Psycho - Three Complete Novels (58 page)

“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 —

I
t 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.

But it required Dick Reno’s physical intervention to separate the two men before their altercation was generally noticed, and it took the combined efforts of Dr. Rawson and grey-haired Mrs. Archer to pull the angry clergyman aside.

For a moment Amy’s full attention was diverted as wife and physician led Reverend Archer across the lobby and into a narrow hallway beyond. When she turned to locate Eric Dunstable he was no longer at her side and Dick Reno shook his head. “Minute I let go of his arm he took off like a bat outta hell. Mind telling me what that hassle was all about?”

Amy cast a sidelong glance at the crowd moving toward the exit, then shook her head. “I’d rather not talk about it now.”

“Just as well.” Reno nodded. “It’ll be easier for you when you’re in the car.”

Amy frowned. “Don’t tell me I’m under arrest again!”

Reno shook his head. “Hank Gibbs was pulling out just as I drove in. Asked me if I’d mind driving you back to town. Said he didn’t know services would run so late. He has to put the paper to bed for tomorrow, and asked me to give you his apologies.”

“I understand.” Amy paused. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Mind driving me?”

“My pleasure.” Reno led her down the steps, then followed the driveway to the far side of the church. “I parked in back,” he said. “Figured people might get the wrong idea if they saw you climbing into a patrol car.”

“Thanks.” Amy smiled. “I appreciate that.” Which was true; the last thing in the world she needed right now was to have the good citizens of Fairvale mistake her for a criminal. She had already been convicted of being female and was suspected of being a writer as well as an out-of-towner to boot.

Once the patrol car swung out into the narrow single-lane road behind the church she felt more secure. Safe from prying stares and insulated from muggy heat. Apparently Reno had already mapped out a route that would take them into town along the back roads, and she was grateful for his consideration.

As he peered forward through the windshield the flattened outline of his nose marred his profile. When he glanced toward her the imperfection vanished.

“Comfortable?” he said. “I can turn up the air-conditioning if you like.”

“This is fine.” Amy smiled. “I was just thinking—maybe some of your locals resent me but the rest of you go out of your way with hospitality. I haven’t had to drive myself once since I got here.”

“Don’t knock it,” Reno said. “Might as well save wear and tear on the tires.”

Amy frowned, and he caught it. “What’s the matter, did I say the wrong thing?”

Amy shook her head. “No, you just reminded me of something.” Having gone that far she decided to go all the way and told him about what had happened to her car in the hotel parking lot.

He listened without comment until she finished. “Want to file a complaint?”

“Be honest with me,” Amy said. “What good would it do?”

Reno shrugged. “Not much, I guess. People around here—well, you saw them at the services. Some of them can get pretty uptight over anything to do with what happened out there at the Bates place last week. Hell, some of them are still uptight about what happened there thirty years ago.”

“I know,” Amy said.

“That’s one of the things they’re uptight over—what you know, or what they think you know. I’m talking about the real diehards now, folks like Reverend Archer, Irene Grovesmith, and those older people. The rest of us would just as soon forget the whole thing.”

“Us?” Amy met his gaze. “Meaning you feel that way about it too?”

“I guess I can speak for most people my age who were born and brought up around here,” Reno told her. “I was only five when it all started, and I can still remember the way those Sunday drivers jammed the streets. The whole town was crawling with reporters, curiosity-seekers, people coming in from as far away as New York and California. To tell the truth, it was pretty exciting, seeing all those strangers and looking at all of those out-of-state licenses.”

Amy nodded. “I can imagine it would be, for a five-year-old.”

“Trouble was, I turned six. That’s when they began busing me to school over to Montrose. Kids were enrolled there from all over the area and every last one of them knew about the Bates case. Anyone who came from Fairvale got dumped on, and I don’t know which was the worse—the older kids trying to beat up on us or the younger ones trying to tell those stupid Norman jokes.”

“I know what you mean,” Amy said. “I’ve heard them too.”

“But not for twelve years running,” Reno said. “Seems like they never let up, and the more jokes they told, the less folks were laughing back in Fairvale. I can’t explain it, except that the shadow of those murders hung over the town like a cloud that never cleared away. I guess that’s one of the reasons I was glad to go off to the university—until I got there, that is. Because when they found out where I came from the jokes started all over again.”

“What was your major?” Amy asked.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Dick Reno said. “I had some idea about ending up in law school. But I said the hell with it and dropped out at the end of my freshman year. Came back here, passed the tests, and hired on as a deputy.”

“Any regrets?”

“Yes and no.” Reno hung a sharp left and suddenly they were moving along a street between two rows of tract housing. “For a few years after I got back it looked like things were improving; the younger generation wasn’t all that steamed up about what had happened way back when. I guess most of us knew Norman Bates was still alive over at State Hospital, but you might say he was really just a name to us. And nobody bothered going over there with candy or flowers.” If Reno was attempting to lighten up, his tone of voice didn’t match his words. “Then Bates escaped and Dr. Claiborne flipped out—well, you know the rest. After that it started all over again. And last week—”

“Do you have any ideas about what happened?” Amy asked.

For a moment Reno didn’t reply; his attention was focused on parking. Glancing up, Amy was startled to realize that they had pulled into the area adjoining the hotel. Then he spoke. “Notice your car’s back,” he said. “Looks like they put on a new set of tires for you.”

Amy followed his gaze and nodded her confirmation. “So I see. But you still haven’t answered my question. I’d like to know if you have any ideas about what happened last week.”

Dick Reno leaned across her, his hand reaching out to open the door on the passenger side. “Tell you later,” he said. “At dinner.”

Amy hesitated. Was he coming on to her? Right now the answer didn’t matter. More important were answers to questions about the murder case. That’s what she had come here to get, and if somebody wanted to throw in a free meal, why not? It certainly couldn’t be any worse of an ordeal than last night’s dinner with that sophisticate and raconteur, Fatso Otto.

“Thanks for the invitation.” Again she hesitated, but only for a moment. “You weren’t thinking of eating here at the hotel, were you?”

“Don’t worry, I can feed you better than that.” Now it was Reno’s turn to pause. “Just one thing. I’ll be going back on duty after we finish. Would it embarrass you if I wear my uniform?”