Psycho Read online

  Mary knocked again, using the end of the flashlight. This time she must have made her presence known, for the sound ceased abruptly, and she heard the faint thud of footsteps. A moment later she saw Mr. Bates descending the stairs. He came to the door and opened it, gesturing her forward.

  "Sorry," he said. "I was just tucking Mother in for the night. Sometimes she's apt to be a bit difficult."

  "You said she was ill. I wouldn't want to disturb her."

  "Oh, you won't make any bother. She'll probably sleep like a baby." Mr. Bates glanced over his shoulder at the stairway, then lowered his voice. "Actually, she's not sick, not physically, that is. But sometimes she gets these spells—"

  He nodded abruptly, then smiled. "Here, let me just take your coat and hang it up. There. Now, if you'll come this way—"

  She followed him down a hallway which extended from under the stairs. "I hope you don't mind eating in the kitchen," he murmured. "Everything's all ready for us. Sit right down and I'll pour the coffee."

  The kitchen was a complement of the parlor—lined with ceiling-high glassed-in cupboards grouped about an old-fashioned sink with a hand-pump attachment. The big wood stove squatted in one corner. But it gave off a grateful warmth, and the long wooden table bore a welcome display of sausage, cheese and homemade pickles in glass dishes scattered about on the red-and-white checkered cloth. Mary was not inclined to smile at the quaintness of it all, and even the inevitable hand-crocheted motto on the wall seemed appropriate enough.

  God Bless Our Home.

  So be it. This was a lot better than sitting alone in some dingy small-town cafeteria.

  Mr. Bates helped her fill her plate. "Go right ahead, don't wait for me! You must be hungry."

  She was hungry, and she ate heartily, with such absorption that she scarcely noticed how little he was eating. When she became aware of it, she was faintly embarrassed.

  "But you haven't touched a thing! I'll bet you really had your own supper earlier."

  "No, I didn't. It's just that I'm not very hungry." He refilled her coffee cup. "I'm afraid Mother gets me a little upset sometimes." His voice lowered again, and the apologetic note returned. "I guess it's my fault. I'm not too good at taking care of her."

  "You live here all alone, the two of you?"

  "Yes. There's never been anybody else. Never."

  "It must be pretty hard on you."

  "I'm not complaining. Don't misunderstand." He adjusted the rimless spectacles. "My father went away when I was still a baby. Mother took care of me all alone. There was enough money on her side of the family to keep us going, I guess, until I grew up. Then she mortgaged the house, sold the farm, and built this motel. We ran it together, and it was a good thing—until the new highway cut us off.

  "Actually, of course, she started failing long before then. And it was my turn to take care of her. But sometimes it isn't so easy."

  "There are no other relatives?"

  "None."

  "And you've never married?"

  His face reddened and he glanced down at the checkered tablecloth.

  Mary bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ask personal questions."

  "That's all right." His voice was faint. "I've never married. Mother was—funny—-about those things. I—I've never even sat at a table with a girl like this before."

  "But—"

  "Sounds odd, doesn't it, in this day and age? I know that. But it has to be. I tell myself that she'd be lost without me, now—maybe the real truth is that I'd be even more lost without her."

  Mary finished her coffee, fished in her purse for cigarettes, and offered the package to Mr. Bates.

  "No, thank you. I don't smoke."

  "Mind if I do?"

  "Not at all. Go right ahead." He hesitated. "I'd like to offer you a drink but—you see—Mother doesn't approve of liquor in the house."

  Mary leaned back, inhaling. Suddenly she felt expansive. Funny what a little warmth, a little rest, a little food could do. An hour ago she'd been lonely, wretched, and fearfully unsure of herself. Now everything had changed. Perhaps it was listening to Mr. Bates which had altered her mood this way. He was the lonely, wretched, and fearful one, really. In contrast, she felt seven feet tall. It was this realization which prompted her to speak.

  "You aren't allowed to smoke. You aren't allowed to drink. You aren't allowed to see any girls. Just what do you do, besides run the motel and attend to your mother?"

  Apparently he was unconscious of her tone of voice. "Oh, I've got lots of things to do, really. I read quite a lot. And there are other hobbies." He glanced up at a wall shelf and she followed his gaze. A stuffed squirrel peered down at them.

  "Hunting?"

  "Well, no. Just taxidermy. George Blount gave me that squirrel to stuff. He shot it. Mother doesn't want me to handle firearms."

  "Mr. Bates, you'll pardon me for saying this but how long do you intend to go on this way? You're a grown man. You certainly must realize that you can't be expected to act like a little boy all the rest of your life. I don't mean to be rude, but—"

  "I understand. I'm well aware of the situation. As I told you, I've done a bit of reading. I know what the psychologists say about such things. But I have a duty toward my mother."

  "Wouldn't you perhaps be fulfilling that duty to her, and to yourself as well, if you arranged to put her in an—institution?"

  "She's not crazy!"

  The voice wasn't soft and apologetic any longer; it was high and shrill. And the pudgy man was on his feet, his hands sweeping a cup from the table. It shattered on the floor, but Mary didn't look at it; she could only stare into the shattered face.

  "She's not crazy," he repeated. "No matter what you think, or anybody thinks. No matter what the books say, or what those doctors would say out at the asylum. I know all about that. They'd certify her in a hurry and lock her away if they could—all I'd have to do is give them the word. But I wouldn't, because I know. Don't you understand that? I know, and they don't know. They don't know how she took care of me all those years, when there was nobody else who cared, how she worked for me and suffered because of me, the sacrifices she made. If she's a little odd now, it's my fault, I'm responsible. When she came to me that time, told me she wanted to get married again, I'm the one who stopped her. Yes, I stopped her, I was to blame for that! You don't have to tell me about jealousy, possessiveness—I was worse than she could ever be. Ten times crazier, if that's the word you want to use. They'd have locked me up in a minute if they knew the things I said and did, the way I carried on. Well, I got over it, finally. And she didn't. But who are you to say a person should be put away? I think perhaps all of us go a little crazy at times."

  He stopped, not because he was out of words but because he was out of breath. His face was very red, and the puckered lips were beginning to tremble.

  Mary stood up. "I'm—I'm sorry," she said softly. "Really, I am. I want to apologize. I had no right to say what I did."

  "Yes. I know. But it doesn't matter. It's just that I'm not used to talking about these things. You live alone like this and everything gets bottled up. Bottled up, or stuffed, like that squirrel up there."

  His color lightened, and he attempted a smile. "Cute little fellow, isn't he? I've often wished I had a live one around that I could tame for a pet."

  Mary picked up her purse. "I'll be running along now. It's getting late."

  "Please don't go. I'm sorry I made such a fuss."

  "It isn't that. I'm really very tired."

  "But I thought perhaps we could talk awhile. I was going to tell you about my hobbies. I've got a sort of workshop down in the basement—"

  "No, I'd like to, but I simply must get some rest."

  "All right, then. I'll walk down with you. I've got to close up the office. It doesn't look as if there'll be any more business tonight."

  They went through the hall, and he helped her on with her coat. He was clumsy about it, and for a moment she felt rising irr
itation, then checked it as she realized the cause. He was afraid to touch her. That was it. The poor guy was actually afraid to get near a woman!

  He held the flashlight and she followed him out of the house and down the pathway to the gravel drive curving around the motel. The rain had stopped but the night was still dark and starless. As she turned the corner of the building she glanced back over her shoulder at the house. The upstairs light still burned, and Mary wondered if the old woman was awake, if she had listened to their conversation, heard the final outburst.

  Mr. Bates halted before her door, waited until she inserted the key in the lock and opened it.

  "Good night," he said. "Sleep well."

  "Thank you. And thanks for the hospitality."

  He opened his mouth, then turned away. For the third time that evening she saw him redden.

  Then she closed her door and locked it. She could hear his retreating footsteps, then the telltale click as he entered the office next door.

  She didn't hear him when he left; her attention had been immediately occupied by the duty of unpacking. She got out her pajamas, her slippers, a jar of cold cream, a toothbrush and toothpaste. Then she rummaged through the big suitcase looking for the dress she planned to wear tomorrow, when she saw Sam. That would have to be put up now, to hang out the wrinkles. Nothing must be out of place tomorrow.

  Nothing must be out of place—

  All at once she didn't feel seven feet tail any more. Or was the change really so sudden? Hadn't it started when Mr. Bates got so hysterical, back there at the house? What was it he had said which really deflated her?

  I think perhaps all of us go a little crazy at times.

  Mary Crane cleared a place for herself on the bed and sat down.

  Yes. It was true. All of us go a little crazy at times. Just as she'd gone crazy, yesterday afternoon, when she saw that money on the desk.

  And she'd been crazy ever since, she must have been crazy, to think she could get away with what she planned. It had all seemed like a dream come true, and that's what it was. A dream. A crazy dream. She knew it, now.

  Maybe she could manage to throw off the police. But Sam would ask questions. Who was this relative she'd inherited the money from? Where had he lived? Why hadn't she ever mentioned him before? How was it that she brought the money along in cash? Didn't Mr. Lowery object to her quitting her job so suddenly?

  And then there was Lila. Suppose she reacted as Mary had anticipated—came to her without going to the police, even consented to remain silent in the future because of a sense of obligation. The fact remained that she'd know. And there'd be complications.

  Sooner or later Sam would want to visit her down there, or invite her up. And that would never work. She could never keep up a future relationship with her sister; never explain to Sam why it was impossible to do so, why she wouldn't go back to Texas even for a visit.

  No, the whole thing was crazy.

  And it was too late to do anything about it now.

  Or—was it?

  Suppose she got herself some sleep, a good long ten hours of sleep. Tomorrow was Sunday; if she left here about nine and drove straight through she could be back in town Monday morning, early. Before Lila arrived from Dallas, before the bank opened. She could deposit the money and go on to work from there.

  Sure, she'd be dead tired. But it wouldn't kill her, and nobody would ever know.

  There was the matter of the car, of course. That would take some explaining, for Lila's benefit. Maybe she could tell her that she'd started out for Fairvale, intending to surprise Sam over the weekend. The car broke down and she had to have it towed away—the dealer said it would need a new engine, so she decided to junk it, take this old heap instead, and come back home.

  Yes, that would sound reasonable.

  Of course, when she figured everything up, this trip would actually cost about seven hundred dollars. That's what the car had been worth.

  But the price was worth paying. Seven hundred dollars isn't too much to pay for one's sanity. For one's safety, one's future security.

  Mary stood up.

  She'd do it.

  And all at once she was seven feet tall again. It was that simple.

  If she'd been a religious girl, she would have prayed. As it was, she felt a curious sense of—what was that word?—predestination. As if everything that had happened was somehow fated to be. Her turning off on the wrong road, coming here, meeting that pathetic man, listening to his outburst, hearing that final sentence which brought her to her senses.

  For a moment, she could have gone to him and kissed him—until she realized, with a giggle, what his response would be to such a gesture. The poor old geezer would probably faint!

  She giggled again. It was nice to be seven feet tall, but the question was—would she be able to fit inside the shower stall? And that's what she was going to do right now, take a nice, long hot shower. Get the dirt off her hide, just as she was going to get the dirt cleaned out of her insides. Come clean, Mary. Come clean as snow.

  She stepped into the bathroom, kicking off her shoes, stooping to slip her stockings off. Then she raised her arms, pulled the dress over her head, tossed it into the next room. It missed the bed, but she didn't care. She unhooked her bra, swung it in an arc, and let it sail. Now, the panties–

  For a moment she stood before the mirror set in the door and took stock of herself. Maybe the face was twenty-seven, but the body was free, white, and twenty-one. She had a good figure. A damned good figure. Sam would like it. She wished he was here to admire it now. It was going to be hell to wait another two years. But then she'd make up for lost time. They say a woman isn't fully mature, sexually, until she's thirty. That was something to find out about.

  Mary giggled again, then executed an amateurish bump and grind, tossed her image a kiss and received one in return. After that she stepped into the shower stall. The water was hot, and she had to add a mixture from the COLD faucet. Finally she turned both faucets on full force and let the warmth gush over her.

  The roar was deafening, and the room was beginning to steam up.

  That's why she didn't hear the door open, or note the sound of footsteps. And at first, when the shower curtains parted, the steam obscured the face.

  Then she did see it there—just a face, peering through the curtains, hanging in midair like a mask. A head-scarf concealed the hair and the glassy eyes stared inhumanly, but it wasn't a mask, it couldn't be. The skin had been powdered dead-white and two hectic spots of rouge centered on the cheekbones. It wasn't a mask. It was the face of a crazy old woman.

  Mary started to scream, and then the curtains parted further and a hand appeared, holding a butcher s knife. It was the knife that, a moment later, cut off her scream.

  And her head.

  FOUR

  The minute Norman got inside the office he started to tremble. It was the reaction, of course. Too much had happened, and too quickly. He couldn't bottle it up any longer.

  Bottle. That's what he needed—a drink. He'd lied to the girl, of course. It was true Mother wouldn't allow liquor in the house, but he did drink. He kept a bottle down here, at the office. There were times when you had to drink, even if you knew you had no stomach for liquor, even if a few ounces were enough to make you dizzy, make you pass out. There were times when you wanted to pass out.

  Norman remembered to pull down the venetian blinds and switch off the sign outside. There, that did it. Closed for the night. Nobody would notice the dim light of the desk lamp now that the blinds were down. Nobody could look in and see him opening the desk drawer and pulling out the bottle, his hands trembling like a baby's. Baby needs his bottle.

  He tilted the pint back and drank, closing his eyes as he did so. The whisky burned, and that was good. Let it burn away the bitterness. The warmth crept down his throat, exploded in his stomach. Maybe another drink would burn away the taste of fear.

  It had been a mistake to invite the girl up to the house
. Norman knew that the moment he opened his mouth, but she was so pretty, and she had looked so tired and forlorn. He knew what it was to be tired and forlorn, with nobody to turn to, nobody who'd understand. All he meant to do, all he did do, was talk to her. Besides, it was his house, wasn't it? Just as much as it was Mother's. She had no right to lay down the law that way.

  Still, it had been a mistake. Actually, he never would have dared, except that he'd been so angry with Mother. He'd wanted to defy her. That was bad.

  But he had done something far worse after he extended the invitation. He'd gone back to the house and told Mother he was having company. He'd marched right up to the bedroom and announced it, just as much as to say, "I dare you to do something about it!"

  It was the wrong thing to do. She was worked up enough already, and when he told her about the girl coming for supper she practically had hysterics. She was hysterical, the way she carried on, the things she said. "If you bring her here, I'll kill her! I'll kill the bitch!"

  Bitch. Mother didn't talk that way. But that's what she had said. She was sick, very sick. Maybe the girl had been right. Maybe Mother should be put away. It was getting so he couldn't handle her alone any more. Getting so he couldn't handle himself, either. What had Mother used to say about handling himself? It was a sin. You could burn in hell.

  The whisky burned. His third drink, but he needed it. He needed a lot of things. The girl was right about that, too. This was no way to live. He couldn't go on much longer.

  Just getting through the meal had been an ordeal. He'd been afraid Mother would make a scene. After he locked the door to her room and left her up there he kept wondering if she'd start screaming and pounding. But she had kept very quiet, almost too quiet, as though she was listening. Probably that's just what she had been doing. You could lock Mother up, but you couldn't keep her from listening.