Psycho house, p.9
Psycho House, page 9
part #3 of Psycho Series
Much to her surprise, Amy didn't find it all that easy to smile in response. Sitting late at night in a strange room in a strange town with a strange man who might have come straight out of a horror comic wasn't really all that disturbing. It was obviously Dunstable who was, in a polite euphemism, disturbed, and that didn't alarm her. What did was her own reaction to what they were talking about. It was all superstition, of course; this much she knew and accepted on the intellectual level.
But below that level, far below, below common sense and even consciousness, something stirred.
"Just how do people become 'possessed'?" she said.
Dunstable shrugged. 'Think of evil as a communicable disease. A virus attacks the body when one's defenses are down. Evil seeks out entry points in the mind and spirit."
Amy frowned. "Are you talking about hypnosis?"
"This has nothing to do with suggestion. Possession takes advantage of situations involving loss of conscious control—during anesthesia, nightmares, at the extremes of manic-depressive states, or in some situations involving drug abuse, including alcohol." His tic winked at her in the lamplight. "Of course the easiest point of entry is during heightened emotional states—extreme rage, hysteria, sexual or religious frenzy."
Amy found herself smiling. "I know some people who might take offense at your last two examples."
"I know a lot of people who might just tell me I'm flat-out crazy," he said. "But in my profession I've learned to accept this as an occupational hazard."
Amy shook her head. "You told me demonologists are students. Now you say what you're doing is a profes-
sion. Are you talking about things like ghost-hunting or witch-finding?"
Eric Dunstable's nictitation served as confirmation. "Hunting and finding, yes. But it's after that the real work begins."
"Which is—?"
"Exorcism." The hoarse voice placed odd and added emphasis on the second syllable.
So thaVs it, Amy told herself. She glanced up quickly. "But I thought exorcism can only be performed by ordained members of the clergy."
"Exactly the sentiments of the faculty at the seminary." The bearded man sighed. "They expelled me when they learned I'd been experimenting on my own." He shrugged. "I've been on my own ever since. Fortunately, my parents left me a modest inheritance some years ago, so I'm more or less free to live as I choose. And while I was denied elevation to holy orders, I don't need to take orders from anyone, holy or otherwise."
Amy waited for the tic, then broke in. "Is that what you intended to do when they caught you trying to enter the Bates place?"
"That house has an aura of evil—I could feel it." Behind the thick lenses his eyes caught hers in a solemn stare. "Death lurks there."
Again Amy felt something stirring deep below the level of consciousness, something that reacted irrationally to all this nonsense about death and demons. Death, of course, was, is, and will be a reality, but demons—
"This isn't why you wanted to see me in Chicago," she said. "Neither of us knew about the house then. I'm here because I want to write a book about Norman Bates."
"And I came to exorcise the demon that possessed him."
Why didn't I quit when I was ahead? Amy asked herself. But it was too late now. "It's generally believed Norman assumed the personality of his mother. That
doesn't exactly fit your definition of demonic possession. And it wouldn't matter if it did. You can't exorcise a dead man, and Norman Bates is dead."
'The demon still exists." In this context, Dunstable's wink was almost confidential. **When Norman died it took possession of Adam Claiborne. It left him last week to seek out another instrument for its purpose."
"What purpose?"
'The ultimate purpose of evil is to destroy, to kill. Often its essence as an entity is nourished by returning to its former haunts. That's why it came to the Bates house the other night and took over whoever it was that killed the little girl. Then it returned to Claiborne, when he attacked Dr. Steiner. After Claiborne collapsed I think it went on to a stronger, healthier body. If it left Claiborne then, someone else in this town must be possessed."
"How can you tell?"
A pause, a blink, a shrug. 'T can't. But I understand they're holding a memorial service for that little girl tomorrow. Everyone will be there." The hoarse voice sounded its own echo. 'That's when I'll know."
9
AMY was free to sleep in, and because her sleep proved to be mercifully free of nightmares, it was midmorning when she awoke.
Strangely enough, the lengthy rest didn't seem to have refreshed her. Perhaps it was the fault of the
weather; as she opened the window it became obvious that the day would be hot, muggy, overcast. It was too warm and too gloomy, and so was she.
The source of the warmth was obvious, but the reasons for gloom eluded her. Even under cloudy skies, in the morning light her impressions of Eric Dunstable clearly revealed him for what he was. She only wished he hadn't shown up here to complicate her own situation. But neither his unwelcome presence nor his equally unwelcome prescience could account for her feeling of depression.
Most likely what bothered her was the idea of attending today's memorial service for Terry Dowson. Yes, that was it.
Amy always tried to avoid funerals, and had no strong desire to attend her own. Even though on this present occasion the corpse and casket would be absent, she had an uneasy feeling about the whole affair.
Maybe breakfast would help. But when she slid the watch onto her wrist after showering Amy realized that the best description of the meal would be brunch. There was no question of wearing her best for an appearance in the downstairs coffee shop. Memorial services didn't begin until three o'clock, so she'd have plenty of time to change into more formal attire before driving out.
The coffee shop was deserted; Amy had slipped through the crack between breakfast and lunch. For a moment she wondered if it would have been a polite gesture to invite Eric Dunstable to join her. But if she had, he'd probably bring his theories about possession with him, and she wanted no part of demons in her present mood or present meal. Checking the sandwiches on the menu, Amy quickly decided against the deviled ham.
What she did order was satisfactory, and after her second cup of coffee she was able to consider Dunstable with less distaste. Could anything that he had told her
last night be of possible use to her when she sat down to write the book?
For a moment the notion seemed tempting; including such fantasizing would add a touch of spice to the dull fare of data she'd accumulated. But such sensationalism would defeat her purpose. The book must deal with murder and its impact on a small town, and do so realistically. So thank you and good-bye, Mr. Dunstable.
Thank you and good-bye to the waitress-cashier, then back upstairs. Once again in her room, Amy checked the wedge of sky beyond the window and noted little improvement. Adjusting the thermostat made the air-conditioning unit hum in a lower key but didn't seem to lower the temperature. It was going to be sticky at the memorial services, in more ways than one.
Amy pulled out her notebook and sat down at the tiny desk in the chair which Eric Dunstable had occupied last night. Which was appropriate enough, inasmuch as she was jotting down what she remembered of his conversation.
But why? Amy paused for a moment, frowning. Hadn't she just told herself that this material would be wrong for her purposes? What prompted her to waste time making notes about invisible entities commuting back and forth between various bodies in order to do the Devil's work?
Or had Dunstable mentioned the Devil? She couldn't recall, but what she did remember kept her occupied throughout the noon hour. Amy still hadn't changed her mind, but just in case she ever did, the notes were here.
Now it was time for a careful application of makeup and a careful decision about dress. Obviously the occasion called for wearing something dark and discreet, which left her with no choice at all. The only garment fitting that description was the heavy suit she'd hastily folded up in the overnight bag before making her hurried trip to O'Hare Airport the other day. What would have
been cool and comfortable for Chicago was hot and irksome here; the suit was unsuitable, but so be it.
She put on the skirt before putting on makeup, then donned her blouse and jacket just before departure. The outfit looked better than it felt, but she knew she would welcome the air-conditioning in her car because it worked as well as hummed.
There were only three people in the lobby, none of whom Amy recognized as she crossed to the exit. The sky outside withheld sight of the sun but filtered its fire as she made her way into the parking area. Approaching the rental car she was surprised to find it a bit smaller than she had remembered. For some reason or other its height seemed to have shrunk overnight, or had it merely wilted in the midday heat?
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 chmbed 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 county 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 anj^hing, 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 its 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 certainly 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. 'T'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. 'Tn case you don't like the show you want to sneak out without anybody noticing."
Amy shook her head. *T'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.
