The Mysterious Benedict Society (45 page)

Reynie braced himself. Let the worst come. He would be brave enough to resist, and he would not be alone.

Let us begin
, the Whisperer repeated, more insistently.

Not just yet,
Reynie thought.

Let us begin
.

First let me polish my spectacles,
Reynie thought.

Let us begin
.

Not without my bucket,
Reynie insisted.

He heard Mr. Curtain muttering behind him.

Let us begin, let us begin, let us begin
.

Rules and schools are tools for fools,
Reynie thought.

And then, as if he had conjured her, Reynie heard Constance’s shrill voice. It was perhaps the first time he had ever been glad to hear it.

“Help! Open up! Let me in!”

“Pah!” sputtered Mr. Curtain. “What is
wrong
with this infernal machine? And now another interruption! Where is that voice coming from?”

“From the window,” said Sticky, who looked every bit as surprised as Mr. Curtain.

“The window?” Mr. Curtain said, thrusting the red helmet from his head and looking toward the window. Nothing was visible beyond it except blue sky. He grunted and lowered the helmet again. “Never mind. We’ll just ignore it. I am going to finish this session if it’s the last thing —”

“Open up! Open up! Open up!” shrieked Constance.

“That’s going to be difficult to ignore, sir,” Reynie said as Constance continued to shriek.

“This is outrageous! How am I to concentrate if… ?” Mr. Curtain’s face twisted with frustration. “Very well, I’ll have to address this. The window latch is too high for me to reach from my chair, however. George —” He glanced suspiciously at Sticky, then shook his head. “No, George, you stay where you are. Reynard, go and see what the trouble is.”

The cuffs unclasped his wrists, the helmet went up.

Reynie needed no prodding. In an instant he was across the room and scrabbling at the window catch. He flung open the panes and looked down. Just beneath the window, the miniature figure of Constance Contraire clung desperately to the flagpole — Reynie’s first impression was of a koala bear hugging the trunk of a fallen eucalyptus tree — her entire body trembling with effort, her eyes rolling with fright. She had good reason: The least slip would send her plummeting to rocky ground.

Nor, apparently, was the ground a safer place to have remained, for there Kate was engaged in a furious struggle. Reynie’s heart swelled with pride and hope. It might be bad, but it wasn’t over. The girls weren’t captured yet.

“Well?” Mr. Curtain demanded from across the room. “What is it?”

Sticky was watching with a hint of new hopefulness.

Reynie kept his face turned away; he must not reveal his smile to Mr. Curtain. “It’s those children S.Q. mentioned, sir. One appears to have been apprehended. The other is stuck on the flagpole outside the window.”

Mr. Curtain seemed unsure whether to laugh or snarl. “Go ahead and haul him inside, then. This will be our last interruption.”

“It’s a girl, sir,” Reynie corrected. “Sticky, can you help me?”

Sticky, having recovered a bit of strength, came over to hold Reynie’s legs as he reached out and lifted the frightened girl through the window.

“Well, well, well, Constance Contraire,” said Mr. Curtain with apparent satisfaction. “Just as I suspected. I knew all along you weren’t to be trusted. In fact, I would have taken care of you long ago had it not been for —”

He gave a sudden start, whipping off his glasses to reveal bright green, horribly bloodshot eyes — eyes quite flaming with angry realization.

“Had it not been,” he repeated, turning those eyes now on Reynie, “for
you
.”

Mr. Curtain threw his silver glasses to the floor, as if without them he would have seen the truth much sooner. And then, to the children’s great confusion and horror, the fearsome man unstrapped himself, rose from the wheelchair to stand at his full alarming height, and strode across the room to seize them.

Kate Wetherall, meanwhile, was fighting for her life. Martina Crowe had been hoping for just this sort of occasion, an opportunity to exact revenge for past humiliations. And now Jackson and Jillson, never the most delicate creatures to begin with, were equally determined to knock Kate about, having been embarrassed — not to mention bruised — by her bucket. Kate might be clever and quick as a fox, but she was a weary fox now, and one among hounds.

Still, she
had
managed to inflict some unpleasantness: In addition to the knot on Jackson’s head, his pointy nose was swollen and red where she’d pinched it to encourage her release. Jillson’s ear was ringing painfully — the result of a well-placed elbow. And Martina had been rebuffed by an excruciating shin-scrape. The Executives circled her more warily now, looking for the right moment to renew their attack.

Kate crouched, watching them carefully, her lasso at the ready. (For once Constance had followed Kate’s advice — had untied herself so that the Executives couldn’t yank her down — and the rope was now free). The others circled and circled, eyeing the lasso, looking for a weakness. But it was Kate who saw one first: Martina had taken an awkward step, was slightly off balance. Kate feinted to the side — moving as if to flee — and when Martina lunged to stop her, Kate snared her ankle with the lasso and jerked her off her feet. Martina landed in the dust with an angry growl.

It was an excellent throw, but it was also the beginning of the end. Before Kate could let go of her rope, Martina grabbed it and heaved. Kate was pulled off balance, and Jackson chose that exact moment to give her a shove — and no gentle shove, at that. It was as if she’d been struck by a ram. Kate went reeling, trying to catch herself.

But it was Jillson who caught her.

The next few minutes were wretched ones indeed. Kate’s ears were boxed, her hair pulled, her cheeks pummeled with Jillson’s boltlike knuckles. And though she writhed and twisted, swung her fists, and kicked her feet, she could do nothing to stop them. Kate had told herself she could handle the Executives, but she’d been fooling herself — just as she had fooled herself for so long. She couldn’t do everything by herself. She realized that now.

Kate stopped struggling. Why struggle? She was of no use now to her friends, herself, or anyone. She was completely overcome, helpless and alone. The bitter irony wasn’t lost on Kate: The moment she finally admitted to herself she needed help, there was no help to be found.

As if reading her thoughts, Martina hissed, “
Now
you realize how outclassed you are, don’t you, Wetherall? I don’t blame you for giving up.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Martina,” Kate mumbled through bloody lips. “I’m just taking a nap while you yammer on.”

This infuriated Martina, and as Jackson and Jillson redoubled their grips on Kate’s limbs, the raven-haired girl prepared to unleash her most vicious attack yet. Stepping back to get a running start, she cried, “I’ll kick you until you cry for mercy, Wetherall! I’ll make you suffer until you beg me to stop! I’ll beat you until you admit I’m the best! I’ll —”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said an unfamiliar voice, followed by three successive
swit, swit, swits
, upon which Martina’s eyes crossed, Jackson and Jillson sighed, and all three collapsed upon the ground unconscious, dart feathers blooming from their shoulders as if by magic.

Where Martina Crowe had been, Milligan now stood with his tranquilizer gun. Covered from head to toe in slimy black mud, his left arm in a sling fashioned from an Executive’s blood-stained tunic, Milligan — wonder of wonders! — was grinning at Kate with joyous eyes.
That
was why his voice had seemed unfamiliar — it was too cheerful. She hadn’t recognized it at all.

And yet. Staring at him all the while, Kate rose unsteadily to her feet. And yet… something about those eyes. There was something familiar about him, after all. Something…

“Sorry it took me so long, Katie-Cat,” said her father.

Y
ou,” Mr. Curtain repeated, looming over the children and glowering in particular at Reynie. “You betrayed me! After all I did for you — welcomed you to my Institute, soothed your fears with my Whisperer, offered you a role in my Improvement — after all this, you chose to defy me?”

“I don’t suppose you’d accept an apology,” Sticky offered. (A cheeky response for him, especially since he was too petrified by the sight of Mr. Curtain’s towering figure even to reach for his spectacles, though every bone in his body wanted to give them a terrific polishing.)

Mr. Curtain laughed a terrifying, screech-owl laugh, and said, “Oh, no, I’m afraid not, George. But I thank you for reminding me how pathetic children are. Quick to follow, quicker still to flee. Yes, quite pitiful, and annoying as gnats, but certainly not a threat. To think you hoped… what
did
you hope for, anyway? To defeat
me
? But you’re only children!”

Mr. Curtain erupted into laughter again, a long fit of convulsive screeching. Calming himself with some effort, he said, “Well, no matter. I needn’t dirty my hands clutching your grubby little collars. I’ll summon my Executives to bear you off.”

Mr. Curtain turned to walk back to his chair. He paused, however, at the sight of Reynie Muldoon’s penetrating stare. The boy’s eyes shifted rapidly back and forth, as if calculating something with great concentration. Before Mr. Curtain could ask what the devil he was doing, Reynie said aloud, as if to himself, “Okay, so it isn’t laughter.”

“What are you blathering about, Reynard?” Mr. Curtain demanded.

Reynie hardly seemed to hear him. “With Mr. Benedict, it’s usually laughter that does it. But if it’s not laughter with you, then what? It must be
something
, otherwise you wouldn’t strap yourself so carefully in. You’re so afraid of losing control — but how, exactly?”

Mr. Curtain’s eyebrows shot up. His entire head quivered like a struck bell. “I have no idea — what the devil are you — snakes and — I haven’t time for your childish —,” he sputtered.

“Yes, you’re definitely afraid of
something
,” Reynie said more forcefully, his eyes lighting up. “The chair, the straps, the reflective glasses — they’re all there to keep your secret safe from the children. But why are you so afraid of children? Maybe that’s why you keep saying we’re so harmless. You’re trying to convince yourself. In fact you’re scared to death of us! You’re like a tiger afraid of mice! Why else would you stand there shaking in your boots?”

“It’s not from
fear
, you insignificant speck of dust!” roared Mr. Curtain, his face livid with rage. “How dare you! I’ll crush you all like the gnats you are!” And with that, he sprang forward… only to drop in a green-plaid heap at the children’s feet, where he promptly began to snore.

Reynie’s breath escaped in a whoosh of relief. Then he nodded. “Laughter usually puts Mr. Benedict to sleep. With Mr. Curtain, it’s anger. Quick, Sticky, let’s tie him up with our sashes.”

Sticky released Constance’s hand, which in his fright he had unconsciously seized, and loosened his sash. “So
that’s
the reason for the chair and the glasses. When he gets really mad, he goes to sleep, but he doesn’t want anyone to know!”

“All those times he seemed so furious and then suddenly got quiet,” Reynie said, knotting his sash around Mr. Curtain’s ankles, “I always thought he was getting ready to kill me, but really he was just asleep!”

“Um, fellows?” said Constance. “He’s awake.”

The boys jumped back. Sure enough, Mr. Curtain’s eyes were open and looking wildly about. When they fell upon Reynie’s face, they narrowed with hatred. “Oh, that’s right,” he said, yawning. “I was on my way over to kill you. But what’s this? Sashes? Surely you don’t think mere ribbons could restrain me?”

Reynie’s face fell. “I sort of hoped they would.”

“Then you are even more foolish than I perceived you to be,” said Mr. Curtain, and spreading his arms and legs with one powerful thrust, he ripped the sashes in two.

“If we’re so foolish,” Constance shouted before he could rise, “then what does that say about you? You made the boys Messengers even though they always intended to betray you, and we’ve tricked you again and again. We even know about your narcolepsy, though you tried so hard to hide it. If we’re foolish, then you’re the greatest fool of all, since we’re obviously much smarter than you!”

For a moment Mr. Curtain trembled violently, unable even to form words in his fury. Then his eyes closed and he sank back upon the floor.

“That was fun,” Constance said.

“That was
close,
” Sticky said. “But now what? There’s nothing else to tie him up with.”

“How about this rope?” cried a familiar voice, and to their surprise Kate Wetherall suddenly leaped in through the open window.

She was a welcome sight, but a terrible one. Her cheeks were scratched and bleeding, her lips were swollen, her clothes were torn, her hair stuck out in all directions, and on top of this she was streaked with mud. Yet she seemed cheerful as ever they’d seen her, her bruised, black eyes shining with happiness and her bloody lips spread in a terrific grin. As she knelt to bind Mr. Curtain’s hands and feet, Kate eagerly told them what had happened.

“Your father!” Sticky cried. “I can’t believe it! So that’s why Milligan disappeared all those years ago — he was captured on a mission!”

“But why has he disappeared now?” Constance demanded. “Shouldn’t he be here?”

“He said he was going for help. I didn’t take time to ask for details — I thought you’d need me.”

Reynie nudged the slumbering Mr. Curtain with his toe. “It’s good you came when you did. Otherwise he’d have throttled us when he woke up.”

“So now what?” Constance asked.

Reynie was already moving toward the Whisperer. “I’ve been thinking about what Mr. Curtain said. That the Whisperer is a sensitive — how did he say it, exactly, Sticky?”

“A sensitive, delicately balanced machine that requires his strict mental guidance for its proper function.”