The Mysterious Benedict Society

  With a fluid motion Kate slipped the lasso from the end of the flagpole. She gripped the rope tightly. Oh well, she thought. I sure hope the little grouch is worth it.

  And with that, she leaped backward into empty air.

  The rope fell across the flagpole like a cable over a pulley, and as Kate dropped downward, so Constance — much lighter by far — shot up out of the grasp of the astonished Martina Crowe. The tiny girl clung madly to the rope, her eyes bulging, but Kate could do little to calm her. As they brushed past each other, one going up and the other down, both to uncertain fates, Kate offered her breeziest smile and said, “Hang tight, Connie girl! And be sure to untie yourself when you get up there.”

  Then she descended into the waiting arms of three powerful Executives, all of them grinning with vengeful excitement.

  Stands and Falls

  Mr. Curtain! Mr. Curtain, sir!” buzzed S.Q.’s voice through the intercom.

  For Reynie, the interruption could not have come at a better moment. For what seemed an eternity now, he had watched Sticky alternately frown with effort and smile with relief, his tea-colored skin going almost as pale as honey, and perspiration trickling down his cheeks like tears. But the frowns had at last faded away, replaced entirely by the pleasant, contented smiles. Sticky had made a great effort, but in the end he couldn’t help it — he had stopped resisting.

  Mr. Curtain, however, did not welcome the interruption. After a night with too few sessions, he’d finally got a Messenger into his Whisperer again, only to struggle unexpectedly. The machine had gone balky as an old donkey, losing Mr. Curtain’s train of thought and sometimes misunderstanding him altogether. Usually the mental effect for him was of speaking into a telephone and hearing his own voice in the receiver. But this session had been like hearing himself through a staticky radio. It was the boy, it must be, and Mr. Curtain had just begun to suspect that George was an unfit Messenger after all — that in fact he might be untrustworthy — when the session improved. The boy’s mind grew more receptive, the Whisperer’s wrinkled messages straightened, and Mr. Curtain had at last settled into some real, productive work. He was just finishing the session when the interruption came.

  “Mr. Curtain! Please, sir, it’s an emergency!”

  “Rats and dogs!” Mr. Curtain said furiously, thrusting off his red helmet. Behind him, the cuffs and blue helmet freed Sticky, who rose, wobbling, in a state of weak confusion. Reynie leaped forward to support him.

  “What is it, S.Q.?” Mr. Curtain said, pressing the intercom button on his wheelchair. “It had better be important.”

  “It is, sir. Two students are trying to break into the tower!”

  Reynie closed his eyes; his heart sank. The Executives knew what the girls were up to, and S.Q. was already outside the door. It was over, then. After all this, after Sticky had been so brave, had tried so hard . . .

  “Two students?” Mr. Curtain was saying. “By students you mean children, do you not?”

  “Um, yes, sir,” came S.Q.’s uncertain reply.

  “Do you mean to tell me you can’t prevent two children from breaking in?”

  “Um, well, sir, we’re sure to comprehend . . . I mean apprehend . . . I mean we’re sure to catch them soon. I just thought I should alert you —”

  “Thank you, S.Q.,” said Mr. Curtain, who did not sound at all thankful. “Consider me alerted. And by the way, unless you are presented with an actual emergency, I want no further interruptions, understood?”

  “Yes, Mr. Curtain,” came S.Q.’s reply. “Sorry, Mr. Curtain.”

  With a disgusted shake of his head Mr. Curtain exclaimed, “Children! Am I supposed to fear unarmed children? No doubt they’re in cahoots with my prisoner. Unlikely agents, but no matter — they’ll soon join him.” He grew silent, staring intently at Sticky as if considering how best to cut him up and cook him. “George, I’m afraid I was not terribly pleased with your performance. No. In fact I was rather displeased. Reynard will take over for you now. We will see about you later.”

  There could be no doubt what Mr. Curtain meant by “we will see about you,” but Sticky was too exhausted at the moment to be afraid. He only shook his head. He had done all he could.

  Mr. Curtain gestured impatiently toward the cushions, and Reynie helped Sticky over to them. Sticky collapsed. Reynie turned to meet Mr. Curtain’s gaze, and saw in those silvery lenses the reflection of his own uncertain, frightened face.

  “The time has come, Reynard,” said Mr. Curtain. “Unsatisfactory though your friend’s session has been, we are nonetheless close — very, very close.” Mr. Curtain coughed and wiped his pale, moist brow. As if to himself he mumbled, “I’m afraid I must pause for refreshment, though. But only for a moment. It can’t hurt to savor the occasion, at any rate. A cup of juice, then. Do you hear me, Reynard? I shall have a cup of juice. After that, only a few minutes more . . . and then! And then! The Improvement will begin! Can you believe? I can scarcely believe it myself!” Mr. Curtain’s face, though pale and drawn, quite gleamed with exultation. His dream was on the cusp of becoming reality.

  Reynie glanced at the Whisper. Then his glance hardened into a focused gaze. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Didn’t the Whisperer look inviting? Comforting? It almost seemed to be speaking to him — whispering to him all the way over here. Was it whispering to him? Whispering the unthinkable thing . . . ?

  Don’t struggle for nothing, Reynard. You can still join Mr. Curtain, be important, be a part of something.

  But . . . but Mr. Benedict, Reynie thought. He . . . he needs me to . . .

  Mr. Benedict! Is he the one who tricked you into joining him, who encouraged you to cheat on quizzes, who offered you ‘special opportunities’? Or was that Mr. Curtain, who said cheating doesn’t bother him, who rounded up poor unfortunates only to give them a better life, who has offered you a chance to be an Executive? How different are the two men? Not very, Reynard. The only difference is that one can offer you only suffering now, while the other offers you a way to belong — a way to relieve the loneliness.

  Shaken, Reynie thought, But . . . Miss . . . Miss Perumal.

  You can help her! You can warn her, tell her to keep quiet about the voices in her head. You’ll have Mr. Curtain’s ear — you can vouch for Miss Perumal. You can protect her!

  Reynie clasped his hands to his head. But would she want me to do that? At such a cost? No, she wouldn’t. And yet . . . and yet . . . it’s impossible! There’s no way out!

  Mr. Curtain had finished his juice and was watching Reynard watch the Whisperer. “You’ve missed it, I see,” purred Mr. Curtain. “Well, miss it no longer. Take your seat, Reynard. Take your rightful place.”

  Reynie’s mind was so foggy. Had Mr. Curtain said “your rightful place”? Or was that his own mind? And who had been talking to him before that? Wasn’t it the Whisperer? No, he realized. Unfortunately not. It wasn’t the Whisperer at all. It was Reynie himself.

  “Reynard!” Mr. Curtain prompted.

  Reynie made his way toward the Whisperer. The session would go quickly — a few minutes, Mr. Curtain had said — and then it would be over. And then . . . he swallowed hard. What would happen to Constance? Would something dreadful happen to her when Mr. Curtain boosted the power? And what would become of the others?

  He looked back at Sticky, slumped on a cushion in a posture of weary defeat. Despite his terror, in the face of the Whisperer’s irresistible power, Sticky had resisted with all his might. He would never have done that if not for Reynie’s urging, and now it had put him into disfavor with Mr. Curtain. Was Reynie really going to help Mr. Curtain? It would be a betrayal of their friendship! And Kate — to think of what they’d been through together, and the risks she’d taken. . . .

  “Ledroptha Curtain!”

  The cuffs clasped Reynie’s wrists. The helmet lowered. Reynie closed his eyes, only to see the faces of his friends. He remembered the final question of Mr. Benedict’s first test: Are you brave? Now,
at least, Reynie knew the answer. He wasn’t brave. He had only hoped he was.

  Good, said the Whisperer. What is your name?

  “Just get it over with quickly,” Reynie told himself.

  Welcome, Reynard Muldoon.

  “Welcome,” Reynie repeated. Yes. Welcome was such a — such a welcoming word. It made you feel a part of something. It made you feel . . . not alone. No, he was not alone at all. And yet . . .

  Reynard Muldoon, what do you fear most?

  In his mind’s eye Reynie still saw the faces of his friends. Sticky, Kate, Constance — all watching him with concern. They’d been through so much together! Was he really going to betray them?

  “You could never be more alone than if you betrayed your friends,” Reynie said to himself.

  Instantly the Whisperer’s voice said, Don’t worry. You will never betray your friends. You are brave enough.

  Reynie was so startled he almost laughed aloud. The Whisperer was too perceptive for its own good! At the most important moment of all, it had given him just the encouragement he needed — the encouragement to help him fight it!

  Let us begin, said the Whisperer.

  Reynie was flooded with a terrific sense of well-being. Real well-being — not an illusion at all. He would not betray his friends. He knew that now. He had confronted his worst fear, and now it was gone. No need for the Whisperer to deny it — there was nothing left to deny!

  Let us begin, the Whisperer repeated.

  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.

  The Best Medicine

  You,” 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.)