Psycho - Three Complete Novels

by Robert Bloch

  “I haven’t reported it.”

  “Why not? Don’t you have any ideas about what could have happened?”

  “Ideas, yes. I think somebody may have asked the desk clerk at the hotel about what I was driving.”

  “You’re talking about young Chambers.”

  Amy nodded. “I have a strong impression he doesn’t like me, but that doesn’t prove anything. And if I make a fuss it’s only going to stir up more hard feelings.”

  Gibbs shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. I’m just sorry you had to run into all this trouble.”

  “It’s not your fault. Nobody asked me to come.” Amy’s jawline tightened as she spoke. “But now that I’m here nobody’s going to scare me away.”

  Which was the truth, Amy told herself. This was no time to back off. If anything, what had happened to the car strengthened her determination. Added to it now was a new element—suspicion. Given the circumstances she could understand why someone might tell her to get out of town, but slashing those tires was more than a suggestion; it was a threat. A threat from someone out there who was capable of slashing more than tires—

  Amy found herself forcing a smile to hide the thought behind it. But hidden or not, the thought remained. And once again the feeling of depression surfaced as Gibbs headed the car into the parking area on the far side of the church at the crossroads. The sight of the white spire looming against the lowering sky evoked memories of Amy’s high school art classes years ago. The church was pure Grant Wood; the clouds were something out of Hieronymus Bosch.

  Abandoning the cool comfort of the car, they emerged into the swelter and stifle surrounding the lone structure that soared against the background of open fields and sullen sky.

  The time was ten minutes to three, and they were by no means the first to arrive; perhaps thirty other vehicles had already parked and several more turned in as they climbed the church steps to the open entrance.

  The former occupants of the cars outside clustered in the area that joined the main body of the church with the smaller sections on either side. Amy had no idea what might lay behind the closed door of the right-hand wing, but the left opened on the chapel. At the moment only a few people were seated there; the majority lingered in the lobby. Most of the women were matronly, pleased to be out of housedresses and into their Sunday best; high heels elevated both body and spirit. Many of the males offered a sharp contrast as they stood sweating into suits worn only at weddings, baptisms, and funerals. Awkward and ill at ease here, they had the look of men who’d be handy around the house, and kept power tools in the garage, along with their fishing gear and hunting rifles.

  Generally the sexes were separated into small groups conversing in the muted murmur inspired by their surroundings. Whose idea was it that one must whisper when in the presence of the Lord?

  Amy ignored the irreverence as irrelevant, but she could not shake off the feeling of depression. If anything it was heightened here. Church or no church, the air of sanctity had not been cooled by air-conditioning, and body heat did nothing to alleviate the humidity. Even the mumbling seemed to add to the lobby’s oppressive atmosphere. Too many people grouped in too small a space; the result was cluster-phobia.

  All of which made it uncomfortable for Amy when Gibbs started to introduce her around. At the same time she realized it might be her only opportunity to identify some of the people whose names were bound to crop up in the book. During the next five minutes she met and exchanged polite greetings with the glum local fire chief, the grim-visaged principal of Fairvale Elementary School, and the beaming president of The First National Bank. His sunny smile was probably prompted by the fact that Fairvale didn’t have a Second National Bank.

  But happiness, like fresh air, seemed in short supply here. It certain wasn’t reflected in the faces she recognized—Dr. Rawson, Bob Peterson, Attorney Charlie Pitkin, or Irene Grovesmith. Gibbs pointed out Terry Dowson’s parents but did not introduce her to them. She would have recognized them anyway, for both were dressed in mourning, their features gaunt with grief. What startled Amy was the bulge beneath the waist of the black dress—Terry’s mother was pregnant. In the midst of death is life.

  Gibbs also introduced her to Robert Albert, the mortician in charge of the proceedings. In the midst of death Albert seemed neither overjoyed nor grief-stricken; he greeted her politely enough, but his eyes kept searching for new arrivals, like a theatre manager counting the house.

  Now organ music sounded from within the chapel and the clutter began to converge toward its entrance in response. Excusing himself, the mortician went over to Terry Dowson’s parents and escorted them into the chapel. Gibbs started to move forward but Amy touched his arm. “Let’s wait a minute,” she murmured. “I’d prefer the last row, but if I sat there before the place starts to fill up it would be too conspicuous.”

  “Gotcha.” Gibbs smiled. “In case you don’t like the show you want to sneak out without anybody noticing.”

  Amy shook her head. “I’m interested in the audience, not the performance. Which reminds me—I don’t see any children here. Where’s Mick Sontag?”

  “She went into shock after the murder,” Gibbs said. “Doc Rawson told her father to take her on a vacation. They’re probably in Disneyland right now, and I wish I was there with them.”

  “I understand.” Amy shrugged. “But duty calls.”

  “Better sit down, folks. We’re gonna start, next couple minutes.” It was not duty who called, but one of the mortician’s ushers; he had the suave, courtly manner of a high school basketball coach.

  As they moved into the chapel Gibbs’ murmur blended with the music. “Kids are in school today. There was some talk about making this a half holiday for Terry’s classmates, but busing them over would be a hassle.” Amy moved into the second seat of the last row; only then did she notice Irene Grovesmith was just two seats away at her left. Gibbs had already taken the aisle seat at her right, and it was too late to move farther upfront. Instead she glanced forward toward the lectern on the podium, seeking the source of sound. But there was no organ, no organist; somewhere in another room stereo piped its sacred strains into the chapel’s secular speaker system.

  Now she turned her attention to the audience seated ahead. There were only a few people Amy might possibly recognize face-to-face, let alone from behind, but she tried to search them out. It was a vain effort; Sheriff Engstrom wasn’t here and she couldn’t find Doris Huntley or the desk clerk and waitresses from the hotel. Some people had to work. What did surprise her was the absence of most of the people she’d seen last night, the country club set. And where was Otto Remsbach?

  She leaned over and voiced the question to Gibbs. His response sounded against the hymnal background.

  “He won’t show here, because of the feud over the Bates place. He and Archer hate each other’s guts.”

  “Not so.”

  The voice was scarcely more than a shrill whisper, yet clearly audible.

  Amy glanced up into the wizened face of a tall, white-haired, bearded man with the eyes of an Old Testament prophet.

  He had entered from the lobby and come up behind them unobserved; now, as he bent forward to address Gibbs, there was no need for further identification or introduction.

  “I don’t hate Otto Remsbach,” said Reverend Archer. “My feeling is directed only toward his project, his plans to capitalize on the suffering and torment of others. Don’t you realize if he hadn’t built on the Bates property that little girl wouldn’t have had any reason to go out there? She’d still be alive today!”

  Even though the whisper was soft, its shrillness carried. Nearby, heads were beginning to turn, and Gibbs nodded hastily. “I know your position on this, Reverend,” he murmured.

  “Then why don’t you take a stand on it? Remsbach has his Opening scheduled there for day after tomorrow. Once that happens there’s no telling what it may lead to. It’s high time you ran an editorial.”

  “I’ll
think about it.”

  “Do so. One way or another, this man must be stopped before we find ourselves with more blood on our hands.” Now and only now, his gaze pierced Amy’s. “We have enough to live down already, thanks to the media,” he said. “The last thing we need is strangers coming into town to blacken its name and—”

  The music halted abruptly, and so did Archer’s voice. But he himself did not halt; straightening, he moved briskly down the aisle in the direction of the lectern on the podium.

  Amy and Gibbs exchanged glances, and his slight shrug said it all. To the left, Irene Grovesmith had turned to listen as Archer spoke; now, even in this muggy heat, Amy was chilled by her icy stare.

  There was hostility here, no doubt about it, but thus far nothing to indicate demonic possession. Unless, of course, Eric Dunstable could make good his claim and recognize it.

  Dunstable. She scanned the heads and shoulders in the rows ahead, quickly but in vain. Why wasn’t he here? Had something happened to him; had something been made to happen to him? A foolish idea, of course. Just because some of these people looked hostile that didn’t necessarily mean they were dangerous.

  Reverend Archer’s attack was merely verbal, and this only because he had no other targets. She and Gibbs were the only press people here today, because as far as major media was concerned the story was dead. Like Terry. There were no leads so no reason for them to follow up on a murder where no one would ever find the killer. Unless Dunstable was right.

  Reverend Archer mounted the podium, gripped the far sides of the lectern and the attention of his audience.

  “Let us pray,” she said.

  Heads bowed obediently as Archer’s voice boomed.

  “O Lord, we are gathered here today to invoke thy blessing upon the soul of Theresa Dowson—”

  As Archer’s voice rose, so did Amy’s gaze. Disobediently she glanced toward the podium, trying to discover what there was about it which disturbed her. Then she realized there were no floral offerings, no wreaths or bouquet on the platform behind the speaker. It was only after a moment of reflection that she could understand the reason; after all, this was a memorial service, not a funeral. Probably plenty of flowers still on Terry’s grave right now, wilting in the late afternoon heat.

  “—memory of that poor child struck down shall not be forgotten, but we console ourselves with the knowledge that our lamb is safe in the bosom of God. It is we who remain in mortal peril as long as the evildoer is abroad.”

  Did he stare at Amy when he spoke those last words or was it just her imagination? She wasn’t sure, but now the bowed heads before her were gradually rising as the pretext of prayer yielded to the demands of stiffening neck muscles.

  “But the sacrifice of the lamb was not in vain. It teaches us that we must repent of our wickedness and forsake its ways.”

  Was he talking about her? But her ways weren’t all that wicked. And it was up to Dunstable to find the real evildoer. If there really was a demon here, this was his chance for a demonstration. Better Dunstable with his tic than this fanatic with the relentless stare.

  “Hear us, O Lord, as we resolve ourselves to walk in the paths of righteousness in loving memory of that sweet innocent lamb. In the words of the psalmist, ‘lead us not into temptation’—”

  Amy was only half listening, but now his words intruded on her thoughts. Could he be reading her mind? Was he referring to the temptation of using Dunstable’s crazy theories in her book?

  And it was a temptation, of course. She’d done well with the first one, even without any special attention from the good folks at Stacy Publishing Company. Reviews and sales had been better than anyone expected, good enough to gain her double the advance on this effort. A thoroughly researched account of the Bates case and its mystique would probably do even better.

  But even better wasn’t good enough. Admit it, what she wanted was a smash. Full-page ads, top talk shows, the nationwide tour with a limo waiting at every airport, the works. She was tired of telling people she was a writer and hearing them say, “Yes, I know, but what do you do for a living?” She was tired of being introduced as “Miss Hayes.” Why settle for that when she had a sales gimmick like demonic possession right here in her hot little hands? It might destroy the credibility of the book, but it could create a name for her. Amelia Haines, media personality. And as far as that goes, there were millions of people out there who did believe in demons, ghosts, supernatural powers.

  So why not take advantage of the opportunity? And quickly, before somebody else beat her to the draw. All she really had to do here was take a look at the Bates property; stick around for the Grand Opening, day after tomorrow, then get out.

  “—let her memory abide in our hearts even as we erase the memory of the other, his memory, from our minds. For his was the way of the transgressor and it is doubly a transgression for those who seek to resurrect his memory for gain. Let the dead bury the dead—”

  He was a fine one to talk, Amy told herself. In his own way Reverend Archer was capitalizing on the death of that child just as much as Otto Remsbach. Or herself, if she yielded to temptation.

  “—It is for us, the living, to cherish loving thoughts of the lamb who has departed from our flock and returned to the green and eternal pastures of heaven—”

  Amy wasn’t all that interested in the sheep-herding business, but the townsfolk down front seemed moved and there was audible sobbing from the first row where Terry’s parents and relatives were seated. She glanced to the left toward Irene Grovesmith; her ice-cube eyes had melted into tears.

  As she did so the voice ceased sounding from the podium; gazing forward, she noted that Reverend Archer’s head was again lowered in silent prayer, though only for a moment.

  Then the invisible organ sounded again, this time in an accompaniment for an invisible choir. A thought suddenly occurred to Amy as the voices sounded. Wouldn’t it be funny if God didn’t like singing?

  She glanced to her right. Whether or not God was a music lover remained debatable, but obviously Hank Gibbs was not. Sometime during the last few minutes he’d left his seat and headed for the exit.

  Why hadn’t he let her know his intentions? Just a nudge would have done the trick. Unless there was something wrong—

  The thought prompted Amy to rise and propelled her to the doorway. In the lobby, electronically evangelical voices echoed. There was no sign of Gibbs’ presence. Perhaps he’d gone outside to escape the sound and capture a breath of fresh air. If so, he’d acted sensibly; even though the lobby was deserted the stagnant, odoriferous heat persisted here.

  Filtering through the speaker system from the chapel Amy caught a few words of the hymn sung by the choir, something to do with “The blood of the lamb.” An unfortunate phrase, in view of Reverend Archer’s sermon.

  She turned toward the lobby door, eager to make her exit before hearing any further sanguinary references.

  As she did so the door opened to admit a figure momentarily silhouetted against the outer sunlight. Amy saw that the man was not Gibbs, but long before he reached her side she recognized the rumpled suit, the hair and beard; today he was wearing shades that concealed ocular spasm but didn’t improve his general appearance. If anything the dark glasses added a slightly sinister touch that, in his case, seemed superfluous.

  Amy greeted him softly as he approached. “Mr. Dunstable, I’ve been looking for you. Why weren’t you at the memorial service?”

  “I misjudged the length of time it would take me to get here from town,” he said.

  “You walked here? In this heat?”

  Eric Dunstable nodded. “I had no choice. None of the cars headed in this direction would stop and give me a lift.” If his sigh was accompanied by a rueful smile his beard concealed it. “Not very hospitable around here, are they?”

  But very cautious. Amy’s response was silent. No point trying to explain to Dunstable that Fairvale citizens took a dim view of strangers who might have emerged
from the pages of Gross-Out Comics. Particularly when the stranger in question claimed to be a demonologist.

  “I’m sorry,” Amy said. And she was. After his long hike here in the heat Dunstable aroused her sympathies rather then her suspicions.

  Nevertheless, she glanced around before speaking again. Sound piping forth from the chapel indicated ceremonies there hadn’t concluded. But aside from herself and Dunstable the lobby held only shadows.

  “You didn’t happen to see Hank Gibbs drive off when you got here?” Amy murmured.

  “The newspaper editor?” Dunstable shook his head.

  “He might have gone up the road in the other direction.” As she spoke Amy realized her voice had dropped almost to a whisper. What was there about this lobby that still retained the power to subdue speech as well as spirit?

  Whatever it was Eric Dunstable felt it too. Weary and bedraggled, he seemed suddenly revitalized, alert and aware amid the shadows. He was watching, waiting, listening, though not necessarily to the ethereal voices of the choir.

  Staring at him, Amy reconsidered. The way his head was poised didn’t indicate a response to sound; absurd as it might seem it reminded her of something entirely different. A bloodhound catching the scent—

  Now he spoke, and the shadows listened. The shadows listened, and she heard the whispered words. “I was right. There is evil here.”

  “Yes. I sense it too.” Amy turned at the sound of Reverend Archer’s voice. He was standing directly behind them. And now his only forefinger jabbed out toward Dunstable as he spoke again.

  “You are the evil one!”

  — 10 —

  It was deputy Dick Reno who broke it up before their voices escalated into a shouting match. He came through the front door just as the audience started to emerge into the lobby from the chapel. The organ music continued to sound, and this helped; at least it served to muffle Archer’s angry outbursts and Dunstable’s hoarse rejoinders.