The Prisoner's Dilemma (28 page)

“Well, okay, but I can’t really picture it,” Constance said doubtfully. “When I was in the library I just stared at the call number on the spine of that book. Mr. Benedict said images probably get through more easily, so that’s what I tried. But there’s not much to look at here…”

“We’ll help you decide what to think,” Reynie said, and the others agreed.

And so the Society began to brainstorm about the best way for Constance to communicate their situation to Mr. Benedict. It wouldn’t do for him to plan a rescue attempt at the wrong prison, after all. He needed to know that they were being held in Third Island Prison, something they wouldn’t have known themselves had Reynie not remembered the too-bright morning sun glaring through the van’s rear windows. The sun, of course, rose in the east; therefore they had been heading west.

They were in Third Island, no doubt about it. And between Sticky and Kate, they had a fairly good idea about the place. For Constance’s benefit Kate laid out in greater detail what she had seen outside, and Sticky explained that the prison was situated on an island (the third one upstream from the bay, hence its name) along the widest stretch of Stonetown River.

“What is it with this guy and islands?” said Constance, rolling her eyes.

“It makes good strategic sense,” Reynie said. “The prison’s a defensible position, and if things go awry he can shut down the power again and use the Salamander to escape on the river.”

“Do you really think he could shut it down again?” Kate said.

“I don’t see why not. He still has his spies in place, and soon he’ll have the Whisperer up and running again. I assume that’s what he’s working so busily on.”

“I’m sure it is,” Sticky said. “He’d want to run through all the computer programs first to see the things Mr. Benedict changed, and make sure—”

“Stop, stop!” Constance growled. “You’re cluttering my head up. I just need to concentrate on where we are and what we know for sure, right?”

“Yes,” Reynie said. “I think it’s best to keep this simple. You should try to tell him what we know—focusing on the most important details—and to be safe you should probably conjure up as many images as you can. Like a neon sign flashing the words ‘Third Island,’ maybe—”

“And maybe the three of us looking out from behind prison bars,” Kate suggested.

“But that might be confusing,” Sticky said. “I’m sure he knows that the prison cells here were demolished.”

“Yes, but it’s symbolic,” Kate argued.

“I
know
it’s symbolic,” Sticky said. “My point is for the sake of clarity we should—”

Constance frowned and shushed them, looking at the door. “Here’s S.Q.!”

Sure enough, the lock turned, the door swung open, and S.Q. Pedalian entered the room with a large plastic bowl of popcorn. He closed the door behind him. “Before you say anything, you should know that speaking to me will get you punished. Mr. Curtain made that very clear to me—
very
clear—and it will be my duty to report you if you do. So please don’t. No funny business, either. Garrotte is posted in the hallway and will come running if I call out.”

S.Q. set the large bowl on the floor and stared at it apologetically. “I’m afraid it’s a bit stale, and there’s no butter. But Mr. Curtain says that nutrition is not our main concern at the moment. He just wants to prevent your whining about your empty stomachs.” For the first time, S.Q. looked up and made eye contact with the children. “Just so you know, I don’t hold a grudge against you for what happened back on that island. I’ve given it a lot of thought since then, and I realize you were just scared. If I were you I might have tricked myself, too. Not that I could trick myself, of course—I mean, not without… never mind. All I mean to say is I have no hard feelings. Okay? Don’t answer that!”

From S.Q.’s anxious expression they could all tell that he’d meant what he said, that he would report them if they said even one word to him. Still, he seemed reluctant to leave, and lingered there by the popcorn bowl, nudging it with his tattered boot as if to encourage them to eat. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he turned to go out.

“Kate,” Reynie said quickly, “I hope S.Q. realizes that we don’t have any hard feelings toward him, either. I mean, I hope he knows that we understand he’s just trying to do what’s right.”

“Surely he does, Reynie,” said Kate, instantly catching on. “We’ve always gotten along with him, haven’t we?” And Sticky and Constance (in rather awkward, self-conscious voices) hastened to agree.

S.Q., listening intently, turned back to them with a grateful smile. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s pretty clever of you, incidentally.”

“Sticky,” Reynie said (though he was looking imploringly at S.Q.), “I wonder if S.Q. would be willing to tell us what’s going on. I’ll bet he can imagine how frustrating it is to be held captive and not even know why. Like he said himself, we’re just scared.”

S.Q. looked troubled. “I don’t know… I mean, my orders don’t specifically state…”

“You’re right, Reynie,” Sticky said, “it would be very kind of him.”

S.Q. pressed a knuckle against his lips and glanced at the door. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt just to—well, it’s all very simple, really. As you’d know if you hadn’t been deceived by malicious false reports, Mr. Curtain only wants to stabilize the country. He wants to protect it! But there are powerful people in the government who don’t listen to reason—they only want to hold on to their power, no matter how bad it is for everyone else.”

“You think Mr. Curtain is just trying to
help
?” Constance said incredulously. Then seeing her friends’ horrified looks, she quickly added, “I’m asking Reynie!” and somewhat desperately she went on, “Well, Reynie? Is that what you think, Reynie?
Is
it, Reynie?”

“I don’t know, Constance,” said Reynie. “Maybe he is.”

Plainly relieved, S.Q. said, “I assure you he is. And he has several friends in government who understand this. That’s why they’ve arranged to bring the very best government advisers to have a secret meeting with Mr. Curtain later this afternoon. Together they’re going to work out a way to ensure all the major cities have a safe and steady power supply. Thanks to Mr. Curtain’s expertise, new tidal turbines can be built, power grids updated and vastly improved, new systems put in place—trust me, it’s all going to be much, much better for everyone. And once the higher-ups see what Mr. Curtain really means to do—what he’s been trying to do all along—well, they’ll change their minds and support him. He’ll no longer be considered a criminal.” S.Q. paused, then added with feeling, “And neither will I.”

The children looked gravely at one another. They had no doubt that these “friends” S.Q. spoke of were actually spies—and that this very afternoon Mr. Curtain would be using his Whisperer to extract valuable secrets from the advisers that his spies were bringing to him. And afterward he could simply sweep away their memories of that unpleasant experience, and no one would be the wiser.

“Reynie,” said Kate, “I still don’t understand why Mr. Curtain needs
us.
”

“Oh! That part is more complicated,” S.Q. said. “Even I have trouble understanding it. But it comes down to other people—foolish, wicked people—trying to ruin Mr. Curtain’s chances. He’s been forced to use some unusual methods to clear up this situation. He only has one weakness, really, and Mr. Benedict has information that would help him get rid of it—but Mr. Benedict has been corrupted and is unwilling to help—so Mr. Curtain has had to involve you. I’m not sure why, but the important thing is that it will all work out fine if you just do as he says.”

“Constance,” said Reynie. “I wonder if S.Q. really, truly believes that.”

S.Q.’s face clouded at this. For a moment he stood frozen, his eyes darting quickly this way and that as if seeking answers—or comfort—in the corners of the room. “I have to go,” he said abruptly, and hurried to the door. “Garrotte will wonder what’s taking me so long.”

Reynie, forgetting himself, almost called out after him. And then S.Q. was out the door, and they all heard the turning of the lock.

Time was growing short. By this afternoon, Mr. Curtain might be too powerful for anyone to have any chance of stopping him. Everything now seemed to depend on Constance’s ability to send her thoughts, clearly and accurately, across an unknown number of miles, into the mind of Mr. Benedict. It was no surprise that she was feeling the pressure. She had once thwarted the Whisperer itself, but that fight had called for her straightforward, stubborn resistance; her courage and obstinance had saved the day. This time was different, the task far more complex.

Never had Constance worked so hard or for so long. Minutes passed, and then an hour, and still she worked. And all it seemed she was doing was lying on the floor with her eyes squeezed tightly closed. In reality, her friends knew, she was sending out her thoughts again and again, then “listening” carefully for any kind of response. Reynie, Kate, and Sticky maintained perfect silence, breathing as softly as they could and trying hard (in Sticky’s case, extremely hard) not even to scratch their itches or stretch their legs. They knew that Constance’s ability to concentrate was of the utmost importance, that their fate, and indeed the fate of everyone they held dear, depended on Constance’s success.

Thus it was not a little disconcerting when Constance began to snore.

“Constance!” they cried, alarmed. “Constance! Wake up!”

Constance sat up with a start, then scowled and rubbed her eyes. “What? What is it, what’s wrong?” Lowering her fists, she noticed their stricken looks and said, “Oh. I guess I fell asleep…”

“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.