The Mysterious Benedict Society (26 page)

“A trap?” Sticky said, glancing all around, as if the trap might sneak up and grab him.

“Don’t worry, it’s way down there, in a little grassy area behind the Institute Control Building. You can’t see it from anywhere else, but if you aim the spyglass over the roof of the classroom building, you can just see it.” She offered the spyglass to Sticky, who declined. He didn’t care to see any more traps. Reynie took a look, though, and sure enough, from this spot you could just make out the telltale drapeweed and boulders behind the building.

Reynie returned the spyglass to her. “I wonder why both traps are right next to a group of boulders.”

“Don’t you think it’s to make them harder to see?” Kate said. “By moonlight or sunlight, the drapeweed would almost always be in shadow.”

“Crafty,” said Constance.

“Drapeweed was a perfect choice, then,” said Sticky. “It’s a shade-loving plant.”

“Put away the spyglass,” Reynie murmured. “We have company.”

Two Helpers had appeared on the path below them, each lugging two buckets full of gardening tools. They were making their slow way up the hill, clearing weeds and debris from the paths. As they drew near, they moved wordlessly to the edge of the path, so as not to disturb the children.

“Good afternoon,” Reynie said, forgetting that he usually avoided greeting Helpers. He was nervous about the spyglass and had wanted to seem casual.

The Helpers, a man and a woman, glanced at Reynie with fearful suspicion. To ease their worries he smiled good-naturedly and gave a little wave — then immediately regretted it. The Helpers, feeling compelled to reciprocate, stopped walking and set down their buckets so they could wave back.

“Nice buckets,” Kate said.

“Thank you, miss. They do the job,” said one of the Helpers, a short rotund man who looked rather like a bullfrog and sounded even more like one.

At the sound of his voice, Reynie started. He knew this man! He took a step closer and peered at the man’s face. The Helper took a step backward and averted his eyes.

“Mr. Bloomburg?” Reynie said. “I almost didn’t recognize you!”

Greatly discomfited, the Helper turned to his partner, a wisp of a woman who seemed to be trying to hide behind her hair. “Is he speaking to you?”

“Have you gone mad?” the woman hissed, first rolling her eyes at her partner, then flashing a miserable, conciliatory smile at the children. She made an effort to speak calmly: “He said
Mister
. Didn’t you, young man? Anyway, my name’s not Bloomburg.”

“Well, neither is mine,” said the man, and, looking at the ground near Reynie’s feet, he said, “Please don’t take offense, but my name is Harry Harrison.”

“You aren’t Mr. Bloomburg?”

“I don’t mean to be contrary,” said Harry Harrison (the other Helper signaled her vigorous agreement), “and I hope you won’t be displeased. But no.”

The other children were staring at Reynie, who seemed dreadfully confused. “But… but… how long have you worked here?”

The Helper glanced at his partner. “A long time, wouldn’t you say, Mary?”

“I know
I’ve
been here a long time,” the woman said, looking at the ground, “and you’ve been here for most of that, so yes.”

“I hope that’s okay,” said Harry.

“But how long, exactly?” Reynie pressed.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, and he did indeed seem very sorry. “I don’t believe I remember the exact date. Do you, Mary?”

“The exact date, no. But certainly a long time.”

Reynie put his hands on his head. “You’ve never visited Stonetown Orphanage?”

“You seem agitated,” said Mary in a worried tone. “I’m sorry if we’ve upset you. Aren’t we sorry, Harry?”

“Very sorry indeed,” said Harry, miserably. “We didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You haven’t upset me,” said Reynie, sounding very upset. “But are you not troubled that you can’t remember exactly when you came here?”

At this, both Helpers shook their heads and said, “Everything is just as it should be.”

The children’s eyes widened, but the Helpers seemed unaware of the oddity of their response. They were only waiting to be dismissed, hoping the children would not abuse them or get them into trouble.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Reynie said at last. He seemed finally to be recovering. He even managed to chuckle and say, “I’m sorry, I’m really a dunce. You just look so much like him… this person I used to know. Obviously I’ve made a mistake. Nice talking to you, though.”

The Helpers were relieved. “Oh, indeed… very nice… a great pleasure… ,” they said, taking up their buckets and hurrying down the other side of the hill.

“Okay, what was
that
all about?” asked Kate when they were out of earshot.

Reynie’s brows were knitted with concentration. “That was Mr. Bloomburg, no doubt about it. His face, his shape, that froggy voice — there’s no question it was him. And yet he pretended not to know me — pretended not to be
himself
. Now why would he do that?”

“Maybe he’s a secret agent,” Constance said. “You know, like Milligan was. And you were blowing his cover.”

“Mr. Bloomburg?” Reynie said. “I doubt it.”

“He did kind of remind me of Milligan, though,” Sticky said. “Did anyone else notice how sad he seemed? How sad they
both
seemed? In their eyes, I mean. I’d never gotten a good look at a Helper’s eyes before — they’re always looking away. But with these two I could plainly see it.”

“That’s true,” Kate reflected. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so sad as Milligan, but these two came awfully close. Reynie, do you think —
Reynie
, what’s wrong?”

The color had drained from Reynie’s face. He stood staring off into the distance, at nothing in particular, and indeed he looked as if nothingness were exactly what he wished to see.

“Are you okay?” Sticky said.

Reynie didn’t answer. He had finally come to understand something that would have seemed obvious had it not seemed impossible: Milligan, the missing agents, Mr. Bloomburg — they had all had their memories stolen.

Once this had occurred to him, a great many puzzle pieces suddenly fit together. When Milligan was captured, he’d thought Mr. Curtain
discovered
his amnesia, when in fact Mr. Curtain had
caused
it. That was why Mr. Curtain got so angry when Milligan said his memory was fine. Mr. Curtain had wanted to steal his memory, or wipe it away — or whatever it was that might be done to memories — and then retrain him as a Helper. Just like the other agents. Mr. Curtain had transformed all those meddlesome people into his own private workforce, and they didn’t even realize it.

The Helpers had been programmed to believe that “everything is as it should be.” But you could see it in their eyes. Their lost lives, their lost families — something inside them missed those things terribly.

“Reynie, you’re worrying us,” said Kate. “What’s the matter? Reynie!”

At last Reynie’s eyes focused, and he turned to his friends and told them what he’d just realized.

Kate, Sticky, and Constance stood dumbfounded — struggling, just as Reynie had, to accept that such a thing was possible. And yet, once you believed it was possible, so many things could be explained. It finally made sense how the special recruits, if they’d been kidnapped, could seem so untroubled: They had been kidnapped, all right; they just didn’t
remember
it. And Charlie Peters! He had seemed so dazed — just like the special recruits on their first day — and then so disturbed when the boys asked him about special privileges. “I can’t say,” he’d told them. He was disturbed because he really
couldn’t
say — he couldn’t remember!

“This is crazy, but it all seems to fit,” Kate said, pacing on the path. “Except why aren’t the special recruits as sad as the Helpers? They seem pretty happy to be here.”

“Charlie didn’t seem that sad, either,” Sticky reflected. “He got upset, but he wasn’t really sad. It must be different with lacunar amnesia. Maybe —”

“Wait a minute,” Constance demanded. “Back up and say that again in human words.”

“Lacunar amnesia? It means you can’t remember a specific event.”

“That explains it,” Reynie said. “You only get sad if you can’t remember all the things that are dear to you. If you only lose a
little
of your memory, you just get confused for a while — confused but not sad.”

“That’s exactly how I feel right now,” said Kate. “Who
is
Mr. Bloomburg, Reynie? Why is he here?”

“He was a school facilities inspector. He’d come around the orphanage every six months or so. Mr. Rutger was afraid of him — afraid he’d find something wrong and the orphanage would have to pay for repairs — but Mr. Bloomburg was a good man. Always laughing, always talking. He chatted constantly with anyone who’d listen. And afterward he’d give the kids ginger snaps. A very friendly, very kind man…”

Reynie trailed off. He gazed across the harbor channel toward the mainland, as if by gazing he might somehow get back there, and not just to the land, but to a time when he didn’t know all the things he knew now.

“What was he talking about all the time?” Kate asked.

“His children,” Reynie said.

“Oh,” said Kate soberly.

“He loved them dearly,” said Reynie. “And now look at him, afraid of every child he sees. It’s not even a year since I saw him last.”

Kate was putting it together. “So Mr. Bloomburg came to the Institute to make an inspection, which was never supposed to happen, and he didn’t like what he found —”

“And Mr. Curtain made sure that he never went back,” Reynie finished.

“But how could Mr. Bloomburg forget his
children
?” Sticky protested. “It doesn’t seem possible. Can it really be possible? Can
any
of this be possible?”

Reynie made no reply.

“I just can’t believe it,” Sticky said, wishing he really couldn’t.

T
he mood in their meeting that night was subdued: no bickering, no laughter, only a general feeling of grim resolve. Now that the children finally knew some things, they all rather missed
not
knowing them.

If only they had proof of what they knew! But all they had was their word, and the word of children, they knew, amounted to nothing. If the authorities wouldn’t listen to Mr. Benedict, they certainly wouldn’t listen to children. Reynie and the others could argue all day that Mr. Curtain was erasing people’s memories, that dozens of government agents were being held captive on Nomansan Island — but they couldn’t begin to explain
why
it was all happening, and without proof, no one would help them try to find out.

“If we could lay our hands on that journal,” Kate had said, “do you think that would be proof enough?”

“Fat chance,” said Sticky. “Mr. Curtain always has it with him.”

“Anyway, even if we stole it and convinced people to read it,” said Reynie, “they’d think it was a hoax. Mr. Curtain’s messages have made sure of that.”

“At least
we
could read it,” Kate said. “You know it’s chock full of information, and some of it might be exactly what Mr. Benedict needs….” She sighed. “But you’re right, swiping it would be too risky. I wish we could do
something
, though.”

“We’re doing all we can, aren’t we?” Sticky said. “We’re telling Mr. Benedict everything we know.”

“Speaking of that,” said Reynie, “we should send our report. There’s a lot to tell.”

So much to tell, in fact, that Sticky was complaining of a blister on his finger by the time he’d finished the report. A few minutes later a reply flashed from the mainland trees:

What has been lost may yet be found. Have hope
.

“Is he saying
he
has hope,” said Constance irritably, “or is he telling
us
to have hope?”

“Either way,” Reynie said, “I think he believes those people might be able to get their memories back. Maybe he thinks he can find a way to do it. That’s a pretty hopeful thing, isn’t it?”

“Assuming we can stop whatever Mr. Curtain’s up to,” Sticky said.

Constance stood up. “You’re not helping my hopefulness, George Washington. I’m going to bed.” She frowned at the ceiling, then looked at Kate. “I’ll need a ride.”

After the meeting was adjourned and the girls had gone, Sticky and Reynie climbed into their bunks. Reynie hardly felt like sleeping, but he did need to calm down and clear his thoughts, and so lying in his bunk he turned to his usual method. He wrote a mental letter:

Dear Miss Perumal,

Every time I think of poor Mr. Bloomburg and his family, my mind returns to you. How would your mother — whom I know you love so much — feel if you just suddenly vanished from her life? It is an awful thing to consider. She loves and depends upon you, and I know you depend upon her, too. I never think of you without remembering your mother, too.

With these thoughts on my mind, I had a strange feeling earlier tonight. Looking around at Sticky, Kate, and Constance, I wondered how I’d feel if one of them disappeared. Sometimes Constance drives me crazy, but now I can’t imagine being here without her. I can’t say for sure, because I have no experience, but — well, is this what family is like? The feeling that everyone’s connected, that with one piece missing the whole thing’s broken?

Reynie paused in his letter to consider. Of the four of them, Sticky was the only one to have a memory of family life. Was it worse for him, Reynie wondered, to have felt loved and then rejected? Or was it worse to have always felt alone? Kate said she had no memory of her dead mother, nor of her father who abandoned her. And Constance — well, they knew almost nothing of Constance, but Reynie had the feeling that she, too, had never known a family.

Reynie’s mind went back to his last night at Mr. Benedict’s house. It seemed so long ago now, yet he remembered it with absolute clarity. Much like tonight, he had felt too worked up to sleep, and despite the late hour he had slipped quietly out of bed and crept down to Mr. Benedict’s study. Mr. Benedict had welcomed Reynie to sit up with him if he had trouble sleeping; and obviously he’d quite expected Reynie to do so, for when Reynie arrived, a cup of hot tea was waiting for him on Mr. Benedict’s desk. There was even a little jar of honey (and judging from the way Mr. Benedict’s papers stuck to his fingers as he worked, he had already been into it himself).