by Robert Bloch
But for a moment he did see it as the lightning flared, forming a halo around the hideous head. Holy Mother!
Closing his eyes, he reached for the blanket, pulling it free and spreading it out with frantic haste. When his eyes opened again, the motionless mound was covered. Carefully he tucked the sides down, then surveyed the results of his effort. You couldn’t tell what was underneath now; no one could tell. And if anyone tried—
Norman’s hand found the tire iron where he’d tossed it, just behind the seat. He carried it with him as he crawled back into the cab, and dropped the heavy length of metal between his feet. At least he had that much, the means of protection in case of need.
But there would be no need, not if he was careful. His hands weren’t trembling now, and he could drive. That’s what he had to do now. Drive, get away from here.
He turned the key in the ignition and the motor responded. Carefully he edged the van back onto the road, moving through the trees, then past them to a clear stretch beyond. The mere act of driving was in itself a reassurance. Controlling the van meant that he was controlling himself. And he who controls himself controls the future. All that remained was the need to plan ahead.
Somewhere along the road he’d come to a store or a service station. He’d get matches there.
But there wouldn’t be much chance of finding a roadside business place here on this bypass. His best bet was the main highway. Norman found a spot ahead, made his turn, and drove back to the junction.
Once on the wider stretch, he relaxed. Better road, better opportunity ahead. Or so he thought, until the flapping sleeve of his robe brushed against the steering wheel. He glanced down at his habit, frowning.
Back at the hospital it had been is salvation. No one had given him a second glance during the brief moment of hurrying out through the confusion of the lobby and into the darkness beyond.
But now the robe was damnation. He couldn’t hope to enter a country store unnoticed; even Sister Barbara herself would be an object of curiosity there. And driving into a service station was equally dangerous.
The picture formed quickly in his mind. A rainy Sunday evening, with no traffic, no business—some kid attendant sitting inside the office with his old man, reading a comic book and listening to the radio, then scowling in resentment as the sound of a horn summoned him out into the rain. Jesus Christ, it’s a nun! And she doesn’t want gas—she’s asking for matches. What the hell does a nun need with matches? Something funny going on here. Hey, Pa, maybe you better go see what gives—
The picture faded and he was staring at the sleeve again. Easy now. Just keep thinking, keep driving. But where? Where could he go in this outfit?
Get thee to a nunnery.
Hamlet said that.
But Hamlet was mad.
This way lies madness. What other way remained? Removing the habit was no solution; the regulation blue hospital uniform underneath would identify him anywhere he appeared. The choice was his: either as escaped patient or a creature of habit. He needed matches, yes, but he needed ordinary clothing even more. Clothes make the man.
Thunder rocked, shocked, mocked. The voice of God. But God wouldn’t mock him, not now, not after guiding him safely through all this. The Lord will provide. God will send a sign.
Then the lightning came. Only for an instant, but long enough for Norman to see the figure huddling under a lone tree at the side of the highway ahead, holding up the square of cardboard with the word scrawled on it in crude capital letters.
God had sent a sign, and it said Fairvale.
— 6 —
Dr. Adam Claiborne didn’t realize how tired he was until he reached Steiner’s office and lowered himself into the chair behind the desk. It was an executive chair with leather-covered arms and back, and a well-padded, oversized cushion designed to accommodate well-padded, oversized butts. The seats of the mighty.
Momentarily his exhaustion gave way to irritation as he contrasted this comfort with the hard, confining contours of the cheap plastic and plywood furnishing of his own small office down the hall. No wonder he was exhausted, working double shifts while Steiner sat giving orders in his padded chair or ran off to meetings on his padded expense account.
Claiborne sighed, reaching for the receiver of the waiting phone on the desktop. So much for self-pity.
“Hello, this is Dr. Claiborne. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“That’s okay.” The voice on the other end of the line was deep, booming loudly enough to be heard over a background of stereo sound. “Marty Driscoll here, Enterprise Productions. I’m calling about the picture.”
“Picture?”
“The film. Didn’t Steiner tell you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“That’s funny. I talked to him Thursday and laid out the whole deal. Did the package get there?”
“What package?”
“I sent it out registered, special delivery, Friday morning.” A faint click punctuated Driscoll’s sentence, and the stereo music behind the voice faded out. “He should have gotten it by now.”
Claiborne nodded, then caught himself. Why did people nod when talking to someone on the telephone? That was the sort of thing you’d expect a patient to do. Maybe psychosis was contagious. You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps.
“I wouldn’t know anything about a package,” he said. Then, “Wait a minute.”
While speaking, he’d noticed the big brown envelope lying in a wire basket on the far side of the desk. Now he pulled it out, reading the printed return address in the upper left-hand corner. “Your package did arrive. It’s here on his desk.”
“Did he open it?”
Claiborne examined the slitted flap. “Yes.”
“So why the hangup? He promised to call back as soon as he read the script.”
Thunder competed with conversation, and Claiborne wasn’t quite sure of what he’d heard. “Would you mind repeating that? We’re having a thunderstorm here—”
“The screenplay.” Driscoll’s voice boomed louder, emphasizing impatience. “It’s gotta be there. Take a look and see.”
Claiborne upended the envelope, and its contents cascaded across the desktop: three eight-by-ten glossy photographs, plus a bulky segment of manuscript pages stapled together in a leatherette binder. He glanced at the typewritten title on the card affixed to the center of the cover.
“Crazy Lady,” he said.
“That’s it. You like that title?”
“Not particularly.”
“Neither did Steiner.” Driscoll’s rely conveyed amused tolerance. “Don’t worry, we’re not married to it. Maybe you and Ames can get together and come up with something better.”
“Ames?”
“Roy Ames. My writer. I’d like to send him out to see you people for a coupla days. Sort of get the feel of things in case he’s screwed up on technical details. I know Bates is still flaky, but maybe if he talked to him—”
“I’m not following. Are you referring to Norman Bates?”
“Yeah. The fruitcake.”
“But what has he got to do with—”
“Easy, Doc.” Driscoll chuckled. “I keep forgetting you didn’t read the script. We’re doing a film on the Bates case.”
Claiborne dropped the leatherette binder on the desk. Crazy Lady. He stared at it numbly. What was it he’d said to Sister Barbara about psychodrama? You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps.
“Doc—are you there?”
“Yes.”
“So say something. How does it grab you?”
“You want my professional opinion?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Then listen carefully. As a practicing psychiatrist, I think you’re out of your skull.”
Driscoll’s laugh boomed louder than his voice until Claiborne cut in. “I mean it. You can’t make a picture about Norman Bates.”
“Don’t worry, the legal department checked it o
ut. The whole kapoosta is public record, like the Boston Strangler and Charlie Manson—”
“This is different.”
But Driscoll wasn’t listening. “Trust me. We’ll knock their socks off. Set it for a late-fall release and go right through the roof.”
“What you’re proposing is cheap sensationalism—”
“Cheap, hell! This is a biggie. Were budgeted at eleven-five, minimum.”
“I’m not talking about finances.”
“Right. That’s my department.”
“And mine is the welfare of my patients.”
“Stop worrying. We don’t want a piece of schlock any more than you do. That’s why I sent the script—give you people a chance to catch any mistakes—”
“If you ask me, the whole thing is a mistake.”
“Come on, Doc, you haven’t even read it yet!” The booming voice resounded through the receiver. “Why don’t you take a look, do us both a favor? Just remember, if there’s any changes, we got to get them set by a week from Monday at the latest, so’s we’ll have a couple days for run-through and rehearsals. All I want from you is a little cooperation. And if you think Ames should come out to look around for a few days, just say the word.”
“Did Dr. Steiner agree to this?”
“He said he’d get back to me as soon as he read the script. So if you’ll ask him to call me when he gets in—”
“I’ll do that.”
“Thanks.” Now the stereo surged again, signifying an end to further conversation. “Nice talking to you,” Driscoll said. “Have a good day.”
Claiborne cradled the receiver and leaned back. Have a good day. For a moment he envisioned the good day Marty Driscoll was having, probably calling from a poolside phone in Bel-Air, basking in Technicolor sunshine surrounded by Dolby sound.
There was no sunshine here, only the storm-stirred darkness; no sound except thunder and rain.
He thought of Steiner sitting snugly, smugly, in his first-class seat on the plane. Why hadn’t he mentioned the script? Didn’t he realize the implications? How could he even consider lending support to such a project, endangering the dignity of his profession, putting indignity upon his patient? But he wasn’t concerned about how Norman would feel; all Steiner cared for was that big meeting in St. Louis. What happened back here had no importance. But that was showbiz; the star takes all the bows and the supporting players do all the work.
Claiborne shook his head. Prejudgment. You’re just too damned tired to be logical. You don’t really know what Steiner thinks. And you haven’t read the script—
He pushed the leatherette binder aside, glancing at the eight-by-tens beneath. The first was a head-and-shoulders glossy print of a glossy man with a glossy smile, instantly recognizable. Paul Morgan, one of the current crop of stars who were—how did they put it?—bankable. Surely they weren’t casting him in the role of Norman?
But that was the only male photo; the other two were head shots of a girl Claiborne didn’t know. Or did he? There was no identification beneath the smiling, wide-eyed face, and yet it was somehow vaguely familiar.
Suddenly he realized where he’d seen that face before—staring up at him in smudgy reproductions photocopied from old newspaper clippings which were a part of Norman Bates’ case-history file.
She was Mary Crane!
Impossible. Mary Crane had been Norman’s victim, the one he’d killed in the shower.
They’d found a lookalike.
Gazing at the girl in the photos, Claiborne had the feeling he’d known only in dreams—dreams where something threatened and pursued, something menacing that he couldn’t see or identify. But he knew it was coming after him, so he’d keep running until he was ready to drop, even though there was no escape. Then, just as it closed in, he’d wake up.
He wasn’t dreaming now, yet the threat was still there. Something—
“Dr. Claiborne!”
Otis was standing in the doorway, breathing hard.
Claiborne looked up, letting the photos fall to the desktop. “Yes?”
“Hurry—the library—something’s happened—”
Something.
He hurried, the way he did in the dreams, but this time he wasn’t running away. He was running toward the thing. Running down the stairs, not waiting for the elevator, following Otis.
He called to him as they descended. “What’s happened?”
“I don’t know—I wasn’t there—”
“You mean you left them alone?”
“The storm—I had to check Ward C, get those patients back to their rooms—nobody else on duty there.” Otis was panting and the stairwell’s echo amplified his gasps. “They were just talking when I left. Wasn’t away more than five minutes, but when I got back he was gone.”
“Norman?”
Otis reached the first level, pushing the door open, and Claiborne followed him into the corridor.
“I told the desk to alert all floors. Allen’s on security, he’s out searching the grounds.”
Claiborne was panting now as they ran towards the library. His footsteps hammered in the hall, and the voice hammered in his head. Norman’s gone. He ran away. And you’re running now. Running towards something.
Running. Through the doorway and into the darkened room, into the shadowy stacks where something waited.
Claiborne halted, staring down.
“Sister Barbara—”
But it wasn’t Sister Barbara, not anymore. It was just a thing. A naked thing lying cold and still, staring sightlessly back at him with bulging eyes protruding from behind a mask.
It had to be a mask, for her body was ghastly white; the face above, hideously purple. A mask, Claiborne told himself. What else could it be?
Then bending forward, he saw the answer, imbedded in swollen flesh—the rosary, twisted tightly around Sister Barbara’s neck.
— 7 —
Bo Keeler must have been standing there almost half an hour, standing in the frigging rain.
Only two cars came by the whole time, and both mothers passed him up. Either in too goddamn much of a hurry or too scared to stop.
So okay, maybe the hair and the beard and the bushhat turned them off. Maybe they figured him for a freako, maybe the jacket got them uptight, like they thought he was in with a bike club.
Shee-it, if he was, he wouldn’t be standing here in the rain without wheels! And he could of been, once. Two years ago he made his move to get it on with the Angels down in Tulsa, but he didn’t have his own chopper. Sorry, kid, up yours.
So no sweat, he cased out the Honda dealer’s layout and set the rip for Labor Day, everybody gone for the weekend, dynamite. The lock in back was a mickey-mouse job, and inside he eyeballed the biggest goddamn bike in the joint. Super, a two-G ticket, all the extras, lubed and ready to roll. How the hell could he of figured on that silent alarm system? But they came crashing in and did the whole number on him, yelling freeze, and he froze. Lousy mother-suckers busted him, breaking and entering, second offense, take two in the slammer, do not pass go.
Bo shivered and edged back under the tree, trying to keep the sign dry. Fat chance in this storm. If he had any smarts he would’ve took the bus. When they sprung him yesterday, they popped for the ticket.
Cashing it in was a big mistake, but he got what he craved: six joints and sack time with that jungle bunny he’d flashed on at the bus station. And today, when he split, it looked like it would be easy to thumb his way. First off, he lucked out with the oil rig—trucker said he was routed smack through Fairvale, he could of dropped him off right in front of Jack’s pad. But then the frigging storm come up and the guy chickened out on him. Sorry, buddy, can’t take a chance, I’m laying over right here in Rock Center until it clears up.
So it was over and out. Out on the highway in the rain, up the creek without a paddle, only this goddamn cardboard sign on a stick.
But he had to get to Fairvale tonight before old buddy Jack cut out for the coast,
like he wrote him last month. Jack owed him some bread, maybe he’d take him along for the ride. He sure to Christ had to, because there was nobody else who gave a diddly-damn what happened to him, no other way to go. Not with half a pack of butts and thirty-seven cents in change.
The wind was blowing so hard now that the rain came down almost sideways, and standing under the tree didn’t help much. Bo shivered, holding the sign in front of his face like a shield. You could goddam well drown out here in the middle of nowhere. What he needed was an umbrella.
No way. What he needed was a score. Face it, Fairvale was a crock and so was old buddy Jack. But if he could score, score big enough to get hold of some real bread and his own wheels—
Something flickered off to the right. It wasn’t lightning, it kept flashing steadily. A car was coming along the road.
Bo stepped out in front of the tree, holding up the sign. As the headlights moved closer he squinted at the outlines of a van.
Stop. Stop, you mother—
It did. The van stopped and Bo moved up to the door.
The driver peered down at him from the far side of the darkened cab.
“Do you need a lift?”
What the hell do you think I’m standing here for, dummy? Only he wasn’t about to say so. Play it cool.
“You going to Fairvale?”
“That’s right.”
Bo tossed the cardboard sign into the ditch and climbed in, slamming the door as the van started off. Neat in here with the heater on, warm and dry. He settled back in his seat, then glanced over at the driver.
For a minute he thought he’d flipped out. Who the hell goes around driving a van wearing a big black cloak, the kind you see in one of those Dracula movies?
Then he flashed on the head—the cowl, whatever they called it—and he knew. The driver was a nun.
Bo wasn’t one of those born-again Jesus freaks, he didn’t go for that crap, but this was like somebody answered his prayers. A nun, driving a van. His own wheels. Right away, other wheels began spinning in his head. If he could only figure how to orchestrate. Play it cool. Go with the flow.