Read Online The Reality Conspiracy by Joseph A. Citro - Free Book Online Page A

the smile; she didn't try. "The doctor. His name's not Godunov, It's Gudhausen."
    They laughed as they walked back to the restaurant, her thoughts of Herbert Gold and Lucy Washburn, and all the other stresses of the day, vanishing like dew on a sunny Vermont morning.
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    Montreal, Quebec
    "E xorcism." said Father William Sullivan. He wasn't speaking to anyone. He was simply articulating the uncomfortable word—"Ex-or-ciz-um"—trying to get it outside his head where he could turn it around, examine it, attempt to understand it, somehow.
    Striding briskly, he tightened the collar of his blue jacket against drafts of cold air coming from the St. Lawrence River far below.
    Beside Sullivan, Father LeClair puffed his pipe. "The bottom line, Bill, is if Father Mosely attempted an exorcism without the bishop's consent, he was out of line. He never should have acted alone; he never should have acted in secrecy. There should be a doctor present. Always. And there should be another priest to assist. Everyone involved should be in a state of grace . . . ."
    Sullivan didn't want to hear it. He was ready to argue, to defend the old priest, but what was the point?
    Heading south on Peel Street, Sullivan switched his attention from the brownstones on the left to a high-rise on the right. Its semicircular windows made the building look like a giant cheese grater.
    "Remember," Father LeClair said, "whatever happened to Father Mosely, happened without benefit of witnesses. So I'm afraid—"
    "But what do you think happened, Gaston?"
    "You want an opinion—how do you say it?—off the recording?"
    "Yes, if you would."
    "You know, Bill, I am a curious hybrid of physician and priest, the product of two belief systems which are often irreconcilable."
    Sullivan looked at him. "What do you mean?"
    Father LeClair shrugged. "Well, he could have fought a demon and lost, but, frankly, part of me never really believed that. For me it is easier to believe that Father Mosely suffered a stroke, only that. I know his health was not good: I've seen his medical records. He had an ulcer. His blood pressure was high. He reported chronic sleeplessness. He was fatigued, exhausted, really."
    "You think the exorcism is just a story?"
    "Perhaps. There were no witnesses. Think about it. Someone would have heard if parishioners were being tormented, tortured, or actually possessed by demonic spirits. Someone, even today, would surely remember. If there really were such people, Father kept their secret; he keeps it still."
    "Yes," Sullivan walked a few paces. "Ten years," he said. "Ten years in a coma; ten long years lost in some mindless limbo."
    LeClair puffed his pipe before responding. "It's an intriguing conundrum, isn't it? A philosophical and theological puzzle. The person is as if dead, but still alive. So where is the soul?"
    Sullivan's mind returned to that clouded, empty eye, the waxen, vein-streaked skin, the pale, cracked lips scabbed with crusty spittle. "Yes, where . . . ?"
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    Boston, Massachusetts
    "Y ou're a shrink! My God, I can't believe it!" Jeff Chandler leaned back in his chair. Grinning broadly, he lifted his wineglass in a salute. "Here's to you, Dr. Sigmund Bradley!"
    Karen felt herself blushing; God, she hated that. Her gaze fell to her half-empty plate of scallops. "Well, to be completely on the up-and-up, I'm a clinical psychologist, not a medical doctor."
    "Hey, a shrink's a shrink. And I'm a physicist, not a physician. Neither of us is an M.D. so that's something else we have in common." She raised her head and gave him a quick smile.
    "But that doesn't make me any less curious," Jeff said. "Can you talk to me about this heavy-duty powwow that lured you all the way from scenic Vermont to this vile pesthole known as Boston?"
    "What do you mean! Boston's a beautiful city!"
    "Yeah? Not if you gotta live here. Try getting stuck in a broken-down trolley sometime in ninety-degree weather, one of the myriad joys of urban