by Robert Bloch
Later, in Napoli, there was Salvatore, who did indeed act as his savior when the carabinieri made the bust and broke up their little operation. But Salvatore hadn’t saved him from getting hooked on the products he peddled.
And Santo himself was no saint. What saint could survive what he had in Roma, Milano, Marseilles? What saint could have made the first snuff-film in the days when even nudity was still a scandal?
Vizzini stumbled up the steep grade, breathing hard; the fog was so dense that he couldn’t see light from the streetlamps or hillside houses, let alone read the signposts. Where was he now?
Then all at once the pavement firmed under his feet and he knew. He was on top. The top of the world. The climbing was over, he had arrived, the past vanishing behind him in the fog. There was one more capsule in his pocket; he swallowed it dry, not remembering what it was and not caring.
No point in remembering. Forget what Mama mia revealed to him on the table, forget the good sisters who had the same thing concealed beneath their robes; all black bristles and bloody too, every month when la maledizione visited them. Forget the pig in the snuff-film and what happened to her when the knife entered. Cut, he’d said, and that was what the knife did, but she’d deserved it, she was a putana and deserved to die.
How she had laughed before the knife came! Laughed and groaned and gurgled, enjoying it. They all enjoyed it, even the good sisters would have given anything to feel the bam, bam, bam. Of course, they’d scream and carry on at first, just as Mama had with the soldiers.
Could she have enjoyed it too?
What was the difference between a groan of pain and a groan of pleasure? How could a five-year-old boy know, how could he be sure now? Only one thing was certain: they all had things, and things didn’t reason, merely responded. Black, bristly, bloody things, secret things with secret cravings for more, more, more. Mama mia, when he was conceived, rolling in a hedgerow with some nameless paisan. And Norman Bates’s mother—
Vizzini ran a forefinger over the sweat-beaded surface of his upper lip, tracing the outline of his missing mustache. He could have played Norman, should have, because he understood him.
Instead it would be Paul Morgan, who understood nothing, not even his own latent homosexuality. But Norman wasn’t homosexual, there was nothing about the crimes to indicate it. Nobody really knew Norman, not even that stupid doctor. Nobody knew except him, Santo Vizzini.
They didn’t know he’d researched the case, visited Fairvale last year, seen the ruins of the house and the motel, taken photographs. Being there was an excitement, an excitement he had hidden and preserved and would put on film for all to see and share.
Crazy Lady. It would be a triumph because it would be real, almost as real as the snuff-film. The documentary flavor, that was what counted.
Driscoll didn’t understand; the only thing he knew was money. To him, the bank statement was important, but to the creative artist, the film itself was all that mattered. The statement of reality, in a world where women hide the dirty secret under their skirts. It took a man like himself, a man like Norman, to reveal that secret, expose the evil and punish it.
That was what Norman had done with Mary Crane, and that was what he’d do with Jan.
Vizzini blinked, groping his way through the fog. He was disoriented. Too many pills, too much fog swirling inside himself. He was here for a reason, if only he could remember. What had he been thinking about?
Jan. She looked like Mary Crane, and that was why he’d chosen her over all the objections. Now he must teach her how to be Mary Crane, that thief, that putana, flaunting herself and her secret at poor Norman. He must strip away all those silly acting-school mannerisms, strip her bare of everything but the flesh itself, until she was Mary Crane, standing in the shower.
Suddenly the fog cleared away and he could see her, he could see Jan naked, writhing in climax—the final climax that was death.
And suddenly he could see something else, something that drugs and fog had hidden away all these years, something he’d forgotten completely. The little five-year-old boy rising up from under the table and staring at Mama Mia’s secret. The little boy who fainted, not from fright, but to blot out the realization that he had an erection.
Just as he did now.
Now, after a lifetime of thinking he was impotent, like Norman Bates. But it wasn’t true. Norman was a man, he must have played the man with Mary Crane. And he himself was a man, this proved he could perform, would perform the role. With Jan …
She moaned, enjoying Roy’s performance. It was good, so good, and he was good. Even better now, because as she looked up at him his face changed and all at once it was Adam Claiborne on top of her, just the way she’d wanted him earlier this evening. Only his features kept blurring and then it was Paul Morgan, doing her. She closed her eyes, telling him to stop, but when she opened them again, Jan realized something terrible was happening. Paul’s face had disappeared and now she was making it with Santo Vizzini; he panted with effort, and drops of perfume trickled from his armpits. She reached up, clawing, and her nails shredded Vizzini’s face. What was on top of her now had no face, none that she could see, only a blur. Yet she knew, something inside of her knew exactly who it was.
Norman Bates.
He was the one, he’d been doing it all along, the other faces were just masks. But his face was real and she wanted to see it clearly, had to see it clearly.
Then came the scream and she awakened, her eyes really opening now to stare into the darkness of the bedroom.
Again the scream, and the frantic pounding on the door.
Jan thrust the covers away, switched on the lamp, slid her feet into the slippers beside the bed. Grabbing her robe from the chair, she ran through the hallway.
“Let me in—”
Connie’s voice, from behind the front door.
And when the door opened, Connie stood shivering in the fog, shivering and crying.
“For God’s sake, honey, what’s the matter?”
“I just came home.” Wailing, her tear-stained face contorted like a child’s.
Jan nodded. “Where’s your key?”
“In my purse—can’t find it—he was there—”
“He?”
Connie gestured toward the fog-choked street. “Someone—a man—standing under the trees when I got out of the car. I thought he was coming after me—”
Jan peered past the trembling girl. “I can’t see anyone.”
“He must have run when I screamed. But he was there—I saw him—”
Tightening the robe around her waist, Jan started down the walk.
Connie turned quickly. “No—don’t go!”
But Jan was already moving toward the trees. And it was there, beneath them, that she stooped and picked up the little blonde kitten.
The kitten made no resistance and it didn’t move.
Because its throat had been cut.
— 29 —
Claiborne had overslept, but he didn’t feel rested.
There was too much on his mind, there were too many things to consider. He shaved and dressed, sorting out the events of the past twenty-four hours. The encounter with Vizzini, the meeting with Driscoll, the episode with Jan.
Episode? It was far more than that. If only he could have gotten through to her, made her realize her safety was important because she was important to him. But he hadn’t, so the danger remained. And this was Saturday already; time was running out.
He hurried to the phone and put through a call to Steiner at the hospital.
“In the hospital,” Clara told him. “That’s right, they took him over to County General on Thursday night. Bronchial pneumonia. You know we’ve had those terrible rains here all week—”
Claiborne asked questions and got answers. No, Dr. Steiner wasn’t in intensive care, but there’d be no calls or visitors, at least not for a few days. And as far as she knew, there’d been no word yet from the coroner’s office. Sheriff E
ngstrom was keeping after him for a report, he said Monday at the latest. “And by then you’ll be back, thank God. We’re having a rough time here—”
He thanked her and hung up. Rough time, she said. Things were rough all over.
But there was no point in self-pity, or self-recrimination either. It was enough to admit that so far he’d accomplished nothing. Steiner had been right; he was a doctor, not a detective. And he’d fallen into the most common pitfall of his profession; he’d become so interested in the people that he’d failed to give priority to the immediate problem. A detective knew that sticking to the problem was the only way to come up with solutions.
Claiborne sat on the side of the bed, reviewing options and priorities. Then he picked up the phone again.
He made two calls.
After the second one he went into the bathroom and put his head under the cold water tap. It was the unreasoning gesture of a man with a hangover, but the stinging shock of the spray helped, even though he had to change his shirt and comb his hair again.
After making sure the key was in his pocket, he left the room and started down the patio walk, glancing at his watch. Past noon already. He hadn’t had breakfast yet, but there was no time for that, not after what he’d heard—
“Hello.”
Tom Post was standing in the office doorway, tendering a seamed smile of greeting. “Care for a cup of coffee?”
Claiborne started to shake his head, but the appeal of the invitation was reinforced by the odor of the offer itself.
“Thanks. I can’t be too long, got an appointment—”
“No problem. It’s ready.”
Post led him into the office and opened the door at the rear. “In here,” he said. “Might as well be comfortable while we’re at it.”
The room beyond the doorway was comfortable enough, or had been at one time, when the parlor furnishings were new. But now the upholstery was faded and the drapery dimmed with dust; only the framed photographs on the walls seemed bright and ageless in the lamplight.
As the old man busied himself before the urn on the corner table, Claiborne turned his attention to the pictures. Like the ones on the wall of the outer office, they appeared to be studio publicity portraits, but none of them sparked recognition.
Tom Post came over and handed him his cup. “Cream and sugar?”
“Black is fine, thank you.”
And it was. Claiborne hadn’t consciously realized how much he needed something; hot coffee was even better than cold water at this moment.
“Another scorcher,” Post said. “But the fog’ll be rolling in again tonight. Usually does, this time of year.” He glanced up at the faces on the wall. “See anyone you know?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. Before your time.” A bony finger jabbed in the direction of an elderly man’s smiling countenance. “That’s Sol Morris. He was the head of Coronet Studios back in the twenties, when they were over on the other side of the hill.”
The younger man nodded and Post moved along the wall, like a tour guide in a museum. But then this was a museum, Claiborne realized; the faded furnishings and dusty décor were appropriate in a place where all clocks had stopped long ago.
“Theodore Harker,” said Post, looking up at the portrait of a hawk-faced man dressed in black. “Big director, like Dave Griffith in his day. The one next to him is Kurt Lozoff. I worked with him too, some said he was even better than Von. But nobody remembers now. Nobody cares.”
He turned away, and for a moment Claiborne thought the movement was meant to mask emotion. Instead, Post reached up into the darkened corner of the room and switched on a light attached to the portrait hanging there in single splendor.
Splendor. That was the word, the only word, for the incandescence of the face flaming forth—not a photograph, but a portrait in oils. The girl was young and very beautiful. There was something vaguely familiar about her face; somewhere he’d seen those eyes and that smile before.
“Dawn Powers.” The old man smiled. “That’s where I got the name for this place. The Dawn Motel.”
“I think I’ve seen pictures of her,” Claiborne said. “Was she an actress?”
“Yes, but only in silents. She could have gone on, she could have been the biggest of them all.” Tom Post’s voice sank to a soft murmur and Claiborne glanced at him.
“You were in love with her?”
“I still am.”
“What happened?”
The old man shrugged. “Retired. Married outside the business. Died years ago.” He switched off the light, then faced Claiborne from the dark corner. “They’re all gone now. I’ll be going soon myself and maybe it’s just as well.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry. You’ve still got your health.”
“And when I lose it?” Post shook his head. “I’ve seen those nursing homes. Do you know what it’s like to have everything you own in the world on a one-foot shelf next to your bed? People who had a whole houseful of possessions, reduced now to a plastic comb, a cracked mirror, a drinking glass, a sun-faded Polaroid snapshot of grandchildren who haven’t visited them in three years. And that’s not the worst. The real loss is dignity, privacy, self-respect. And hope.
“That’s the future, and we’re all afraid of it. Sure, they keep you calmed down by doping you up—the final ripoff, taking away your emotions. Tell me, Doc, which is better—sedated smiles or tranquilized tears?”
“It’s not just a medical problem,” Claiborne said. “If the world is falling apart, we’ve got to look at our culture pattern and value judgments to find an answer.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of answers.” Tom Post nodded. “A new one comes along every year. Isometrics. Organic foods. Zen. Biofeedback. Encounter sessions, Transcendental Meditation, jogging.” He smiled. “So where are all the perfect specimens?”
“I wish I knew.” Claiborne put his empty cup down on the coffee table. “But right now I’ve got to get going—”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bend your ear that way.”
“Don’t apologize. What you said makes a lot of sense. No, really, I mean it.”
“Thanks.” Post chuckled. “Some people think the only thing of value that comes out of an old man’s mouth is his false teeth.”
As Claiborne started for the door, his host followed. “Forgot to ask you,” he said. “That picture you’re interested in—Crazy Lady. How’s it working out?”
“That’s a long story.”
“Like to hear it.” Post held the door open as Claiborne moved out onto the patio. “Look, if you’re free around six, why don’t you come by and have dinner here with me? I’m not the greatest chef in the world, but I promise not to poison you.”
“Sounds great,” Claiborne said. “I ought to be back sometime later this afternoon. Okay if I let you know then?”
“I’ll be here.” The cotton-haired man chuckled as Claiborne crossed to his car. “Good luck.”
As Claiborne drove off, the echo of the nervous chuckle seemed to follow him, and once more he found himself wondering about Tom Post. Was loneliness the sole reason for his hospitality and his curiosity?
From what he’d just said, it was obvious that the old man was bitter as well as lonely. Sitting there brooding in the dark, night after night, trying to recapture the past, resurrect the dead.
But that’s what Norman did. Norman had a motel too.
Claiborne frowned the thought away, or tried to. The parallel was too farfetched; Post didn’t seem to be fixated on his mother, and he certainly wasn’t hiding her body. All he had was the portrait of the girl he’d loved, a dead girl—
A dead girl with something about her eyes and smile that Claiborne recognized. Not from other pictures of Dawn Powers, but in another photograph, a newspaper shot. The face was different, but the eyes and smile belonged to Mary Crane.
Nonsense. How many basic facial types were there—thirty-seven? There must be thousan
ds of girls who shared a similar resemblance. Take Jan Harper, now—
He shook his head. You could have taken her, last night. Why not? You wanted her.
Claiborne sighed. Yes, but did he want her as much as Tom Post wanted his Dawn, enough to spend his life with her in reality, or even in memory? He honestly didn’t know the answer. And maybe it would have to be just memory, if Jan couldn’t forgive him for his rejection. Or if something happened to her—
He thought about the calls he’d made. For the first time he was armed with more than a hunch or an educated guess. Now he had the weapon he needed, and he intended to use it.
If he could find Marty Driscoll.
But when he drove onto the lot and headed for the Administration Building, he discovered that Driscoll’s office was closed and locked; not even Miss Kedzie worked on Saturday afternoons. He should have remembered to call here too. Perhaps he could locate Roy Ames.
He walked down the hall, past closed doors, then quickened his pace as he neared Ames’s cubicle and found it open.
Open and vacant.
Did that mean Ames was still somewhere on the lot? Could be—at least it was worth a try.
Back on the deserted street, he started off in the direction of Stage Seven. Wasn’t Jan supposed to be rehearsing with Vizzini today? If so, Ames might have decided to sit in on the session. And yes, somebody was there, because the big sliding door stood open.
The darkness beyond the doorway was cool, and he moved into it gratefully, glancing ahead for signs of light and life. But the sound stage was soundless, and the only light came from a distant corner, past the bedroom set where the fire had broken out.
It was here that he saw the bathroom and shower stall of Number Six in the Bates Motel.
He’d never been there himself, of course; the place had burned down years before Norman became his patient. But it was plainly recognizable from Norman’s description. Correction—vividly recognizable, with its tiled walls, porcelain fixtures, shiny faucets, and heavy shower curtain.