thank you.”

  Norman closed the door. He went back to the office and took another drink. A congratulatory drink. This was going to be even easier than he’d dreamed. It was going to be easy as pie.

  Then he tilted the license in its frame and stared through the crack into the bathroom of Number Six.

  They weren’t occupying it, of course; they were in the bedroom beyond. But he could hear them moving around, and once in a while he caught muffled phrases of their conversation. The two of them were searching for something. What it was he couldn’t imagine. Judging from what he overheard, they weren’t even sure, themselves.

  “. . . help if we knew what we were looking for.” The man’s voice.

  And then, the girl’s. “. . . anything happened, there’d be something he overlooked. I’m sure of it. Crime laboratories you read about . . . always little clues . . .”

  Man’s voice again. “But we’re not detectives. I still think . . . better to talk to him . . . come right out, frighten him into admitting . . .”

  Norman smiled. They weren’t going to frighten him into anything. Any more than they were going to find anything. He’d been over that room thoroughly, from top to bottom. There were no telltale signs of what had happened, not the tiniest stain of blood, not a single hair.

  Her voice, coming closer now. “. . . understand? If we only could find something to go on, then we’d be able to scare him so that he’d talk.”

  She was walking into the bathroom now, and he was following her. “With any kind of evidence at all we could make the Sheriff come out. The State Police do that kind of laboratory work, don’t they?”

  He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, watching her as she examined the sink. “Look, how clean everything is! I tell you, we’d better talk to him. It’s our only chance.”

  She had stepped out of Norman’s field of vision. She was looking into the shower stall now, he could hear the curtains swishing back.

  The little bitch, she was just like her sister, she had to go into the shower. Well, let her. Let her and be damned!

  “. . . not a sign . . .”

  Norman wanted to laugh out loud. Of course there wasn’t a sign! He waited for her to step out of the shower stall, but she didn’t reappear. Instead he heard a sudden thumping noise.

  “What are you doing?”

  It was the man who asked the question, but Norman echoed it. What was she doing?

  “Just reaching around in back here, behind the stall. You never know . . . Sam. Look! I’ve found something!”

  She was standing in front of the mirror again,
holding something in her hand. What was it, what had the little bitch found?

  “Sam it’s an earring. One of Mary’s earrings!”

  “Are you sure?”

  No, it couldn’t be the other earring. It couldn’t be.

  “Of course it’s one of hers. I ought to know. I gave them to her myself, for her birthday, last year. There’s a custom jeweler who runs a little hole-in-the wall shop in Dallas. He specializes in making up individual pieces—just one of a kind, you know. I had him do these for her. She thought it was terribly extravagant of me, but she loved them.”

  He was holding the earring under the light now, staring at it as she spoke.

  “She must have knocked it off when she was taking her shower and it fell over in back of the stall. Unless something else happ— Sam, what’s the matter?”

  “I’m afraid something did happen, Lila. Do you see this? Looks to me like dried blood.”

  “Oh—no!”

  “Yes. Lila, you were right.”

  The bitch. They were all bitches. Listen to her, now.

  “Sam, we’ve got to get into that house. We’ve got to.”

  “That’s a job for the Sheriff.”

  “He wouldn’t believe us, even if we showed him this. He’d say she fell, bumped her head in the shower, something like that.”

  “Maybe she did.”

  “Do you really believe that, Sam? Do you?”

  “No.” He sighed. “I don’t. But it still isn’t proof that Bates had anything to do with—whatever did happen here. It’s up to the Sheriff to find out more.”

  “But he won’t do anything, I know he won’t! We’d have to have something that would really convince him, something from the house. I know we could find something there.”

  “No. Too dangerous.”

  “Then let’s find Bates, show this to him. Maybe we can make him talk.”

  “Yes, and maybe we can’t. If he is involved, do you think he’s just going to break down and confess? The smartest thing to do is go after the Sheriff, right now.”

  “What if Bates is suspicious? If he sees us leave, he might run away.”

  “He doesn’t suspect us, Lila. But if you’re worried, we could just put through a call—”

  “The phone is in the office. He’d hear us.” Lila paused for a moment. “Listen, Sam. Let me go after the Sheriff. You stay here and talk to Bates.”

  “And accuse him?”

  “Certainly not! Just go in and talk to him while I leave. Tell him I’m running into town to go to the drugstore, tell him anything, just so he doesn’t get alarmed and stays put. Then we can be sure of things.”

  “Well—”

  “Give me the earring, Sam.”

  The voices faded, because they were going back into the other room. The voices faded, but the words remained. The man was staying here while she went and got the Sheriff. That’s the way it was going to be. And he couldn’t stop her. If Mother was here, she’d stop her. She’d stop them both. But Mother wasn’t here. She was locked up in the fruit cellar.

  Yes, and if that little bitch showed the Sheriff the bloody earring, he’d come back and look for Mother. Even if he didn’t find her in the cellar, he might get an idea. For twenty years now he hadn’t even dreamed the truth, but he might, now. He might do the one thing Norman had always been afraid he’d do. He might find out what really happened the night Uncle Joe Considine died.

  There were more sounds coming from next door. Norman adjusted the license frame hastily; he reached for the bottle again. But there was not time to take another drink, not now. Because he could hear the door slam, they were coming out of Number Six, she was going to the car and he was walking in here.

  He turned to face the man, wondering what he was going to say.

  But even more, he was wondering what the Sheriff would do. The Sheriff could go up to Fairvale Cemetery and open Mother’s grave. And when he opened it, when he saw the empty coffin, then he’d know the real secret.

  He’d know that Mother was alive.

  There was a pounding in Norman’s chest, a pounding that was drowned out by the first rumble of thunder as the man opened the door and came in.

  — 14 —

  For a moment Sam hoped that the sudden thunder would muffle the sound of the car starting in the driveway. Then, he noticed that Bates was standing at the end of the counter. From that position he could see the entire driveway and a quarter of a mile up the road. So there was no sense trying to ignore Lila’s departure.

  “Mind if I come in for a few minutes?” Sam asked. “Wife’s taking a little ride into town. She’s fresh out of cigarettes.”

  “Used to have a machine here,” Bates answered. “But there wasn’t enough call for them, so they yanked it out.” He peered over Sam’s shoulder, gazing off into the dusk, and Sam knew he was watching the car move onto the highway. “Too bad she has to go all that way. Looks as if it’s going to be raining pretty hard in a few minutes.”

  “Get much rain around here?” Sam sat down on the arm of a battered sofa.

  “Quite a bit.” Bates nodded vaguely. “We get all kinds of things around here.”

  What did he mean by that remark? Sam peered up at him in the dim light. The eyes behind the fat man’s glasses seemed vacant. Suddenly Sam caught the telltale whiff of alcohol, and at the same moment he noticed the bottle standing at the edge of the counter. That was the answer: Bates was a little bit drunk. Just enough to immobilize his expression, but not enough to affect his awareness. He caught Sam looking at the whiskey bottle.

  “Care for a drink?” he was asking. “Just about to pour a little one for myself when you came in.”

  Sam hesitated. “Well—”

  “Find you a glass. There’s one under here someplace.” He bent behind the counter, emerged holding a shot-glass. “Don’t generally bother with them, myself. Don’t generally take a drink when I’m on duty, either. But with the damp coming on, a little something helps, particularly if you have rheumatism the way I do.”

  He filled the shot-glass, pushed it forward on the counter. Sam rose and walked over to it.

  “Besides, there won’t be any more customers coming along in this rain. Look at it come down!”

  Sam turned. It was raining hard, now; he couldn’t see more than a few feet up the road in the downpour. It was getting quite dark, too, but Bates made no movement to switch on any lights.

  “Go ahead, take your drink and sit down,” Bates said. “Don’t worry about me. I like to stand here.”

  Sam returned to the sofa. He glanced at his watch. Lila had been gone about eight minutes now. Even in this rain, she’d get to Fairvale in less than twenty—then ten minutes to find the Sheriff, or say fifteen just to be on the safe side—twenty minutes more to return. Still, it would be better than three quarters of an hour. That was a long time to stall. What could he talk about?

  Sam lifted his glass. Bates was taking a swig out of the bottle. He made a gulping noise.

  “Must get pretty lonesome out here sometimes,” Sam said.

  “That’s right.” The bottle thumped down on the counter. “Pretty lonesome.”

  “But interesting, too, in a way, I suppose. I’ll bet you get to see all kinds of people in a spot like this.”

  “They come and go. I don’t pay much attention. After a while you hardly notice.”

  “Been here a long time?”

  “Over twenty years, running the motel. I’ve always lived here, all my life.”

  “And you run the whole place by yourself?”

  “That’s right.” Bates moved around the counter, carrying the bottle. “Here, let me fill your glass.”

  “I really shouldn’t.”

  “Won’t hurt you. I’m not going to tell your wife.” Bates chuckled. “Besides, I don’t like to drink alone.”

  He poured, then retreated behind the counter.

  Sam sat back. The man’s face was only a gray blur in the growing darkness. The thund
er sounded overhead again, but there was no lightning. And here inside everything seemed quiet and peaceful.

  Looking at this man, listening to him, Sam was beginning to feel slightly ashamed. He sounded so—so damned ordinary! It was hard to imagine him being mixed up in something like this.

  And just what was he mixed up in, anyway, if he was mixed up? Sam didn’t know. Mary had stolen some money, Mary had been here overnight, she had lost an earring in the shower. But she could have banged her head, she could have cut her ear when the earring came off. Yes, and she could have gone on to Chicago, too, just the way Arbogast and the Sheriff seemed to think. He really didn’t know very much about Mary, when he came right down to it. In a way, her sister seemed more familiar. A nice girl, but too hair-triggered, too impulsive. Always making snap judgments and decisions. Like this business of wanting to run straight up and search Bates’s house. Good thing he’d talked her out of that one. Let her bring the Sheriff. Maybe even that was a mistake. The way Bates was acting now, he didn’t seem like a man who had anything on his conscience.

  Sam remembered that he was supposed to be talking. It wouldn’t do to just sit here.

  “You were right,” he murmured. “It is raining pretty hard.”

  “I like the sound of the rain,” Bates said. “I like the way it comes down hard. It’s exciting.”

  “Never thought of it in that way. Guess you can use a little excitement around here.”

  “I don’t know. We get our share.”

  “We? I thought you said you lived here alone.”

  “I said I operated the motel alone. But it belongs to both of us. My mother and me.”

  Sam almost choked on the whiskey. He lowered the glass, clenching it tightly in his fist. “I didn’t know—”

  “Of course not, how could you? Nobody does. That’s because she always stays in the house. She has to stay there. You see, most people think she’s dead.”