Robert Bloch's Psycho by Chet Williamson Page A

looked at Norman. “Well?”
    Norman felt his head nod, and he heard himself say, “All right.”
    Dr. Reed nodded back. “Good, Norman. I’ll bring him in.”
    Dr. Reed stood up and walked out the door, closing it behind him so that it locked. Norman waited in the silence.
    Only it wasn’t completely silent. He sensed her before he heard her, like something scratching within his brain.
    He’s a liar.
    Mother?
    He’s lying, boy! You had no brother! This man wants something from you!
    There was so much rage in her that it surprised Norman. He hadn’t felt such anger from her since …
    Well, he didn’t want to think about that time. No. Instead he thought about what she had done to his brother. What she would have done to him if he’d been born less than perfect.
    I think you’re the one who’s lying, Mother. He tried to make his anger match hers, but cold rather than hot. I think you gave him up. You left him for dead.
    There was no reply.
    Are you ashamed, Mother? Are you?
    The door opened, cutting off any reply Mother might have made, and Dr. Reed came in.
    â€œNorman, this is Robert.”
    Dr. Reed stepped aside. Norman saw a man come through the door. Then Dr. Reed left the room and closed the door again. Norman was alone with his brother.

 
    5
    Robert Newman stood there smiling. It was a soft smile, a Norman kind of smile. In it, Norman recognized the lines of his own face.
    He realized that Robert was what he might have become. What he had wanted to become. Robert Newman was Norman’s height, but he was slim, his shoulders broad, his hair nicely cut, his face a shade of tan that Norman had always admired in movie stars. He wore a dark suit that hung perfectly on his trim frame. His shirt was blindingly white, accented by a silk tie with diagonal stripes of blue and silver. The silk shimmered as though it were alive.
    â€œHello, Norman,” Robert said.
    It was as though he’d spoken the words himself. The timbre and pitch of Robert’s voice was so close to his own it was like hearing an echo. He looked into the man’s eyes, the same hazel color as his own. There were crinkles at the corners, smile lines, he thought, and as the words came to him, he couldn’t help but smile himself.
    â€œHello … Robert,” he said, the name feeling strange in his mouth.
    â€œI can’t believe I’m actually here,” Robert said, and Norman heard joy in the words, a joy that he hadn’t heard from another person in a long, long time. “That I finally found out, not only who I was, but that I have a brother.” He chuckled. “A kid brother. I was the firstborn, according to the doctor. I, uh, I like to think I cleared the way for you, you know?”
    Norman laughed a little, just like Robert did. Then he cleared his throat. “I thought that it wasn’t possible,” he said in a voice that sounded small to him. “When Dr. Reed told me about you. It just seems…”
    â€œI know. After all these years.” Robert looked at the chair. “May I sit down?”
    â€œSure, sure. Please.”
    Robert sat, and now their faces were on the same level. The resemblance was uncanny, Norman thought. Though not identical, it was no wonder Robert had recognized in Norman’s picture more than the dark monster the press must have made him out to be.
    â€œI guess I ought to show you…” He patted the left side of his head. “More proof. Can you see it?” Norman looked. There seemed to be a slight indentation near the back of Robert’s skull, as though the two sides didn’t quite match. “You can touch it,” Robert said.
    Norman put his hand on Robert’s head and felt a depression there, a small crater hidden by hair.
    â€œThat’s the culprit,” Robert said. “It doesn’t look like much now, but on a baby’s head … well,