Free 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

my safety. Living with you became increasingly dangerous. Through it all, Diogenes was a saint. He learned of this experimental treatment here at Stony Mountain. It was our last option.”
    Pendergast nodded slowly. “What will become of me now?”
    “I’m told the recovery will take time. You’ll have to stay here until the doctor feels it’s complete. It might be another six months.”
    “You mean, I can’t leave?”
    Helen hesitated. “You’ll have to face the fact that you’ve been legally committed. But it’s for your own good. After all, it took you years and years to develop these delusions. You can’t expect to get well overnight. In time, you’ll be able to return to Penumbra and pick up your old life of leisure.” She took both his hands in hers. “After that, who knows what might happen? Maybe there’s even hope for us.”
    She squeezed his hands. He returned the pressure.
    She smiled, stood up. “I’ll come see you tomorrow, around noon.”
    Pendergast watched her go. A long moment passed as he fell deep into thought. For a very long time the room was utterly silent. A strip of moonlight marched slowly across the floor.
    Finally, perhaps two hours later, he rose from the bed. On the far side of the room was a heavy metal locker, no doubt added at the time the space was converted into a hospital room. It was secured with a padlock. He looked about. On a table in one corner sat some papers. He flipped through them, but they were only newsletters and hospital menus. Slipping two paper clips off the documents, he went to the locker and—with a movement that was almost automatic—unbent both clips, inserted first one and then the other into the padlock, and with a single deft movement sprung it open.
    He paused. How did he know how to do that? From his Special Forces days? His memory of that time was still so damnably miasmic.
    He peered into the cabinet. It held a black suit, a white shirt, a tie, shoes, and socks. He touched the material of the suit, soft and elegant, as familiar as his own skin. He felt a prickling sensation at the base of his neck. He searched the suit and pants, going first to the pocket that—he supposedly remembered—held his FBI wallet. Nothing. The other pockets, all the little custom-made slots and pouches, were there. And all were empty. No ID, nothing.
    He slipped off his hospital gown and put on the shirt, stroking the fine pinpoint cotton. Then came the pants, the Zegna tie, the jacket, the socks. As he picked up the John Lobb shoes, he thought of something, flipped over the left shoe, and detached the heel. There, nestled in a carved hollow, was a razor blade, a set of lock picks, two sealed ampoules of chemicals, and a tightly folded hundred-dollar bill.
    He stared. Could this, too, be a product of his delusional FBI period?
    Refastening the heel, he put on the shoes. He walked to the window, unlatched it, and swung it open. A breeze scented with hemlocks flowed through the vertical iron bars. He tried again to summon his last memory. They said he had been in there six months. Had it been winter, then? He tried desperately to remember, to see the landscape in front of him covered with snow, but could not.
    Flexing his arms, he reached out and grasped two adjoining metal bars. They were wrought iron, of poor quality, and corroded. With all his force, he pushed outward with each hand. Slowly but surely, the wrought iron deformed under his immense strength until an opening large enough for him to slip through hadbeen made. He let go, breathing hard. But now was not the time to leave. No—he needed answers first.
    He fastened the window shut and drew the curtains. Moving cautiously, he went to the door of his room, tested the knob. Locked, of course. In ten seconds he had picked it with the aid of the paper clips, again marveling at his instinctual skill.
    He cracked the door and peered out. The lights were on in the hall, and at the far end he could see a nurse’s