Psycho - Three Complete Novels (20 page)

Odd. What made him think of that?

Glancing down again, he encountered the answer. The big birds below, moving away from the van in the parking lot, close to the outer gates. Squinting, he could even make out the lettering on the side of the van:
Sacred Order of the Little Sisters of Charity.

Now the birds were almost directly beneath him. Two big black-and-white penguins, waddling up the walk toward the entrance. Suppose they’d come all the way from the South Pole just to see him.

But that was a crazy idea.

And Norman wasn’t crazy anymore.

— 2 —

T
he penguins entered the hospital and approached the lobby reception desk. The short, bespectacled one leading the way was Sister Cupertine and the tall, younger one was Sister Barbara.

Sister Barbara didn’t think of herself as a penguin. Right now she didn’t think of herself at all. Her thoughts were centered on the people here, these poor unfortunate people.

That’s what they were, she must remember: not inmates, but basically people very much like herself. This had been one of the things they’d stressed in psychology class, and it certainly was a fundamental precept in religious training.
There but for the grace of God go I.
And if the grace of God had brought her here to them, then she must bear His word and His comfort.

But Sister Barbara had to admit that at the moment she wasn’t entirely comfortable. After all, she was new to the Order and she’d never been on a mission of charity before, let alone one that would take her to an asylum.

It had been Sister Cupertine who suggested their journey together, and for an obvious reason; she needed someone to drive her. Sister Cupertine had been coming here once a month for years with Sister Loretta, but Sister Loretta was ill now with influenza. Such a tiny woman, and so frail—God grant her a speedy recovery.

Sister Barbara fingered her rosary, giving thanks for her own stamina. A big, healthy girl like you, Mama always said.
A big, healthy girl like you shouldn’t have any trouble finding a decent husband after I’m gone.
But Mama had been too kind. The big, healthy girl was just a klutz, lacking the face and figure or even the basic femininity necessary to attract any man, be his intentions decent or indecent. So, after Mama passed away, she was left alone until the call came. Then, suddenly, the way opened; she answered the call, made her novitiate, found her vocation. Thank God for that.

And thank God for Sister Cupertine now, greeting the little receptionist at the desk with such confidence, introducing her while they waited for the superintendent to come out of his office down the hall. Presently she saw him as he emerged from the corridor beyond, wearing a light topcoat and carrying an overnight bag in his left hand.

Dr. Steiner was a short, bald-headed man who cultivated a fringe of bushy sideburns to compensate for his cranial alopecia, and a bulging paunch to distract attention from his lack of height. But who was Sister Barbara to pass judgment on him or guess at his motivations? She wasn’t a psych major anymore; she’d dropped out of school in her last year, when Mama died, and now all those head-games must be put aside forever.

Actually, Dr. Steiner proved to be quite pleasant. And as a professional, he had obviously recognized her shyness and was doing his best to put her at her ease.

But it was the second man, the other doctor who followed Steiner out of his office to join them, who really succeeded in that task. The moment Sister Barbara saw him, she consciously relaxed.

“You know Dr. Claiborne, don’t you?” Steiner was addressing Sister Cupertine, who nodded her acknowledgment.

“And this is Sister Barbara.” Steiner turned to her, gesturing toward the tall, curly-haired younger man. “Sister, I’d like you to meet Dr. Claiborne, my associate.”

The tall man extended his hand. His grip was warm and so was his smile.

“Dr. Claiborne is something you don’t encounter very often,” Steiner said. “A genuine non-Jewish psychiatrist.”

Claiborne grinned. “You’re forgetting Jung,” he said.

“I’m forgetting a lot of things.” Steiner glanced at the clock on the wall behind the reception desk, his expression sobering. “I should be halfway to the airport by now.”

He turned, shifting the overnight bag to his right hand. “You’re going to have to excuse me,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting scheduled with the state board first thing in the morning, and the four-thirty flight is the only one out of here until tomorrow noon. So, with your permission, I’ll leave you with Dr. Claiborne here. As of now, he’s in charge.”

“Of course.” Sister Cupertine bobbed her head quickly. “You go right ahead.”

Glancing at the younger man, Steiner started toward the entranceway. Dr. Claiborne went with him, and for a moment the two halted before the door. Steiner spoke rapidly to his companion in low tones, then nodded and made his exit.

Dr. Claiborne turned and walked back to the sisters. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.

“Don’t apologize.” Sister Cupertine’s voice was cordial, but Sister Barbara noted the sudden furrowing of the forehead behind the masking frames of her thick glasses. “Perhaps we’d better postpone our visit until next time. You must have enough to look after here without worrying about us.”

“No problem.” Dr. Claiborne reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notepad. “Here’s the list of those patients you asked for on the phone.” Tearing off the top sheet, he extended it to the older woman.

The furrow vanished as she studied the names scrawled upon the white rectangle. “Tucker, Hoffman, and Shaw I know,” she said. “But who’s Zander?”

“A recent arrival. Tentative diagnosis, involutional melancholia.”

“Whatever that means.” There was a slight edge to Sister Cupertine’s voice now as the furrow returned, and before she quite realized it, Sister Barbara found herself speaking.

“Severe depression,” she said. “Guilt feelings, anxiety, somatic preoccupations—”

Conscious of Dr. Claiborne’s sudden stare, she faltered. Her companion gave him an apologetic smile. “Sister Barbara studied psychology in college.”

“And did quite well at it, I’d say.”

Sister Barbara found herself blushing. “Not really—it’s just that I’ve always been interested in what happens to people—so many problems—”

“But so few solutions.” Claiborne nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

Sister Cupertine’s mouth tightened, and the younger woman wished she had kept her own mouth tight instead. It had been wrong to upstage her that way.

She wondered if Dr. Claiborne could read body language. No matter, because Sister Cupertine was verbalizing now.

“And that’s why
I’m
here,” she said. “Maybe I don’t know very much about psychology, but sometimes I think that a few kind words can do more good than all this fancy talk.”

“Exactly.” Dr. Claiborne’s smile stroked her furrow away. “I appreciate that, and I know our patients appreciate it even more. Sometimes a visitor from outside can do more for their morale in a few hours than we’re able to accomplish in months of analysis. That’s why I’d like you to see Mr. Zander after you look in on your regulars today. As far as we can learn he has no living relatives. I can get you a copy of his case history if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Sister Cupertine was smiling again, very much her usual take-charge self. “We’ll just talk, and he can tell me all about himself. Where can I find him?”

“Four-eighteen, right across from Tucker’s room,” Dr. Claiborne said. “Ask the floor nurse to take you in.”

“Thank you.” The cowled head turned. “Come along, Sister.”

Sister Barbara hesitated. She knew what she wanted to say; she’d been rehearsing it in her mind all during the drive here. But should she risk offending Sister Cupertine again?

Well, now or never.

“I wonder if you’d mind if I stayed here with Dr. Claiborne? There are a few things I’d like to ask him about the therapy program—”

There it was, the warning furrow. Sister Cupertine cut in quickly. “We really mustn’t impose anymore. Perhaps later, when he’s not so busy.”

“Please.” Dr. Claiborne shook his head. “We always clear our schedule during visiting hours. With your permission, I’d be happy to answer the sister’s questions.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Sister Cupertine. “But are you sure—”

“My pleasure,” Dr. Claiborne told her. “Now don’t worry. If she doesn’t find you upstairs, you can meet her again here in the lobby at five.”

“Very well.” Sister Cupertine turned away, but not before the eyes behind the thick lenses flashed a message to her companion.
The five o’clock meeting will be followed by a lecture period on the subject of duty and obedience to superiors.

For a moment Sister Barbara’s resolution wavered; then Dr. Claiborne’s voice put an end to indecision.

“All right, Sister. Would you like me to show you around for a while? Or would you prefer to get down to business immediately?”

“Business?”

“You’re breaking the rules.” Dr. Claiborne grinned. “Only a qualified psychiatrist is permitted to answer a question with another question.”

“Sorry.” Sister Barbara watched the older woman enter an elevator down the hall, then turned to him with a smile of relief.

“Don’t be. Just ask what you’ve been meaning to ask me all along.”

“How did you know?”

“Merely an educated guess.” The grin broadened. “Another privilege we qualified psychiatrists enjoy.” He gestured. “Go ahead.”

Again, a moment of hesitation. Should she? Could she? Sister Barbara took a deep breath.

“You have a patient here named Norman Bates?”

“You know about him?” The grin faded. “Most people don’t, I’m happy to say.”

“Happy?”

“Figure of speech.” Dr. Claiborne shrugged. “No, to be honest, Norman’s rather special in my book. And that’s not a figure of speech.”

“You’ve written a book about him?”

“I plan to, someday. I’ve been accumulating material ever since I took over his treatment from Dr. Steiner.”

They had left the lobby now, and Dr. Claiborne was leading her down the right-hand corridor as they spoke. Passing a glass-walled visiting area, she noted a family group—mother, father, and teenaged boy, probably a brother—clustered around a fair-haired young girl in a wheelchair. The girl, who sat quietly, her pale face smiling up at her visitors as they chattered away, might very well have passed for a convalescent patient in any ordinary hospital. But this was not an ordinary hospital, Sister Barbara reminded herself, and that pale, smiling face concealed a dark, unsmiling secret.

She turned her attention to Dr. Claiborne as they moved on. “What sort of treatment—electroconvulsive therapy?”

Dr. Claiborne shook his head. “That was Steiner’s recommendation when I came on the case. I disagreed. What’s the necessity, when the patient is already passive to the point of catatonia? The problem was to bring Norman out of amnesic fugue, not increase his withdrawal.”

“Then you found other ways to cure him.”

“Norman isn’t cured. Not in the clinical or even the legal sense of the term. But we did get rid of the symptoms. Good old-fashioned hypnotic-regression techniques, without narcosyntheis or any shortcuts. Just plain slugging away, questions and answers. Of course, we’ve learned a lot more about multiple-personality disorders and the disassociative reaction in recent years.”

“I take it you’re saying Norman doesn’t think he’s his mother anymore.”

“Norman is Norman. And I think he accepts himself as such. If you recall, when the mother-personality took over, he committed murders as a transvestite. He’s aware of that now, even though he still has no conscious memory of such episodes. The material surfaced under hypnosis and we discussed content after the sessions, but he’ll never truly remember. It’s just that he no longer denies reality. He’s experienced catharsis.”

“But without abreaction.”

“Exactly.” Dr. Claiborne glanced at her sharply. “You really studied your texts, didn’t you?”

Sister Barbara nodded. “What’s the prognosis?”

“I’ve already told you. We’ve discontinued intensive analysis—no point in expecting any further major breakthroughs. But he’s functioning now without restraint or sedation. Of course, we don’t risk letting him wander outside on the grounds. I put him in charge of the library here; that way he has at least some degree of freedom combined with responsibility. He spends most of his time reading.”

“It sounds like a lonely life.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. But there’s not much more we can do for him. He has no relatives, no personal friends. And lately, with our patient overload here, I haven’t been able to spend much time with him in just casual visiting.”

Sister Barbara’s hand strayed to her rosary beads and she took another deep breath.

“Could I see him?”

Dr. Claiborne halted, staring at her.

“Why?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “You say he’s lonely. Isn’t that reason enough?”

He shook his head. “Believe me, I can understand your empathy—”

“It’s more than that. This is our vocation, the reason Sister Cupertine and I are here. To help the helpless, befriend the friendless.”

“And perhaps convert them to your faith?”

“Don’t you approve of religion?” Sister Barbara said.

Dr. Claiborne shrugged. “My beliefs are irrelevant. But I can’t run the risk of upsetting my patients.”

“Patients?” The words came in a rush now, unbidden. “If you had any empathy yourself, you wouldn’t think of Norman Bates as a patient! He’s a human being—a poor, lonely, confused human being who doesn’t even understand the reason why he’s shut away here. All he knows is that nobody cares about him.”

“I
care.”

“Do you? Then give him a chance to realize that others care too.”

Dr. Claiborne sighed softly. “All right. I’ll take you to him.”

“Thank you.” As he led her along the hall and into a side corridor, her voice softened. “Doctor—”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry for coming on so strong.”

“Don’t be.” Dr. Claiborne’s voice had softened in turn as he replied, and here in the dimness of the corridor he looked suddenly drained and spent. “Sometimes it helps to get chewed out a little. Starts the adrenaline flowing again.”