Read Online Robert Bloch's Psycho by Chet Williamson - Free Book Online Page B

him. He had to find out his secrets, hear the details, every last bloody, juicy one …
    *   *   *
    â€œHow ya doin’?”
    Norman didn’t look up. The man was right next to him, his elbow touching Norman’s on the arms of the chairs. Norman moved his arm over onto his lap. He could see the man’s hand, the fingers long and skeletal, with yellow, cracked, untrimmed nails like talons.
    â€œWhatcha readin’, the Geographic ? Not as good since they don’t run them titty pitchers anymore, y’know? Man, growin’ up I used to go to the library…” He pronounced it liberry, an error Norman had always hated. “I’d tear out the titty pitchers, take ’em home, look at ’em at my leisure, know what I mean? I didn’t like them African coloreds so much, but some of them South Sea babes, and Indian ones—not U.S. Indians, but them Indians from India and around there, they were really all right, near as good as white girls.”
    Norman looked over toward where he’d left Dr. Reed. He was still there, but far out of earshot. He looked at Dr. Reed pleadingly, but the doctor looked back at him with no expression on his face, as though he was just observing Norman.
    â€œYour name’s Norman, right? So how you makin’ out, Norman? My name’s Ronald. Ronald Miller. Nice to make your acquaintance. Y’know, I was readin’ about you in the papers. Got a little reputation goin’, don’t ya? Well, hell, so do I, though you may not know it.” The man gave a little laugh. “My vics don’t tend to talk much about it, but everybody knows yours. Maybe I’d got more publicity if I hadn’t left ’em alive, y’know? But that’s me, too damn tenderhearted for my own good. Now, you had the right idea. Shut ’em up, then they can’t blab about you, right? ’Course, you got caught anyways, and we both ended up here, right?… Um … you followin’ me, Norman?”
    Finally Ronald Miller was quiet. It seemed he’d been talking for hours, and the sudden silence surprised Norman so much that he turned and actually looked at the man. What he saw wasn’t pretty.
    Piercing blue eyes stared at Norman out of a gaunt, scarred face. They weren’t the kind of scars that come from cuts, however. These were red and puckered, and ran from beside Ronald Miller’s right eye across his cheek, around his mouth, and down the center of his neck. His right eye squinted, and the right side of his mouth was pulled slightly askew. It looked as though someone had once splashed his face with liquid fire. Although the scarring still looked painful, Norman somehow knew it had been that way for a long time.
    â€œHey, Norm—you hearin’ me?”
    Norman looked back down at the magazine in his lap. What was this man with the terrible face saying to him? That he had forced women to…? Norman suddenly felt guilty about reading this particular magazine, and slapped the pages shut.
    â€œWhatsa matter? Don’t you wanna talk to me? ’Cause I wanna talk to you. ”
    Ronald Miller was talking more quietly now, but also more intensely.
    â€œI wanna hear about what you done. When you done that girl. How’d you do it? I read you stabbed her, right? Were you doin’ it while you stabbed her?”
    Norman’s head started to swim. He felt as though he might topple out of his chair. The man was whispering now, his scarred, twisted mouth against Norman’s ear.
    â€œWhat noises did she make, huh? Was she cryin’? Could you see the tears?”
    Norman felt hot, feverish. The man’s hissed words snapped against his eardrums. His stomach started to roil.
    And then Ronald Miller asked a question so vile, so horrible, that Norman’s mind rejected it. No one could ask such a thing. No one could think of finding that kind of pleasure in such pain and agony.