The Mysterious Benedict Society (48 page)

“We’re very glad you’re safe, sir,” said Number Two from behind the steering wheel. “But may we please leave now and save the congratulations for later?” She was nervously eyeing the troop of Recruiters, who had realized their leader was not among them. One by one they were turning to gawk and point at the station wagon. Some had started back across the bridge.

“By all means, Number Two,” said Mr. Benedict, climbing into the car. “Let us fly!”

E
very night the moon made its slow passage over Stonetown, and every night Reynie Muldoon gazed up through the window of the drafty old house, remembering the moonlit meetings of the Mysterious Benedict Society. There was much to remember about that time, and much to tell, but the moon in its nightly travels would dwindle, disappear, and fatten again before their stories were entirely told. There was too much to do, too little time for storytelling.

Mr. Curtain had escaped the island, along with several Recruiters and a few of his most trusted Executives. So reported the government officials Mr. Benedict had persuaded to raid the Institute. These officials had never believed him before, but their former skepticism had crumbled under the weight of new developments. For one thing, Milligan’s memory had returned, and with it a number of top-secret government passwords. For another, Kate, unbeknownst to anyone, had swiped a pamphlet from Mr. Curtain’s press room, not to mention Mr. Curtain’s
journal
, which she’d nabbed on her way out of the Whispering Gallery. But most important of all, the Whisperer was no longer broadcasting Mr. Curtain’s messages. Their mind-muddying effects were daily diminishing, the Emergency was fading, and minds long closed to truth were opening again, like flowers craving sunlight.

These days a steady stream of agents and officers flowed through Mr. Benedict’s doors, gathering details and scribbling furiously in notebooks (and often getting lost in his maze). They wanted to catch Mr. Curtain, though for this Mr. Benedict held out little hope. Mr. Curtain, he said, was too smart to be outfoxed by adults. Only children could have accomplished it.

Still, there remained the important problem of all those who had been robbed of memories: the “recruited” children; the secret agents who’d been retrained as Helpers; Mr. Bloomburg, of course; and a good many of the Executives, who not so long ago had been hapless orphans in search of purpose and a home. It would be Milligan’s task to lead the search for all the unfortunates who had ever set foot upon Nomansan Island; it would be Mr. Benedict’s to restore their memories. Already Mr. Benedict was hard at work modifying his twin’s invention with the aim of reversing its brainsweeping function — instead of covering up old memories, it would coax them into the open again — and when pressed, Mr. Benedict admitted he thought it rather likely he would succeed. To those who knew him, this meant there was no doubt he would.

Mr. Benedict firmly insisted, however, that modesty had nothing to do with his opinion that the children had been the real heroes in this adventure. It was they, he argued, who took the risks to discover Mr. Curtain’s dark secrets; they who overcame Mr. Curtain in the Whispering Gallery; they who primed the Whisperer for shutdown; and they who figured out how to unlock the secret exit — something that could only have been done from the inside.

“How did you even know about that secret exit, Mr. Benedict?” Kate asked one night, some weeks after their return. Though everyone in the house had been talking nonstop, it had mostly been to government agents, not to one another, and their own curiosities had yet to be satisfied. This night happened to be the first that they all sat down together with no one to interrupt them. Everyone in the dining room cradled a mug of steaming hot chocolate, for autumn had now given way to winter, and everyone — even Constance Contraire — wore an expression of profound relief to find themselves alone together at last.

“Again I must defer the credit,” said Mr. Benedict. “It was Milligan who found it.”

Everyone looked to Milligan, who was seated at the table beside Kate.

“I just felt sure Mr. Curtain would have built a secret escape route for himself,” Milligan explained. “So after I joined you on the island, I searched every night under cover of darkness. Even then I was lucky — I only found the entrance the night before I was captured.”

“It’s always about entrances and exits with you, isn’t it, Milligan?” Kate teased.

Milligan laughed — it was a hearty, booming laugh — and everyone at the table jumped. They were still getting used to his laughter. After all these years of acting like the saddest man alive, Milligan now acted as if he were the
happiest
man alive — and perhaps he was. Having so long ago exited his life as a father, he had now, at long last, entered it again.

Milligan reached over and plucked Kate’s chin, which for the first time in weeks was not greasy with ointment. (Her cuts and bruises were long since healed, having been constantly overattended to, not only by Milligan but by everyone else in the house as well.) Kate beamed, swatting playfully at his hand. The next moment she realized the marshmallow was missing from her hot chocolate. She looked up to see him pop it into his mouth.

“You thief!” she said, giggling.

Milligan gave her a wink and a fresh marshmallow.

At the other end of the table, meanwhile, Reynie was preoccupied with a curious question: What should he call the person beside him? He was seated next to Miss Perumal, of course. They’d been reunited at last — with much hugging and great quantities of tears — and she sat by him now with one hand resting on his shoulder. But would he continue to call her Miss Perumal? What
would
he call her? This is a pressing question for all children who find themselves with a new parent, and so it was for Reynie, whose absence had impressed upon Miss Perumal how dear to her he was: At their reunion, she had lost no time asking what he might think of her adopting him.

At first Reynie had been unable to answer her, only threw himself into her arms and hid his face.

“Oh dear,” Miss Perumal had said, bursting into a fresh bout of tears. “Oh dear, I hope this means yes.”

It had, of course, meant yes, and the two of them sat now with the odd sense — very much like that experienced by Milligan and Kate — of having been family for ages, yet somehow having only just met. An odd sense, but extremely pleasant.

“
Mom” didn’t feel quite right
, Reynie decided. Why not use the Tamil word? He’d heard her refer to her own mother as “Amma,” but whether this meant “mom” or “mother,” he wasn’t sure. Reynie felt a flutter of happy anticipation. He would ask Sticky.

At that moment, Sticky happened to be the only unhappy person in the entire group. He was trying valiantly not to show it, though. Instead he pressed Mr. Benedict with another question: “But how did you finally disable the Whisperer?”

“I only finished what you children had already begun,” replied Mr. Benedict. “I persuaded the Whisperer that I was Curtain, then gave it orders that more or less baffled it out of operation. But had Constance not already thoroughly discombobulated it, and had I not possessed a brain so very much like my twin’s, we might never have succeeded.”

“Three cheers for Mr. Benedict’s brain!” cried Kate. Everyone laughed and cheered.

“And three cheers for Constance,” said Mr. Benedict, then grew thoughtful as the others cheered and Constance blushed. “That reminds me. Constance, my dear, would you please step into the kitchen and retrieve the small box on the table there?”

Constance nodded and went into the kitchen.

“I can’t believe it,” Sticky said. “She went without even grumbling. It’s almost like she’s growing up.”

“That is precisely to the point, Sticky,” said Mr. Benedict, with a nod to Rhonda Kazembe, who went to a cabinet and produced an enormous birthday cake that had been hidden inside.

“Thank goodness,” said Number Two. “I’m starved.”

Constance returned to find the others beaming at her and pointing to the cake. She blushed yet again. “But my birthday isn’t until next month!”

“Who knows what the next month brings?” asked Mr. Benedict. “I say let us eat cake now!”

Constance shook her head bemusedly, though clearly she was delighted, and as she clambered back into her chair she handed him the little box he’d sent for.

“It was the three cheers that reminded me,” said Mr. Benedict, opening the box and shaking out three birthday candles. “I’d forgotten to put the candles on the cake.”

“Three birthday candles?” Reynie said. “
Three
birthday candles? Constance is only
two years old
?”

“Two years and eleven months,” the girl said defensively.

The children gaped.

“But… but… ,” Sticky began, then closed his mouth and shook his head.

“Why, that explains everything!” Kate said, with a feeling of great relief, as if a nagging question had finally been answered, though she’d never realized she’d had the question in the first place.

Reynie laughed with delight. “So
that
was what Mr. Benedict meant when he said you were more gifted than anyone realized. I thought he was just referring to your incredible stubbornness!”

“Who’s stubborn?” Constance said, frowning.

“A toddler,” Sticky murmured to himself. “No wonder she was always so sleepy, so cranky, so stubborn. She’s two!”

“I am
not
stubborn,” insisted Constance, who had overheard. Then she corrected him: “And I’m almost three.”

The next day, although the house once again teemed with agents and rattled with the noise of a thousand phone calls, Mr. Benedict found it necessary to abandon the projects for a time and attend to important matters of a more personal nature. He tracked Sticky down in an upstairs hallway, where Number Two was rubbing Sticky’s bald head and nodding.

“Yes, I concur,” she said matter-of-factly. “Your hair is definitely coming back.”

“Finally,” Sticky said.

Number Two noticed Mr. Benedict and frowned. “What on earth are you doing out of your chair? Why didn’t you call for one of us?”

“I apologize, Number Two. I was distracted by an urgent matter and will return at once. Sticky, will you please accompany me? I have something to discuss with you.”

“Make sure he sits down, Sticky,” Number Two called after them.

Together they went into Mr. Benedict’s office, where Mr. Benedict obediently sat at his desk and said, “Sticky, I won’t beat around the bush. Your parents are here.”

“My — my parents?
Here
?” Sticky said, glancing around as if expecting to see them hiding behind furniture. It was only a nervous response. He had no idea how he felt about the news.

“I’ll explain,” said Mr. Benedict. “Let us begin with what you already know. After you ran away your parents did, for a time, get caught up in the sudden downpour of riches. In fact they made so much money they were wealthier than most people, wealthier by far than they had ever been. Though they did look for you, their efforts grew halfhearted —”

“You’re right,” Sticky interjected miserably. “I know this part.”

“Not entirely, my friend. Their efforts were halfhearted, I say, but this, more than anything, was because they were afraid of you.”

“Afraid? Of
me
?”

“Indeed, they were afraid of their inability to give you a proper home. When you ran away, Sticky, your parents were bitterly ashamed. You were already so much smarter than they were, and they had already made such a terrible mess of things. If you wished to run away, then perhaps — or so they thought in their anguish — perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps you were better off without them.”

“Better off?” Sticky echoed, remembering that long-ago phrase of his father’s, the phrase he’d partly overheard. He’d thought his father meant
they
were better off without
him
.

“These were their thoughts at the time. You must also realize they were being influenced by Curtain’s hidden messages. ‘The missing aren’t missing, they’re only departed,’ remember? A most pernicious message indeed. And yet
despite
this, Sticky, your parents became perfectly morose. Despite their desperate hopes that the money would help them forget you, they soon understood no amount of riches could fill the hole you’d left in their lives. They realized they needed
you
, even if you didn’t need
them
. And so they’ve spent all their money looking for you, in fact have gone deeply into debt and are now quite poor.

“It may also interest you to know,” Mr. Benedict continued, “that your parents began their search
before
we disabled the Whisperer. So determined were they to bring you back, you see, their minds began to resist the broadcasts. Only a powerful love could have mounted such a resistance.”

Sticky was having trouble taking it all in. “And they found me? You didn’t call them?”

“They found you. I could have kept you hidden, perhaps. But once I was convinced of how earnestly they sought you, once I had grasped their true feelings, I allowed you to be found.”

“So you think I should go with them.”

“It’s what
you
think that matters, Sticky.”

“Well, but how do they seem to you?”

“Quite wretched, I should say, and sick with longing for their lost child. They made a terrible mistake and will always regret it. When I told them you were safe, your parents’ relief overwhelmed them. They wept and wept. Nor had they stopped weeping when I took my leave of them. I believe they’re still weeping, in fact — I saw Rhonda bringing fresh tissues.”

Sticky’s eyes brimmed with tears. “And they really said they needed me more than I needed them?”

“That appears to be their take on the matter. What is your own opinion?”

The tears spilled over and ran down Sticky’s cheeks. “May I see them?”

“You had only to ask, my friend,” declared Mr. Benedict, rising to shake Sticky’s hand. His eyes shone with emotion. “They’re waiting for you in the dining room.”

Sticky flew from Mr. Benedict’s study toward a reunion so joyous and tearful and, eventually, so full of happy laughter, that soon the dining room was crowded with all Sticky’s friends, and with Milligan and Rhonda and Number Two, and even a few unfamiliar officials drawn by the commotion. It was a splendid, uproarious, spontaneous celebration, with hugs and handshakes and kisses all around, and eventually Milligan produced the remains of last night’s birthday cake and Rhonda whipped up a frothy fruit punch. Even the officials, at first irritated by the delay in their investigations, got caught up in the frenzy, and before long they had shed their coats and ties, one of them had put on a record, and dancing broke out.