The Prisoner's Dilemma (30 page)

There was a pause. “I sense there is something more to your suggestion than you are letting on, McCracken. Tell me what it is.”

“To be frank, sir, I do not entirely trust your assistant. I know he is loyal to you—and you must think so yourself, having kept him for so long—but he seems to have a soft spot for our young prisoners, and I worry he may try to help them somehow.”

“I see,” Mr. Curtain said in an icy tone. “You disapprove of my choice in assistants. Very well, McCracken, I shall deploy S.Q. to the gate with you and your men, and you may leave behind whomever you wish—your own choice in associates being so impeccable.” When McCracken shrewdly chose not to reply to this, Mr. Curtain snapped, “Take Crawlings, for instance. Give him two simple tasks and he accomplishes neither on time.” And raising his voice he called out, “I don’t suppose Crawlings is here yet, is he, Hertz?”

“He’s gone for the juice,” answered the Ten Man in the corridor, with a wink at the children. “But the cherubs are here when you’re ready for them.”

“I am beyond ready. Send them in.”

Hertz lifted his newspaper and waved the children down the corridor. As they passed the room he was guarding, they caught a glimpse of the Whisperer in the corner, surrounded by various tools and parts. On a shelf above it sat a familiar red bucket. Kate hesitated only a moment to gaze at it, but in that moment Hertz took his pen and flicked her on the head so cruelly that her ears rang. She moved on, glowering at him over her shoulder. She could feel a knot rising but refused to put her hand to it. Hertz smiled cheerfully at her, tapping the gold pen against his bright white teeth.

“You okay?” Sticky whispered. “It sounded like he hit you with a lead pipe.”

“Felt like it, too,” Kate whispered back, and though her head was throbbing she added, “I’m fine. A little pain never hurt anybody, did it?”

Sticky looked at her askance. “Um, actually—” he began, but Kate quieted him with a wink.

They found Mr. Curtain in a large oval-shaped room, sitting in his wheelchair with his back to them. The walls of the room were lined with computers, and on four separate monitors arrayed against the far wall dense blocks of complex computer code streamed endlessly past. “Keep an eye on our guests, McCracken,” said Mr. Curtain, whose own eyes were fixed intently on the screens. “Bludgeon anyone who touches anything but the floor.”

McCracken, standing off to the side, chuckled. “Happy to oblige.”

“I am making final preparations, children,” Mr. Curtain said, still watching the monitors, “making certain that all is in order. This includes you. Later today you will be allowed to speak with your beloved Mr. Benedict by radio. He will no doubt ask you questions, and you are to be prompt and truthful in your replies. If you do this, you shall see him shortly thereafter. If not, you will be punished severely.

“I tell you this now so that you may prepare yourselves. I will not allow any childish nervousness or desperation to create wrinkles in an otherwise smooth operation. I would dislike it extremely, for instance, if in a panic you lied to Benedict, or attempted to tell him something that might disrupt my plans. I assure you such action would be fruitless, and it would be a shame, would it not, to suffer the painful consequences of disobedience for no reason?” He paused. “You may answer.”

“For all we know,” Reynie said, “obedience will bring painful consequences, too. What assurances can you give us that it won’t?”

Mr. Curtain cackled. “None! You shall have to take my word for it, but what else do you have? Tell me that!” He cackled again, his shoulders shaking. He was evidently in a wonderful mood. “I do give you my word, however: If you do as I say, you will soon be reunited with your dear Benedict. I am telling the truth, am I not, Miss Contraire? I recall you have a gift for divining such things.”

It wasn’t lost on Reynie that Mr. Curtain had made no mention of actually letting them go free. And Constance, at any rate, refused to follow Mr. Curtain’s lead. “I’m even better at divining
dumbness,
” she retorted. “You really think Mr. Benedict will give you what you want?”

At this, Mr. Curtain’s shoulders stiffened. But after a short pause they relaxed again, and he said evenly, “For you and your friends, Miss Contraire, I believe he’ll do whatever is necessary. He clearly prizes his little club of admirers above all else. Without you, no doubt, he feels he is nothing, for that is the sort of weak person he is. Let me ask you, then: How could I possibly care about such a person if everything else—
everything
else—is in my control? Benedict and his followers are mosquito bites, scarcely worth the scratching. When I have what I desire, I shall gladly be rid of you. You may go off and do whatever silly little things you wish. It will be of no consequence to me.”

“Because you think you’ll be ruling the world?” Kate asked contemptuously. “Just like last time?”

Mr. Curtain’s wheelchair bucked and spun about, and he glared at her with such fury that even Kate could not help but shrink away. Then his eyes closed, and his chin dropped to his chest.

“Don’t move,” ordered McCracken in a wary tone, as if they had blundered into a den of hibernating grizzlies. “For that matter, don’t speak. And if you value your little legs, don’t smile or smirk or any such thing. I would prefer not to have to drag you out afterward. I’ve had to drag out more than my share of men who smiled at moments like this. It’s inconvenient, to say the least, and I have a great deal to do.”

The children held still and waited. One minute passed, then two, and then Mr. Curtain jerked, snorted, and raised his head. For a moment his expression was one of unmistakable embarrassment, and his eyes darted from face to face, assessing the mood of everyone present. The embarrassment was swiftly overcome by anger—his eyes flashed dangerously; his hands trembled—but with an effort he suppressed it by lifting his gaze to the ceiling, lacing his fingers together, and taking several deep breaths. Finally Mr. Curtain checked his watch and glanced over his shoulder at the still-scrolling computer code on the monitors.

“Stop scrolling!” he snapped, and the code stopped scrolling. “Go back one hundred and twenty-seven lines.” The code began scrolling in the opposite direction, and Mr. Curtain turned back to the children and looked at them coldly. “Your impertinence often surprises me, Miss Wetherall. But I am resolved not to let it happen again. As for your question about ruling the world…” He waved his hand dismissively. “For the moment I shall be content to run this country. The world will follow soon enough.”

Kate nodded in mock approval. “Baby steps,” she said. “That’s always best.”

Mr. Curtain’s eye twitched and his lips pressed together in a line.

“So what will you do?” Constance demanded. “Knock out the power in every city until everyone comes begging for your help? Why not just take everything over? Why do you have to be
thanked
for it, too?”

At this point Reynie broke into a terrible fit of coughing, forcing himself to hack so violently his eyes watered. He was sure Constance had touched a dangerous nerve (Mr. Curtain’s stricken expression confirmed it), and anxious to draw attention away from her he croaked, “I think what we’re wondering, Mr. Curtain, is why you want things to seem some way they aren’t. You’re a genius—everyone knows that—so why not devote yourself toward
actually
making things better?”

Mr. Curtain had regained his composure now (Reynie had done his best to give him the opportunity), and in a condescending tone he said, “Your question betrays your naïveté, Reynard. Making things seem a way they aren’t
is
making them better.”

“But it’s just an illusion!” Sticky blurted out, then clapped his hands over his mouth.

Luckily Mr. Curtain seemed more amused than perturbed. “You must understand something, George. The world’s leaders create catastrophes and resolve them—all at their own whimsy—every single day. It is how the world runs. Lacking anything else to believe in, common people need to believe in their leaders’ abilities to save them. It’s true! Their emotional well-being—and yes, their fate—depends on the intelligence and skill of those who manipulate the days’ disasters. And it should go without saying that the one who succeeds in taking the reins of leadership—by whatever means—is the most intelligent and skillful, and therefore most qualified to lead.”

Noting the children’s dubious looks, Mr. Curtain shrugged in a resigned manner. “In your simplicity you often mistake my motives, I’m afraid: I do not dislike people, I only mean to control them, for I cannot stand seeing the complex business of the world being so badly mishandled. I am a perfectionist; I cannot help it. In the end everyone shall benefit from my inclinations, with the rare exception of individuals such as yourselves, who are perennially dissatisfied.”

“And you’re perennially boring!” said Constance (who wasn’t sure what “perennially” meant but felt sure it applied). “I think you just want people to call you a hero, and this is the only way you could figure how to do it!”

Again Mr. Curtain pressed his lips together. “What you think hardly matters, Miss Contraire. In truth I have no idea why I waste my time trying to enlighten such foolish creatures. I must have a soft spot for those doomed to fail. McCracken, take them away and send in Crawlings—I spy him lurking in the corridor there.”

“As you wish,” said McCracken, herding the children toward the door. “And when shall I dispatch my men to the positions we discussed?”

Mr. Curtain checked his watch. “The van should exit the highway in thirty minutes, and the approach along the access road takes precisely five. Just be sure your men are in position when the van arrives at the gate. In the meantime, tell Hertz I need his assistance moving the Whisperer.”

“He’s afraid to touch it, you know,” said McCracken with a grin.

“Precisely why I’m choosing him. He won’t paw it unnecessarily.”

McCracken acknowledged this with a nod, and in the corridor he drew Crawlings briefly aside. They spoke in hushed tones, but the children heard enough to deduce that Crawlings was the Ten Man McCracken intended to leave behind. Perhaps this choice was meant as a barb flung at Mr. Curtain; perhaps it simply reflected some private, strategic consideration. Regardless, Reynie knew it was a terrible choice for him and his friends. Crawlings would surely take the first opportunity to punish them for what Reynie had done in the elevator.

“I have a bad feeling about Crawlings,” Sticky whispered.

“Me, too,” Kate whispered back, “but I think that will change.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” Kate whispered. “I’m pretty sure it will get worse.”

Alone in their third-floor room, the Society quickly gathered in a circle to discuss their next step. Kate suggested they figure out a way to pass information to Mr. Benedict when they spoke on the radio. “In case he didn’t get Constance’s message,” she said. “We can come up with a code of some kind, something only he will understand.”

“That’s awfully risky,” Sticky said. “Mr. Curtain will be looking out for just that sort of thing.”

“I know, but we don’t want to
help
him, do we?”

“Mr. Benedict is smart,” Sticky said. “Maybe he can find a way to rescue us even if we just go along with Mr. Curtain.”

“His biggest concern is going to be our safety,” Reynie said. “He’ll sacrifice himself if he has to—you know he will.”

“Of course he will,” Constance said angrily, and tears started to her eyes. “But it won’t do any good! Mr. Curtain doesn’t intend to let us go—he never did and he never will! Oh, I don’t
want
to be brainswept! I
like
remembering who I am, and who my friends are, and… and…” She clenched her fists, clamped her mouth shut, and uttered a strange sort of internal scream that sounded like whale song.

“Easy, Connie girl,” Kate soothed. “I’m afraid you’ll pop.”

“I’m not really excited about getting brainswept, either,” Sticky said in a low tone. “I just hope our families get away…”

A gloomy silence fell over them. It seemed impossible to Reynie that this was really happening. But the facts insisted upon themselves. Mr. Curtain had the Whisperer and the children, and no one was ever going to know. And things were only going to get worse from here, for weren’t Mr. Curtain’s spies bringing him what he wanted at that very moment?

As if Reynie had spoken this aloud, Constance scowled and muttered, “McCracken called them his ‘friends in government.’ Ha! Why don’t they call them what they are? Nasty, weaselly old spies!”

“Who else would be his friends?” said Kate. “Thugs, thieves, and spies—that’s his crowd, isn’t it?”

“Spies…,” Reynie murmured, his brow wrinkling.

Constance glanced at him—then stared at him. And then her eyebrows shot up (at exactly the same time Reynie’s did) and she cried, “Oh!
Spies!
”

“Fake mustaches and trench coats!” Reynie exclaimed. “Those S-shaped pies—!”

Kate and Sticky gasped.

“S-pies!” Constance said, and she was suddenly so delighted she clapped her hands. “So he did get my message! And he
answered
me—he told me their plan!”