The Mysterious Benedict Society (15 page)

Sticky looked horrified. “How… how will that
feel
?”

“Don’t tell me we’ll hear those kids’ voices in our heads,” Kate said, a disgusted look on her face.

“In rare cases, perhaps,” said Mr. Benedict, “with exceptionally sensitive minds. But most of us will simply feel irritable and confused — essentially the way we feel now whenever the television is on and the messages are being broadcast.”

“You said ‘with a very slight increase,’” said Reynie. “What happens when the power gets boosted all the way — when the messages are sent at full strength?”

Mr. Benedict tapped his nose. “
That
is when we’ll hear voices in our heads. I can’t imagine it will be pleasant.”

“It sounds awful,” Kate said, her lip curling at the very thought. “So why does he want us all to think we’re crazy?”

A shadow had crossed Reynie’s face. “That’s
not
what he wants, is it, Mr. Benedict? At least not the main thing. Otherwise what’s the point of waiting?”

“Okay, now I’m confused,” said Kate, and the other children signaled their agreement.

“I believe Reynie is wondering,” said Mr. Benedict, “why the Sender would wait all this time to boost the power if he could have done so years ago. Am I right?”

Reynie nodded.

“I agree,” Mr. Benedict said. “The voices aren’t the point. They are the side effect, the unintended consequence of a dark and ambitious undertaking. The Sender has spent all these years preparing people for something — preparing them for the thing to come.”

“But what
is
the thing to come?” said Constance.

“That is precisely what we must find out,” said Mr. Benedict, “before it is too late.”

“And if we
are
too late?” asked Sticky nervously. “Will it really be that bad?”

Mr. Benedict grew solemn. “For us, and for all the people like us — all those whose minds cleave so strongly to the truth — I am convinced it will be… most disagreeable. You must understand that the Sender has not gone to such enormous trouble — for so many years, and at such extravagant expense — to allow any interference with his plans. He has already shown himself to be quite ruthless. No, children, I believe that by virtue of our minds’ resistance, we shall — how to put it? — I believe we shall receive special attention.”

At these words a black cloud of possibility bloomed in the children’s minds, a darkness in which scary thoughts flickered like bolts of lightning.

Special attention.

Their mouths went dry as bones.

Reynie’s mind was awhirl. Part of him wanted
not
to believe Mr. Benedict. Could he really be trusted? He was an odd man, and the things he told them were odder still. It would be such a relief to think his predictions about the thing to come were nothing more than wild speculation. And yet Reynie did trust Mr. Benedict, had trusted him almost immediately. What troubled Reynie was that he so badly
wanted
to trust Mr. Benedict — wanted to believe in this man who had shown faith in him, wanted to stay with these children who seemed to like and respect Reynie as much as he did them.

And so the question was not whether Reynie could trust Mr. Benedict, but whether he could trust himself. Who in his right mind would actually want to be put in danger just because that let him be a part of something?

Reynie didn’t know. He only knew he didn’t want to go back.

I
n preparation for the children’s departure, Mr. Benedict told them, there was much necessary information to be gathered, and paperwork to be completed, and signatures to be forged, and orders to be given, and fees to be paid, and phone calls to be made. Except for their brief meeting with the children, Number Two had not left her computer, nor Mr. Benedict his desk, for hours. And since Milligan was standing guard, and Rhonda herself was too busy to do more than bring their supper and excuse herself, the children dined alone.

Afterward Reynie and Kate went into the sitting room to practice their Morse code. Despite their urging, however, Constance crabbily refused to join them. Instead, while Sticky helped them practice, she composed a poem about a bunch of bossy gargoyles who liked to eat cat food and pick their ears. It was an unpleasant poem, and the gargoyles’ names, not very cleverly disguised, were Kateena, Reynardo, and Georgette. After reciting this to the others, Constance went straight to bed without brushing her teeth or saying good night.

In truth this came as a relief to the other children, who were already more than tired of Constance’s ways, and who gathered in the boys’ room to discuss this very concern. She had tried their patience all evening — indeed, ever since they’d met her — and the prospect of her joining them on a dangerous mission had them worried.

“We simply can’t do it,” Kate said for the tenth time. She was hanging upside down from the top bunk to see if her hair would touch the floor, but her golden-blond locks came three inches shy, as she had suspected. “She’s nothing but a burden. She’s cranky, she’s not especially bright as far as I can see, and she’s probably the clumsiest kid I’ve ever met — she’s always dropping things, and she walks like a landlubber on a ship. How are we supposed to succeed with someone like that on our team?”

“Kate’s right,” said Sticky, looking up from a geology book. “Constance will only make things harder.”

“I feel the same way,” Reynie admitted. “But doesn’t it seem strange that Mr. Benedict would let her join us if she wasn’t important?”

“He may be a genius, but even geniuses make mistakes,” said Kate, whose face had gone red as a tomato. She dropped backward off the bunk, flipping in the air to land on her feet, and casually pulled her hair back into a ponytail. “Maybe he feels sorry for her.”

“Maybe he does,” Reynie said, “but surely he wouldn’t let his feelings spoil the mission. He must have good reasons for including her.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Kate said. “You have to go talk to him.”

“I do? Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one who can do it. If Sticky goes, he’ll just mumble and wipe his glasses. If I go, I’ll end up complaining about her, as I’ve been doing for the last half-hour. For instance, did you see the way she sneaked a bite of my pie at dinner? And it was the only dessert we had all day!”

“It’s true,” Sticky said, finishing his book and thumping it closed. “I’ll get tongue-tied, and Kate will get steamed. It has to be you, Reynie.”

And so, a few minutes later, it was Reynie who knocked on the study door.

“Come in, Reynie,” said Mr. Benedict. As before, Reynie found him on the floor, this time with a half-eaten biscuit in one hand, a graph of some kind in the other, and biscuit crumbs on his green suit jacket. “I was just taking a late supper. Would you care for a biscuit? There’s another on my desk, though I’m afraid it’s cold — I was so intent upon my work I forgot to eat until now.”

“No, thank you,” Reynie said. Even if he’d been hungry he couldn’t have eaten a bite — he felt very ill at ease. It didn’t seem quite decent to complain about Constance, nor did he like the thought of expressing doubt in Mr. Benedict, whom he liked very much. But it must be done, and he was preparing himself to begin when Mr. Benedict said, “I assume you’ve come about Constance.”

Reynie swallowed and nodded.

“And that you speak not only for yourself, but for Sticky and Kate as well?”

Perhaps some day, Reynie thought, he would get used to Mr. Benedict’s always knowing what was on his mind.

“I understand completely,” said Mr. Benedict. “And if we had time, I should be happy to explain my choices to you in great detail. But as we do not, allow me to assure you that Constance is far more gifted than she seems, and that it is not from pity, blindness, or rash hopefulness that I include her in this mission. On the contrary, I believe she may be the very key to our success.”

“If that’s true, then I suppose she’s worth the trouble.”

“Sometimes, Reynie, trouble itself is the key.”

“Sir?”

“I daresay you’ll understand me in time. Now, listen, it’s true I have a certain sympathy for Constance. Like her, and like yourself, I grew up an orphan, and I know what it is to feel miserable and alone. However —”

“You’re an orphan?”

“Certainly. My parents were Dutch scientists, killed in a laboratory accident when I was a baby. I was sent to this country to live with my aunt, but she, too, died, and so into an orphanage I went. However, what I intended to say was that while I sympathize with Constance, it is not from sympathy I include her, no more than it is from sympathy I include you or anyone else. Fair enough?”

“I believe so.”

“Very well, then, will you do me a great favor? Will you tell your friends what I’ve said and return to give me their verdict? If anyone should choose not to go on, I had better know at once.”

The sense of urgency was apparent in Mr. Benedict’s tone, and Reynie lost no time hurrying back to relate his answer to Sticky and Kate, who sat cross-legged on the floor, thumb-wrestling to pass the time. They weren’t happy about the news, but neither were they inclined to quit, so Reynie left them to their thumb-wrestling and hurried back to Mr. Benedict’s study. He was about to knock on the door when he heard voices inside. He hesitated, not wanting to interrupt.

“I can’t stand it!” Mr. Benedict was saying. “I can’t
stand
putting them in danger! It goes against everything I believe in.”

“I know,” came the reply, and Reynie recognized the voice of Number Two. “I know, Mr. Benedict, we all feel that way. But if they don’t go, then it’s over — the curtain falls. You said so yourself. We have no choice. Now please calm yourself before —”

Mr. Benedict said something Reynie could not make out, but it was clearly an expression of anguish, or perhaps fury, and then Number Two was saying, “Oh dear. And with a mouthful of biscuit, too. Wake up, dear Benedict” — there was a patting sound — “wake up, or I fear you may choke.”

After a moment came a snorting noise, then a cough, and then Mr. Benedict said, “Ah. Was I very long gone?”

“Only a moment,” said Number Two gently.

“Good, good. Thank you for your commiserations, my friend, and now you’d best be off, back to your confounded computer. I’m sorry to work you so.”

“I know as well as you that it must be done. Just let me water this violet, for the sake of my conscience, and then I’m off. Poor thing, it’s on the edge of death.”

“I know, I’ve neglected it shamefully, I’ve hardly had a moment. Thank you, Number Two. Now go on and take that biscuit — no use protesting, I saw you staring at it — and if you pass our young hero in the hall, please tell him to walk straight in.”

Reynie’s heart fluttered. Hero? Was Mr. Benedict referring to
him
?

“He’s an extraordinary child, isn’t he?” said Number Two, her speech somewhat hindered by a mouthful of biscuit.

“Indeed he is. They all are, which is why I so despise the thought — however, I won’t go on and on. Mustn’t drop off to sleep again; it will take us all night as it is. Shall we meet at midnight to see how things stand?”

“Midnight it is. I’ll tell Rhonda,” said Number Two, flinging open the door. “Why, Reynie! Speak of the devil, Mr. Benedict, here he is. Go on in, child, I must rush off.”

Reynie stepped inside. “Everybody chooses to continue, Mr. Benedict. We’ll do our best to get along with Constance.”

“I’m glad to hear it, and I have no doubt you will, Reynie,” said Mr. Benedict, his eyes already returning to the graph in his hand. “Thank you, indeed. Now you’d best get some sleep. Difficult day ahead of you tomorrow.”

Reynie hesitated. “Sir, if I can’t sleep, may I come back here? I promise I won’t bother you. I’ll be very quiet. It’s just that my nerves are all jumping.”

“Say no more, Reynie,” said Mr. Benedict, who had begun calculating a figure on the graph with one hand and taking notes in a tablet with the other, as if neither required more concentration than pulling on socks. “My study is your study. Come in whenever you wish.”

Reynie nodded, put his hand on the doorknob, and again hesitated. “Mr. Benedict?”

“Hmm? What is it, Reynie?”

“I wanted to say thank you, sir.”

Mr. Benedict looked up. “
Thank
me? Whatever for?”

“Just — just thank you, sir. That’s all.”

Mr. Benedict gave him a long, puzzled stare. Finally, with a shrug, a shake of his head, and an affectionate smile, he said, “Reynie, my good young friend, you are most entirely welcome.”

Early in the morning, before the sun had thrown its first ray or the redbirds chirped their first note, all four children were gathered in the boys’ bedroom. Too anxious to sleep, they had risen almost magically at the same time and sought each other out. Now they sat cross-legged or sprawled on the floor, speaking in hushed voices. The house was quiet, but they weren’t the only ones awake. Beyond their own voices they could hear, drifting down the drafty halls, a frenetic, muted tapping — the sleepless Number Two on her computer keyboard — and from somewhere above them the occasional creak of a floorboard.

The children were engaged in a whispered debate. It had been decided they should have a name. This had been Kate Wetherall’s idea, of course, but everyone agreed, even Constance. If they were to go on a secret mission to a place where they would be entirely alone among strangers, if they must absolutely depend upon one another as fellow agents and friends — if, in short, they were to be a
team
— they must certainly have a name. And so they had set about choosing what to call themselves.

“I was thinking something like ‘The Great Kate Weather Machine and her Stormy Companions,’” said Kate. “It kind of plays on a weather theme.”

Her suggestion was greeted by general silence and, from Constance, a stormy look indeed. After a pause Kate said, “Well, does anyone
else
have an idea?”

“How about ‘The Four Kids Gang’?” offered Sticky. “Or ‘The Secret Agent Children Group’?”

Constance’s storm-cloud scowl, if possible, grew even darker; Reynie cleared his throat; and Kate said, “Um, Sticky? Those have to be the most absolutely
yawn
-causing names I’ve ever heard.”