Psycho - Three Complete Novels (57 page)

No such thing. Some bastard had slashed the tires.
Amy seethed, steamed, then boiled over.

There was no doubt about what happened; the deep gashes scoring the treads were outrageously obvious. And Amy was obviously outraged as she marched up to the counter of the reception desk to report what she’d discovered.

Young Chambers stared at her, but neither his eyes nor his features registered any hint of emotional reaction. He told her he was sorry, he couldn’t imagine what had happened, they’d never had anything like this here before, and several other lies. At least Amy thought they were lies, but she really didn’t give a damn. All she wanted now—and insisted on—was for the clerk to call the nearest service station and get somebody over here immediately.

Immediately turned out to be twenty minutes later. The pickup that pulled into the parking slot beside her car came from
SMITTY
’
S SERVICE STATION
and its driver was none other than Smitty himself. He wore the obligatory bill-cap, khaki trousers, and a khaki shirt rolled up to the elbows. As he stooped to inspect the damage, Amy admired the tattoos on his forearms. She was still staring as Hank Gibbs drove up behind the truck and climbed out of his car, leaving the engine running.

“Hi, Smitty,” he said. And to Amy, “What’s going on here?”

She told him quickly, and halfway through the telling he frowned. By the time she finished her account the furrows on his forehead seemed permanently fixed.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “You’re going to give this town a bum rap when you leave here.”

“Looks as if somebody here doesn’t want me to leave,” Amy said. “I’ve got to get out to the memorial service.”

“That’s where I’m headed for,” Gibbs said. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

“But what about my car?”

Gibbs walked over to the man from the service station. “Think you can help the lady, Smitty?”

The bill-cap bobbed in nodding response. “No problem. Whitewalls, I’m positive. Radials I can get from Kleemann.”

Gibbs glanced at Amy and she shook her head. “Never mind the radials,” he said. “Just see if you can get the job done this afternoon. The lady’s staying here at the hotel. Any idea what this is going to cost?”

Smitty ran a tattooed nude across his sweaty hairline. “Got to see how this size runs when I get back to the shop. Then there’s the labor—”

Hank Gibbs smiled, “just remember, you owe me.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll hold it down.”

“You want me to sign anything?” Amy asked.

Smitty shook his head. “I can’t make out an order until I check the price list. No point you waiting until I get back here. I’ll get your name and address from the register when I leave the bill at the desk.”

“Thank you,” Amy said.

She repeated the words to Gibbs as they drove away. He nodded but she noted his forehead was still furrowed.

“Anything wrong?” she said.

“You park your car in plain view on an open lot facing Main Street, then somebody comes along and slashes all four of your tires. Sounds wrong to me.” The car curved onto a country trunk road at the far end of town. “What did Engstrom have to say?”

“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.