Read Online FaceOff by Dennis Lehane, James Rollins, Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, R. L. Stine, Heather Graham, Jeffery Deaver, Peter James, Steve Martini, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Joseph Finder, Lee Child, Raymond Khoury, Linwood Barclay, Steve Berry, John Sandford, M. J. Rose, Lisa Gardner, F. Paul Wilson, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, Linda Fairstein - Free Book Online
Authors: Dennis Lehane, James Rollins, Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, R. L. Stine, Heather Graham, Jeffery Deaver, Peter James, Steve Martini, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Joseph Finder, Lee Child, Raymond Khoury, Linwood Barclay, Steve Berry, John Sandford, M. J. Rose, Lisa Gardner, F. Paul Wilson, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, Linda Fairstein
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able.”
“You’ve done this to me. This is one of your schemes.”
“Come now, please. Not this again.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Aloysius saw movement. He turned his head. The door to his room had opened and a woman was walking in. It was a woman he recognized instantly: Helen Esterhazy, his wife.
His dead wife.
He stared in horror as she approached. She reached out to take his hand and he pulled it away. “This is a hallucination,” he said.
“This is very real,” she said gently.
“Impossible.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed. “We’re alive—both of us. We’re here to assist in your recovery.”
Aloysius Pendergast mutely shook his head. If this wasn’t a dream, then he must be under the influence of drugs. He would not cooperate in whatever was happening to him, whatever they were doing. He closed his eyes and tried to remember how he had gotten to this place; what events led up to this . . . imprisonment. But his short-term memory was a blank. What, then, was his last memory? He struggled to find it. But there was nothing—just a long, black road going back as far as his memory would travel.
“We’re here to help you,” Diogenes added.
Pendergast opened his eyes and stared into the heterochromiceyes of his brother. “You? Help me? You’re my worst enemy. And besides, you’re not here. You’re dead.”
How did he know his brother was dead? If he couldn’t remember, how could he be sure? And yet, he was sure . . . wasn’t he?
“No, Aloysius,” Diogenes said with a smile. “That’s all part of your fantasy. Your illness. Think back on your life, or what you believe has been your life. What is your profession?”
Pendergast hesitated. “I’m . . . an FBI agent.”
Another gentle smile. “Okay. Now think about that. We know all about this ‘life’ of yours. You’ve spent the last months talking about it with Dr. Augustine. We’ve heard all about the insane exploits, the wild encounters. We’ve heard about all the people you’ve supposedly killed, about your narrow escapes. We’ve heard about genetic monsters eating people’s brains and infantile serial killers living in caves. We’ve heard about underground mutant armies and Nazi breeding programs. We’ve heard about a certain young lady who is a hundred and forty years old . . . That, Aloysius, is the fantasy world you’re finally awakening from. We’re real; that crazy world is not.”
As Diogenes rattled these items off, each one suddenly resonated in Pendergast’s memory, bursting like a firework. “No,” he said. “It’s exactly the opposite. You’re twisting everything. You’re not real; that other world is real.”
Helen leaned over, her violet eyes looking into his. “Do you really think the FBI, the buttoned-down FBI, would allow one of its agents to run amok, killing people willy-nilly?” She spoke calmly, her voice cool and rational. “How could all that be real? Think back on these so-called adventures of yours. Could one man, one person, really experience all that and live through it?”
Diogenes spoke again, his buttery Southern accent like a balm. “You simply couldn’t have survived all the adventures you’ve toldDr. Augustine about. Don’t you see? Your memories are lying to you. Not us.”
“Then why am I restrained? Why the hood?”
“When the breakthrough came,” said Diogenes, “when Dr. Augustine finally breached the hard shell of your fantasies, you became . . . disturbed. We had no choice but to have you restrained, for your own safety. They hooded you because the light was bothering you. You’ve always had an aversion to light, ever since you were a child.”
“And why the shaved head?”
“That’s necessary for the treatment, the placement of electrodes. Electrical stimulation of the brain.”
“Electrodes? What in God’s name is being done to me?”
“Try to relax, Aloysius,” Helen said soothingly. “We know how difficult this
“You’ve done this to me. This is one of your schemes.”
“Come now, please. Not this again.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Aloysius saw movement. He turned his head. The door to his room had opened and a woman was walking in. It was a woman he recognized instantly: Helen Esterhazy, his wife.
His dead wife.
He stared in horror as she approached. She reached out to take his hand and he pulled it away. “This is a hallucination,” he said.
“This is very real,” she said gently.
“Impossible.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed. “We’re alive—both of us. We’re here to assist in your recovery.”
Aloysius Pendergast mutely shook his head. If this wasn’t a dream, then he must be under the influence of drugs. He would not cooperate in whatever was happening to him, whatever they were doing. He closed his eyes and tried to remember how he had gotten to this place; what events led up to this . . . imprisonment. But his short-term memory was a blank. What, then, was his last memory? He struggled to find it. But there was nothing—just a long, black road going back as far as his memory would travel.
“We’re here to help you,” Diogenes added.
Pendergast opened his eyes and stared into the heterochromiceyes of his brother. “You? Help me? You’re my worst enemy. And besides, you’re not here. You’re dead.”
How did he know his brother was dead? If he couldn’t remember, how could he be sure? And yet, he was sure . . . wasn’t he?
“No, Aloysius,” Diogenes said with a smile. “That’s all part of your fantasy. Your illness. Think back on your life, or what you believe has been your life. What is your profession?”
Pendergast hesitated. “I’m . . . an FBI agent.”
Another gentle smile. “Okay. Now think about that. We know all about this ‘life’ of yours. You’ve spent the last months talking about it with Dr. Augustine. We’ve heard all about the insane exploits, the wild encounters. We’ve heard about all the people you’ve supposedly killed, about your narrow escapes. We’ve heard about genetic monsters eating people’s brains and infantile serial killers living in caves. We’ve heard about underground mutant armies and Nazi breeding programs. We’ve heard about a certain young lady who is a hundred and forty years old . . . That, Aloysius, is the fantasy world you’re finally awakening from. We’re real; that crazy world is not.”
As Diogenes rattled these items off, each one suddenly resonated in Pendergast’s memory, bursting like a firework. “No,” he said. “It’s exactly the opposite. You’re twisting everything. You’re not real; that other world is real.”
Helen leaned over, her violet eyes looking into his. “Do you really think the FBI, the buttoned-down FBI, would allow one of its agents to run amok, killing people willy-nilly?” She spoke calmly, her voice cool and rational. “How could all that be real? Think back on these so-called adventures of yours. Could one man, one person, really experience all that and live through it?”
Diogenes spoke again, his buttery Southern accent like a balm. “You simply couldn’t have survived all the adventures you’ve toldDr. Augustine about. Don’t you see? Your memories are lying to you. Not us.”
“Then why am I restrained? Why the hood?”
“When the breakthrough came,” said Diogenes, “when Dr. Augustine finally breached the hard shell of your fantasies, you became . . . disturbed. We had no choice but to have you restrained, for your own safety. They hooded you because the light was bothering you. You’ve always had an aversion to light, ever since you were a child.”
“And why the shaved head?”
“That’s necessary for the treatment, the placement of electrodes. Electrical stimulation of the brain.”
“Electrodes? What in God’s name is being done to me?”
“Try to relax, Aloysius,” Helen said soothingly. “We know how difficult this
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