The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Riddle of Ages, page 9
“Yes, I can!” Tai cried happily, and for the moment, at least, Kate was out of danger of crying.
In her room on the third floor, Constance lay in bed, her shoes still on, glaring at the ceiling. She could feel the Listener’s presence, a palpable attentiveness, but she deflected the intrusions easily enough. The Listener was a person, too, after all, and Constance knew she was equally exhausted. Not to mention conflicted: Constance could sense the uncertainty in that invisible gaze. The Listener was understandably confused. And Constance knew she shouldn’t be angry at this woman who had been brainswept, who was being deceived or compelled to buzz Constance’s brain like this.
But Constance Contraire was very angry indeed.
She was angry at this mental attack, angry at Sticky and Reynie for their attempt to abandon her on the ship, angry at the way they and Kate confided in one another in ways they didn’t do with her, angry at being left out just now, angry at being left behind in the future. Constance squeezed her eyes closed. She felt tears trickle from the corners. The tears made her angry, too.
She knew the older three were keeping secrets from her. They still treated her like a little kid. Although now that she thought about it, the way they treated Tai, who actually was a little kid, seemed far nicer than the way they were with her. Worse, she couldn’t pretend that this wasn’t partly her own fault. She was maddening to deal with—she’d been maddening to deal with even when she was cute little Tai Li’s age—and this made her angry, too.
Why does Tai have to be cute as a button
When I was a whiner, a snoot, and a glutton?
Now Constance was angry for coming up with that poem. She hadn’t even meant to.
Her mind skipped back to its previous track. Yes, she knew that the older three kept secrets from her, and secrets were infuriating. But Constance would never try to sneak a look at them. She had learned the hard way, years ago, that it was much better not to do so. For she had perceived one day, only by eavesdropping on Reynie’s thoughts, that she was getting on his nerves. He was thoroughly annoyed with her and trying hard to hide it. To Constance, this was a crushing revelation.
For although she very often tried to get on the others’ nerves (she could hardly have explained why), to discover that she could be annoying even when she wasn’t trying was nothing short of horrible. It had taken her a long time to recover from that feeling. Without realizing it, Reynie had helped her get better by being his usual kind and patient self—and Constance did know that he loved her, and that everyone else loved her, too—and after a while she came to realize that she’d simply learned an important lesson: She needed to judge her friends and family by their actions, not by their thoughts, for thoughts are fleeting and temperamental, the reflection of a moment, and are very often confused and misleading. Thoughts formed into spoken words are a different matter, and actual deeds another matter still.
From then on, Constance had been extremely motivated to learn to avoid accidentally reading others’ minds. She didn’t want to feel that particular hurt again. And now, trying to calm down, she reminded herself that it was okay to have secrets sometimes. After all, isn’t every unspoken thought a secret? And didn’t she have some secrets herself?
But that proved an unhelpful line of thinking, for what Constance considered to be her greatest secret was the fact that, despite her best efforts, she hadn’t been able to keep from knowing something, which was this: At one time or another in the last few years, every one of the older members of the Society had developed a temporary crush on one of the others. The extra intensity of feeling had unavoidably drawn Constance’s mental attention. She had been very annoyed. But it was also true that in every case, the Society members had kept their crushes a secret, fearing that to reveal them would somehow risk damaging the Society as a whole. Thus, for a while, anyway, they had all made private sacrifices out of loyalty to the group. That kind of dedication seemed to be fading now. Which made Constance angry.
And what made her angrier still was the fact that she never revealed those secret crushes—not even during the worst arguments, when Constance had desperately wanted to lash out and hurt her friends. How embarrassing it would have been for them! But time and again she had resisted using this powerful weapon, and she viewed this as the greatest sacrifice of all, greater than any the others had made. And the fact that she had made a great sacrifice for their sakes and none of them knew it made Constance angry. It made her furious.
Constance opened her eyes. She wiped away the tears. She glared at the ceiling. She might not attack her friends, not really, but she definitely wanted to attack something. And there was the Listener, still present, still confused, trying to get inside Constance’s head to figure out where she was, what her plans were, what she knew.
It’s time to turn the tables, Constance thought, narrowing her eyes.
Sticky was on the rooftop patio, sprinkling black powder over a bubbling red puddle, which caused the liquid to swell and firm up. The resulting mass looked like lasagna. Sticky used a gigantic spatula to scrape it up and drop it into a metal container. He selected a different powder from his kit and went in search of a different puddle.
This was something he could do almost without thinking: His knowledge of chemicals and their complex interactions was unsurpassed. Sticky had already absorbed almost everything ever published about chemistry. This fact, combined with his own compelling experiments, as well as his unequaled ability to keep up with new research being reported in scientific journals (he read several each morning, in several languages), had marked him as an obvious candidate for directing chemical research in a laboratory. Whether or not he ran a distinguished lab, though, George “Sticky” Washington was already a famous name in the world of science.
So why did he feel like such a kid?
But there it was, the truth: Sticky still felt like a kid. He still thought of himself as “Sticky,” despite his efforts to return to his given name. He still liked it better when the others accidentally called him that, too. It felt more natural. When they called him George, he felt as if they didn’t know him, as if they were speaking to someone else. Yet he clearly had one foot in the adult world, and it seemed only right that he bring his other foot along—that he make the second step. But he didn’t want to. Except that he did. Or did he?
Sticky Washington knew everything, evidently, except what he wanted.
He took out a spray bottle and squirted it onto what resembled a pile of gray ash in the corner of the rooftop patio. The ash made a squeaky, sputtering sound like that of a deflating balloon, turned into white smoke, and drifted away on the breeze. Sticky made a calculation in his head. He was tallying up the quantity and price of the chemicals his mistake had cost him. Yes, there had been an emergency, but if Sticky had thought to clear everything away sooner, there would have been no dangerous near miss up here with Kate, and no lost materials. Instead it was Reynie who had thought of it, just in time.
Sticky clenched his teeth. He didn’t blame his friend for being such a nimble thinker. Nor was Reynie the kind of person who gloated. Quite the opposite, in fact. Still, what must it be like to be the first person everyone looked to for answers? The one who was always figuring out the last piece of the puzzle? Sticky couldn’t help thinking it might be nice, though he knew it would also come with a lot of pressure.
Even so, if Reynie hadn’t started thinking about leaving, Sticky might never have considered it himself. Certainly he wouldn’t have sent letters of inquiry to prestigious laboratories. Not yet, anyway. But Reynie was inclined to go, or so it seemed to Sticky. Someone like Reynie could do anything, so who could blame him for not wanting to stay here with his childhood friends, working on projects, never really meeting anybody, never really testing his wings? No, Sticky didn’t blame him. But then, why did he feel so abandoned?
Because you’re still a kid, Sticky thought, rolling his eyes. You’re supposed to be so mature, but your friend talks about leaving and you start crying on the inside. You’ve barely been able to make eye contact with him for weeks.
Sticky put away the spray bottle and powder canisters and took up a large push broom. He felt his eyes burning. Had he used the wrong neutralizer? He knew that he hadn’t. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and began sweeping broken glass into tiny glittering piles.
It had been bad enough knowing that Kate wanted to go. But then, she was Kate. The world wasn’t big enough for Kate Wetherall. She was always coming and going, wasn’t she? That’s what Sticky had focused on—the idea that Kate would always come back. But had he been deluding himself? Had he just been scared to look straight at the truth? So many things Sticky didn’t know. But one thing he did: If he went away to direct a laboratory, he wouldn’t be left behind here, feeling abandoned.
Sticky heard the stairwell door rattle and open. He turned to see Reynie in the doorway, panting and red-faced.
“We have got to fix that platform recall mechanism,” Reynie said, wiping his brow.
“Sorry, I didn’t expect you or I would have sent it back down.”
“No, I know, it’s fine,” Reynie said, coming over. He surveyed the patio. “I see you’ve already got most of it, but I can help you with the tables. I guess we should let Kate deal with the parachute herself, huh?”
“Yeah, she’ll have a system.” Sticky looked at Reynie sidelong. “So, did you get it figured out?”
Reynie scratched his head. “To be honest with you? I can’t seem to think straight. It’s—I think it’s unsettling me to have us all scattered around the house. At a time like this… I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’m just not used to it.”
Sticky nodded. His eyes were stinging again. “We probably all feel that way,” he said in a slightly strained voice. “So, okay, then, if you’re really that keen on helping, maybe we can discuss Mr. Benedict’s riddle while we get this all cleared up?”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Reynie gratefully. He took a step toward the nearest mangled table, then stopped. He turned to Sticky. “The way you had everything set up like a chessboard,” he said. “Why did you do that? You don’t need help remembering where things are.”
Of course Reynie would think of that, Sticky thought, and he smiled. “It was in case you came up here,” he admitted. “In case you were interested. I thought it would be easier if we could stand in one spot and I could use chess notation to point out whichever chemical I was speaking about at the moment.” He paused. “But let me guess—you already figured as much.”
“I just figured you had a reason,” Reynie said. “It seemed like too much of a coincidence.”
“Right,” Sticky said. “Well…” He tapped his nose and pointed.
Reynie chuckled. “For the record,” he said, “I was.”
“You were what?”
“Going to come up here. Because I was interested. Still am, in fact. When all of this is over, will you catch me up?”
“Deal,” Sticky said.
They jokingly shook hands, each feeling a small but welcome sense of relief, and together they set to cleaning up what remained of the patio mess. But they had hardly begun when Constance came panting out of the stairwell. Their mouths opened simultaneously, each ready to apologize for not sending the platform down—anything to keep Constance from going on a rage—but she gave them no opportunity.
“S.Q.’s in trouble!” she gasped. “We have to help him!” She doubled over, resting her hands on her knees, trying to get her breath.
Reynie bent forward, trying to see her face. “What do you mean? S.Q.? What could—?”
Constance looked up, and the fear was plain in her eyes. She had only to say the next word to send Reynie and Sticky running for the platform.
McCracken.
I listened in on the Listener,” Constance was shouting as the platform descended, “and this time I heard something! McCracken was trying to get her to locate S.Q., but it doesn’t work that way. She tried, but she couldn’t find him.” She paused for breath.
“He doesn’t have a bright signal,” Sticky said.
Constance shook her head. They were passing through the attic, which grew suddenly dim as the trapdoor closed above them, shutting out the sunlight. “But McCracken and some others are going anyway. They still think they can catch him. It’s all very confusing, but the Listener sensed the menace in McCracken’s mind—it scared her, and that’s why I think I could hear things as well as I did. Or see things. I could see what she saw as they were leaving. It seems really bad!”
“So S.Q.’s not with Mr. Benedict and Mr. Curtain anymore?” Reynie asked.
“No, he’s somewhere in town—he left a message for McCracken in some secret location. Something in it made McCracken decide to go after him!”
The platform settled into place on the third floor just as Kate came bounding up from below. She was carrying Tai Li piggyback, the way she used to do with Constance, and was taking the stairs three at a time. “What’s going on?” she said as they all came together. “Tai says you’re scared about something, Constance!”
“McCracken’s going after S.Q.,” Reynie said quickly. To Constance he said, “Can you warn S.Q.? Send him a message?”
“I’ve already tried,” Constance said with a frustrated shake of her head. “I don’t know how to explain it, but if I don’t know where he is, I can’t… can’t aim, I guess. And even if he heard me, I don’t think he’d realize it was me. He’s not like you, Reynie—I don’t think he’d figure it out. Not in time, anyway.”
“How much time do we have?” Kate asked.
“Minutes? Half an hour? I’m not sure. But not long.”
Reynie and Sticky glanced at each other and took off running in different directions. Sticky was headed to his computer station, Reynie to the two-way radio, which he kicked himself now for having left on the second floor. He really was off his game. He descended the stairs as fast as he could and flew down the hallway. “Intercom! Sticky’s office!” he cried as he ran into the dining room.
“All clear!” Sticky’s voice blared just as Reynie reached the radio.
He spat out a string of code words followed by the bulletin: S.Q. Pedalian in danger. If you see him, warn him to take cover immediately. Reynie released the button he’d been pressing and stared helplessly at the radio. What were the odds that one of the handful of agents and sentries scattered about the very large city of Stonetown would just happen to spot S.Q.? Very slim. Too slim. He rubbed at his forehead, trying to work up some sort of answer.
And a sort of answer came to him.
“Sticky!” he yelled (in his urgency it didn’t even occur to him to say “George”). “Have everyone meet me in my study!” Reynie ran toward the door, stopped, ran back for the radio, and headed upstairs. By the time he came puffing into his study, the others were waiting there. They stood around his desk looking at him expectantly, no one wasting time by asking questions. Tai, wide-eyed, sat in Reynie’s desk chair with both hands over his mouth. Evidently he’d been counseled to keep quiet.
Reynie closed the door and gestured at the map of Stonetown. “Constance,” he said, “you saw what the Listener saw, right? What can you tell us? Any detail might help us figure out where McCracken thinks S.Q. is!” He held up the radio. “We could send word! An agent might be able to get to him before McCracken does!”
All eyes turned to Constance, who purely out of habit opened her mouth to protest, then collected herself and said, “I’ll do my best! It’s so hard to do all this at once”—she whirled her hands about—“but okay, yes, I’ll try!” The whirling motions had loosened the pushed-up sleeves of the green plaid suit jacket, which slipped down now and covered her hands. She didn’t bother to push them up again but crossed her arms and squeezed her eyes closed, looking as if she were in a straitjacket. Suddenly her face relaxed. Something had occurred to her.
“In fact,” Constance said, “I can do better than that! I can show you. Everybody clear your mind.”
No one hesitated even for a second. All eyes in the room closed.
What happened next was different for each person, but they all felt equally strange, and they all saw and heard the same thing. It was like having someone else’s daydream. And what happened in the daydream was this:
McCracken sat in a vast, gloomy space—almost certainly a warehouse—holding a mostly eaten apple in one hand and a letter in the other. He was perched, minus his suit jacket, on the hood of a small limousine. An open briefcase rested beside him. His expensive shiny black shoes were visible on the concrete floor in front of him, and his wide feet, in handsomely patterned stockings, were braced on the car’s chrome bumper. He was staring intently at the letter, chewing.
Standing nearby, evidently having just delivered the letter, was a familiar figure: a bald white head, a leering face with a single eyebrow, a deceptively spindly-looking body in an elegant suit. Crawlings. He was gulping air, doubled over with one hand braced on a knee, and his face was red from exertion.
“Do step back, dear fellow,” McCracken said, without taking his eyes from the letter. “Your gasps agitate me.”
As Crawlings shuffled backward a step, another Ten Man entered the scene—a red-cheeked, blocky blond man in a royal-blue suit—and took up a position beside him. Then, bizarrely, he seemed to do it again, as if the scene were starting over—but, no, it was actually a duplicate of the first man. They were identical twins. The Katz brothers. They stood in patient silence, watching McCracken finish the letter and slip it into his pocket. His face thoughtful, he took a last bite of his apple, then flung the core high into the air. On its way down, the apple core jerked sideways, its trajectory violently altered. When it hit the ground, both ends of a pencil could be seen protruding from it.
McCracken closed his briefcase and slid off the car, which jounced from the shedding of his tremendous weight. With quick, graceful movements, he slipped on his shoes, then walked over to a card table, which previously had been out of view. In strange contrast to the gloomy warehouse, the table bore a bowl of fresh fruit and a vase of cut flowers. McCracken took his suit jacket from the back of a folding chair and returned to huddle with the other Ten Men.
