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 Page B
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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so popular that he’sthe model for an actual ventriloquist’s dummy sold by many retailers to this day.
Bob tells the story of how Slappy was inspired by a 1945 anthology film called Dead of Night . One segment of the movie told the story of a terrifying and murderous ventriloquist’s dummy that eventually took possession of his owner’s mind. Bob saw the film when he was young and it scared the daylights out of him. Interestingly, as a child, Bob owned a Jerry Mahoney dummy of his own. Eventually, he became fascinated by the idea that something so human-looking and seemingly harmless could turn so completely evil.
The idea of pairing the elegant, urbane FBI agent Pendergast against an evil dummy seemed so incongruous—so impossible—that Doug, Lincoln, and Bob were immediately captivated by the challenge. The result is a psychological thriller where both the dummy and Agent Pendergast play against form, assuming roles that familiar readers may find strange and unsettling.
One thing is certain—this story is not intended for children.
Gaslighted
T HERE WAS A TAP-TAPPING sound. That was all. Was it a clock? No: it was too loud, too irregular. Was it the creaking of an old house? The ticking of a radiator?
The man listened to the sound. Gradually he became aware of certain things—or rather, the absence of things. The absence of light. Of sensation. Of a name.
That was unusual, was it not? He was a man with no name. He had no memory. He was a tabula rasa, an empty vessel. And yet he sensed that he knew many things. This was a paradox.
The ticking sound grew louder. The man struggled to understand. Sensation began to return. He was blind—hooded. His hands and feet were immobilized. Not bound, but strapped. He was lying on a bed. He tried to move. The restraints were soft, comfortable, and effective.
He was not hungry. He was not tired. He was neither hot nor cold. He was not frightened; he felt calm.
Tap, tap, tap-tap. He listened. A thought came into his head: if he could understand what made that sound, perhaps all else would come back.
He tried to speak, and a sound emerged. The hiss of breath.
The tap-tapping stopped. Silence.
Then he heard a creaking sound. This he recognized: footfalls on a wooden floor. They were growing closer. A hand grasped the hood, and he heard the sound of Velcro parting. The hood was gently removed and he saw a face drawing toward him. He realized, from the movement of air over his scalp, that his own head had been shaved. He had once had hair—at least he knew that much about himself.
And then the face moved into his field of view. The light was dim but he could make out the face quite distinctly. It was a man in his forties, wearing a gray flannel suit. The face was sharp. It had high cheekbones, an aquiline nose. Bony ridges around the eyes gave it a skull-like, asymmetric quality. His hair was ginger-colored and he sported a thick, neatly trimmed beard. But the most startling effect was in his eyes: one was a rich hazel-green, clear and deep, the pupil dilated. The other was a milky blue, opaque, dead, the pupil contracted to a tiny black point.
The sight of the eyes triggered something—something massive. A Niagara of memory came thundering back, all at once, leaving the man on the bed almost paralyzed with the crushing weight of it. He stared at the man bending over him.
“Diogenes,” he whispered.
“Aloysius,” the man said, his brow furrowed with concern. “Thank God you’re awake.”
Aloysius. Aloysius Pendergast. That was his name: Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast.
“You’re dead,” he said. “This is a dream.”
“No,” said Diogenes, almost tenderly. “You’ve awakened from a dream. Now you’re on the road to healing—at long last.” As he said this, he leaned over and unstrapped his brother’s wrists from their leather restraints. He leaned over to fluff and adjust Pendergast’s pillow, smooth the sheets. “You can sit up if you feel
Bob tells the story of how Slappy was inspired by a 1945 anthology film called Dead of Night . One segment of the movie told the story of a terrifying and murderous ventriloquist’s dummy that eventually took possession of his owner’s mind. Bob saw the film when he was young and it scared the daylights out of him. Interestingly, as a child, Bob owned a Jerry Mahoney dummy of his own. Eventually, he became fascinated by the idea that something so human-looking and seemingly harmless could turn so completely evil.
The idea of pairing the elegant, urbane FBI agent Pendergast against an evil dummy seemed so incongruous—so impossible—that Doug, Lincoln, and Bob were immediately captivated by the challenge. The result is a psychological thriller where both the dummy and Agent Pendergast play against form, assuming roles that familiar readers may find strange and unsettling.
One thing is certain—this story is not intended for children.
Gaslighted
T HERE WAS A TAP-TAPPING sound. That was all. Was it a clock? No: it was too loud, too irregular. Was it the creaking of an old house? The ticking of a radiator?
The man listened to the sound. Gradually he became aware of certain things—or rather, the absence of things. The absence of light. Of sensation. Of a name.
That was unusual, was it not? He was a man with no name. He had no memory. He was a tabula rasa, an empty vessel. And yet he sensed that he knew many things. This was a paradox.
The ticking sound grew louder. The man struggled to understand. Sensation began to return. He was blind—hooded. His hands and feet were immobilized. Not bound, but strapped. He was lying on a bed. He tried to move. The restraints were soft, comfortable, and effective.
He was not hungry. He was not tired. He was neither hot nor cold. He was not frightened; he felt calm.
Tap, tap, tap-tap. He listened. A thought came into his head: if he could understand what made that sound, perhaps all else would come back.
He tried to speak, and a sound emerged. The hiss of breath.
The tap-tapping stopped. Silence.
Then he heard a creaking sound. This he recognized: footfalls on a wooden floor. They were growing closer. A hand grasped the hood, and he heard the sound of Velcro parting. The hood was gently removed and he saw a face drawing toward him. He realized, from the movement of air over his scalp, that his own head had been shaved. He had once had hair—at least he knew that much about himself.
And then the face moved into his field of view. The light was dim but he could make out the face quite distinctly. It was a man in his forties, wearing a gray flannel suit. The face was sharp. It had high cheekbones, an aquiline nose. Bony ridges around the eyes gave it a skull-like, asymmetric quality. His hair was ginger-colored and he sported a thick, neatly trimmed beard. But the most startling effect was in his eyes: one was a rich hazel-green, clear and deep, the pupil dilated. The other was a milky blue, opaque, dead, the pupil contracted to a tiny black point.
The sight of the eyes triggered something—something massive. A Niagara of memory came thundering back, all at once, leaving the man on the bed almost paralyzed with the crushing weight of it. He stared at the man bending over him.
“Diogenes,” he whispered.
“Aloysius,” the man said, his brow furrowed with concern. “Thank God you’re awake.”
Aloysius. Aloysius Pendergast. That was his name: Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast.
“You’re dead,” he said. “This is a dream.”
“No,” said Diogenes, almost tenderly. “You’ve awakened from a dream. Now you’re on the road to healing—at long last.” As he said this, he leaned over and unstrapped his brother’s wrists from their leather restraints. He leaned over to fluff and adjust Pendergast’s pillow, smooth the sheets. “You can sit up if you feel
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