The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Prisoner's Dilemma Read online

  “Constance, how could you?” said Kate, shaking her head.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t realize I did. I’d sent out the message for about the hundredth time, and each time I thought maybe I could hear Mr. Benedict saying something to me. But it was muddled and quiet, I couldn’t make out a word of it, and as far as I know it was my own imagination doing it. Right? I mean, if what you want more than anything is to hear someone’s voice in your head…” She yawned and stretched. “I can’t believe I fell asleep, though. I was a nervous wreck until—oh!”

  “Oh what?” Reynie said.

  “I remember what happened,” Constance said, closing her eyes and putting her fingertips to her temples. “I got this picture in my head, and it was so comforting it made me relax…” She opened her eyes. “I think I was so exhausted that relaxing for even a second just put me right out.”

  “The same thing happened to me in the van,” Reynie said. “What was the picture?”

  “It was Mr. Benedict and everybody. They all looked funny, dressed up in silly costumes, and all of them grinning at me.” Constance smiled. “Better yet, they were all holding pies—Moocho Brazos’s pies. I could practically smell them.”

  “Sounds to me like you were already dreaming,” Sticky said.

  Constance considered this. “Maybe so. It was an awfully silly image to have pop into my head.”

  Reynie, however, was growing excited. “Constance,” he said urgently, “don’t you think it might have been a message from Mr. Benedict?”

  “Oh! I don’t know… I suppose it might have been!” She pursed her lips, thinking. “If so, I can’t imagine what he meant by it. Maybe he just wanted to make me laugh and feel better… maybe it was his way of telling me everything will be all right. That was the feeling it gave me, anyway.”

  Unconvinced, Reynie pressed for details. Who had Constance meant by “everybody”? What were the silly costumes? And how did she know they were Moocho Brazos’s pies? Constance replied matter-of-factly that “everybody” meant Milligan, Rhonda, and Number Two; that the costumes were just silly disguises—big fake mustaches, trench coats, and hats; and that of course the pies had been made by Moocho, because who else would have made them?

  “It’s true they were shaped oddly, though,” said Constance upon reflection. “They were baked in the shape of S’s.”

  “Like the letter S?” Sticky said. “What for?”

  “How on earth would I know? Maybe it stands for something—safety or security, maybe. Like I said, the picture made me feel better. Maybe it was supposed to give me a feeling of being safe at home.”

  “Assuming it wasn’t just a dream, after all,” said Kate, looking at Reynie to see what he made of it.

  Reynie was rubbing his chin. “Are you sure that was the only image you saw, Constance? And there weren’t any words to go along with it?”

  “Oh sure, there were lots of words, but I couldn’t possibly tell you if they came from Mr. Benedict or from me. They were all in a jumble, and anyway they were all words I’d been thinking myself—all that stuff about Mr. Curtain’s plan, and the prison, and the spies bringing those advisers here, basically everything I’d been trying to send to Mr. Benedict, only it was in fragments and snippets. Sometimes it seemed like they were in my own voice and sometimes in Mr. Benedict’s. I don’t know—if he was trying to tell me something he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.”

  Constance found herself suddenly famished, and as Reynie and the others discussed what the image might mean, she made short work of the stale popcorn, cramming it into her mouth by the handful.

  The more they talked, the less certain Sticky and Kate were that the image actually came from Mr. Benedict. Reynie, on the other hand, strongly suspected that it did; he felt the image seemed meaningful somehow, but for the life of him he couldn’t say why. And even if it did come from Mr. Benedict, whether he had sent it on purpose or Constance’s probing mind had cobbled it together out of his thoughts seemed impossible to gauge. Furthermore, if he had sent it on purpose, it may well have lost some of its supporting detail in the transmission. So the image, tantalizing though it was, seemed unlikely to do them any good.

  “Maybe we should take a little break,” Constance said, when they had exhausted themselves talking about it (and she had stuffed herself with popcorn). Her eyelids had begun to droop. “Just a tiny short one to sort of”—she yawned—“sort of rest a minute while we think about this some more. I can tell you’re all tired…” And without further ado she curled up on her side and fell asleep with her mouth open.

  Sticky looked at her enviously. “I wish I could do that.”

  Reynie shook his head. “I think the strain took a lot out of her. She isn’t used to working very hard, you know.”

  “That would be an understatement,” said Kate, checking the popcorn bowl. It was empty, of course.

  As Constance slept, Sticky and Kate began discussing other ways to get out of their predicament, for neither of them had any confidence that Mr. Benedict had received Constance’s message. Reynie still felt otherwise, however, and he continued to ponder what the strange image in her head could possibly have meant. He kept thinking he could make sense of it if he tried hard enough, or thought about it in the right way, but it was no easy matter to find significance in silly disguises and S-shaped pies. For a long time he paced along the far side of the room, tuning out the whispers of Sticky and Kate, who knew to leave him alone at times like these. Finally, though, taking a break to clear his thoughts before trying again, he realized they were arguing.

  “You have to do it,” Sticky said.

  “No way,” Kate said emphatically. “Just drop it, okay?”

  “What are you talking about?” Reynie asked, coming over to them.

  Sticky looked up at him beseechingly. “You realize she could try again, don’t you? Mr. Curtain thinks S.Q. left the door unlocked—no one realizes she got out through the window.”

  “That’s true!” said Reynie, surprised. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “But I’m not going to do it, and that’s that,” Kate said.

  “But you know more this time!” Sticky insisted. “You could have a plan, and we could make a distraction or something.”

  “For what?” said Kate, waving him off. “A chance to save my own skin and leave the rest of you to be punished? Maybe even brainswept? And then live the rest of my life knowing I escaped when you couldn’t? Forget it!”

  Reynie quickly took Sticky’s side in the argument, pointing out that she could try to contact Mr. Benedict and tell him where they were. But it did no good. Kate was adamant.

  “We know now that we’re a long way from anywhere, right? So it’s a long shot at best. I might manage it in time, but then again I might not. Look,” Kate said, her expression softening, “don’t think I’m not aware of what you’re suggesting. You’re both willing to risk some awful punishment just so I can get away. But I’m not willing to risk it, especially since our chances are better if we stick together.”

  “But you don’t know that!” Reynie protested. “I keep messing up! I forget things… I don’t think clearly…” He cut himself off, biting his lip in frustration.

  Kate clucked her tongue. “That’s another thing, Reynie. You’re being too hard on yourself. You can’t think of everything all the time—no one can. I can’t do any of this alone, neither can Sticky, and neither can you. You know that. Maybe you just forget it because you feel responsible. But you aren’t responsible for all of us, you know. I mean, we’re all responsible, right?”

  Reynie looked away, feeling strangely embarrassed. “I know that, of course I know that. It isn’t like I think I have to solve every problem…” But even as he said it, he realized that he did. “Anyway,” he went on quickly, “the point is you can’t count on me to figure a way out of this. You should make a break for it while you can.”

  “I didn’t say I count on you to figure a way out,” Kate said
. Then she frowned. “I guess it’s true I usually do expect you to, which is my own way of being too hard on you, isn’t it? Sorry for that. But I’m not counting on you this time, I promise. I’m counting on us. Just because we don’t have an answer right now doesn’t mean we won’t have one soon. So you can quit trying to get me to go, both of you. I’m through talking about this. Got it?”

  Reynie and Sticky had no good answer for this. At any rate, they both felt encouraged by Kate’s speech. For wasn’t she right? Didn’t they always manage together?

  “Got it,” said Sticky.

  “Got it,” said Reynie.

  “Good,” said Kate, and all of them smiled.

  Reynie’s mind had wandered from the problem of the image Constance had seen to the very real prospect of being brainswept by the Whisperer—something he had been trying hard not to think about—and he had just arrived at the despairing thought that soon he might not recognize the faces of his friends, that these trying moments might well be the last ones the Society ever spent together. It was hard to imagine, and even harder to bear, so it was almost a relief when Constance’s eyes sprang open and she sat up.

  Almost, but not quite.

  “Crawlings is here,” Constance said.

  Reynie shivered, unnerved by the feeling that some ghostly Ten Man was among them without their knowing it. Kate and Sticky, feeling much the same, stopped whispering and looked toward the door.

  For a long minute no one spoke or moved. There were no footsteps, no noises in the hall. Even Constance began to suspect she’d been wrong. But then the lock turned, the door inched open, and, like a turtle easing out of its shell, Crawlings’s pale bald head slowly poked in through the door. He wriggled his eyebrow and leered at the children. “Oh, come now, kittens. Don’t stop whispering on my behalf.”

  “But that would be rude,” Kate replied. “We were whispering about you, after all, and I’m afraid we weren’t saying very nice things.”

  “Crawlings doesn’t care about rudeness,” Constance said. “Or doesn’t he know that it’s rude to listen in on people?”

  Crawlings snickered. “Oh yes,” he said, sauntering on into the room, “that would be very rude indeed, but I don’t quite count children as people, you see. It’s true they rather resemble people—but then so do puppets.” His brow wrinkled and he began fiddling with the clasp on his briefcase as if considering whether to open it. “Now what did I come in here to do? I’m trying to remember.”

  “Let us go?” Sticky ventured weakly, his eyes fixed on the briefcase.

  Crawlings pretended to consider this. “No… no, I don’t believe it was that,” he said. He tapped his chin with his long, spidery fingers. “Something to do with my briefcase, maybe?”

  The children watched him in silence. Crawlings was clearly toying with them, but still their nerves stood on end as they waited. He went so far as opening his briefcase and peeking at them to observe their response. They only stared blankly at him, however, and looking faintly disappointed that they hadn’t whimpered or begged for mercy, he closed it again and snapped his fingers.

  “I have it! I’m to bring you to Mr. Curtain’s work space for a quick word. Emphasis on quick—he’s very busy. So chop chop, little puppets, let’s hurry along!” And like a loving father Crawlings grabbed Kate by the hand and swung it playfully back and forth between them. “I believe I’ll keep you close, my dear. The rest of you may walk in front of us.”

  They had hardly taken two steps before Crawlings stopped, released Kate’s hand, and flexed his fingers with a troubled expression. “I’m impressed with your grip, Katiekins, but you had better stop squeezing so hard or mean old Crawlings may have to squeeze back.”

  Kate looked up at him innocently. “But I wasn’t squeezing hard,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

  Crawlings narrowed his eyes and took her hand again, telling the others which direction to go. They proceeded down a long corridor and into an elevator. “Mr. Curtain put you as far away from him as possible,” Crawlings explained as the elevator descended. “He has so much work to do, and children can be so noisy, you know. Though I suppose you don’t notice this yourselves.”

  “We’re more bothered by smells,” Constance said, holding her nose, for in the close confines of the elevator Crawlings’s cologne was almost overpowering.

  Crawlings grunted and muttered something about inferior sensibilities. When the elevator door slid open he leaned out and whispered to someone in the corridor. “Is he ready for them?”

  “He was,” came the whispered reply, “but you were late, so now he’s speaking to McCracken.” (Reynie perked up his ears at this; sure enough, he could just make out Mr. Curtain’s voice in the background.) “You’re to go in the instant they’re finished talking.”

  “Am I really late?” Crawlings asked, checking one of his watches. He frowned and checked the other one, looking concerned. Perhaps now he regretted the time he’d wasted intimidating the children.

  “Did you at least fetch his juice from the basement?” whispered the other Ten Man. “He called for it again.”

  Crawlings’s eyebrow rose in dismay. “We’ll go right now and bring them back—” His eyes shot over to Reynie, who had abruptly begun pressing the elevator buttons for all the higher floors, including one for the roof. With an angry cry he slapped Reynie’s hand away from the panel. “You little fool! What are you doing?”

  Rubbing his stinging hand, Reynie stepped away and averted his eyes.

  Crawlings gritted his teeth. “We’ll settle this later,” he hissed. “Get out, all of you!” As the children filed out he whispered down the corridor to the other Ten Man: “I’m taking the stairs. Keep an eye on the urchins, will you? Send them in if he finishes with McCracken.”

  “Crawlings, old sport, you know it isn’t my job to—”

  But Crawlings was already scuttling off and pretended not to hear.

  The other Ten Man sighed and regarded the children from his post outside an open doorway. He was unfamiliar to them, a slight, swarthy man in a dapper seersucker suit, with a bandage on his forehead that Kate suspected was the result of the flashlight she had thrown outside Mr. Benedict’s house (in the darkness she hadn’t gotten a good look at the man she’d hit). If they hadn’t known he was a Ten Man they might have thought he was kind, so gentle was his expression and so friendly the smile he leveled at them. He was holding a newspaper, working the crossword puzzle with an expensive-looking gold pen. Laying the pen to his lips, he indicated that they should wait quietly where they were.

  They nodded and stood perfectly still—all the better to listen. For this was exactly why Reynie had pressed those buttons, and the others knew it: From here they could hear Mr. Curtain and McCracken. If they had accompanied Crawlings to the basement, they would have missed their chance to eavesdrop.

  Mr. Curtain’s voice emanated from a doorway just beyond the one the Ten Man appeared to be guarding. But even from this distance his tone of satisfaction was unmistakable. “… here within the hour! Can you imagine that, McCracken? Has it ever occurred to you to fulfill my orders exactly on time? Oh, how rare! I’m very pleased. I cherish expedience, you know.”

  “As do I,” said McCracken. “And in this case it is a benefit, no doubt, of your associates not having to engage with government agents. Such challenging tasks as that you leave to my men and me.”

  Mr. Curtain screeched—or rather, laughed—and said, “Try not to be defensive, McCracken! Or are you simply angling for greater compensation? I believe I pay you handsomely enough. Now here is what I expect. You will post all of your men in the two foremost guard towers. From there they shall be in perfect position to rain down destruction should anything not go as expected. Do you agree?”

  “Certainly. You expect treachery, then?”

  “Of course not! I said ‘should anything not go as expected,’ didn’t I? I am careful, McCracken—you should know that by now.”

  “Indeed I do,
” said McCracken. “So careful, in fact, that you’ve never revealed to me the identities of these friends you are expecting. Don’t mistake my meaning—I admire your caution—but do tell me how I’m to know whether to admit them. I assume there is a password?”

  “I was getting to that, McCracken,” Mr. Curtain said irritably. “Yes, there will be a password—but you’ll see that I am cautious even with that. When the van arrives, you must radio me from the gate and describe the driver. I shall then give you a question to ask, and you must relay the response you’re given. If it is correct, you’ll open the gate. If not…”

  “If not, we’ll set about earning our pay,” said McCracken. “Now, may I make one suggestion? I have more than enough men to handle any complications at the gate. Allow me to leave one in the building with you, just as an added precaution.”

  There was a pause. “I sense there is something more to your suggestion than you are letting on, McCracken. Tell me what it is.”

  “To be frank, sir, I do not entirely trust your assistant. I know he is loyal to you—and you must think so yourself, having kept him for so long—but he seems to have a soft spot for our young prisoners, and I worry he may try to help them somehow.”

  “I see,” Mr. Curtain said in an icy tone. “You disapprove of my choice in assistants. Very well, McCracken, I shall deploy S.Q. to the gate with you and your men, and you may leave behind whomever you wish—your own choice in associates being so impeccable.” When McCracken shrewdly chose not to reply to this, Mr. Curtain snapped, “Take Crawlings, for instance. Give him two simple tasks and he accomplishes neither on time.” And raising his voice he called out, “I don’t suppose Crawlings is here yet, is he, Hertz?”

  “He’s gone for the juice,” answered the Ten Man in the corridor, with a wink at the children. “But the cherubs are here when you’re ready for them.”