The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Prisoner's Dilemma

by Trenton Lee Stewart

  “They might have other priorities,” said Sticky, drying frantically. “My mom needs to talk to someone about a job she can do from home. Or, you know, from here—she hasn’t been able to work since September.” He frowned at the plate in his hand. “Sorry, Kate, I got this one kind of sweaty.”

  Kate cheerfully scrubbed it again as Sticky (somewhat less cheerfully) mopped his brow with his sleeve. “Don’t worry, Constance!” she called. “They always bring us something, don’t they? They know it’s our only consolation for being stuck here while they’re out.”

  Reynie, bearing a stack of dry dishes, paused on his way to the cupboard. “I’ll bet they had lunch on Stonetown Square,” he reflected wistfully. “They can probably smell the saltwater from the harbor.”

  “And the dead fish,” Constance called. “And the gasoline fumes.”

  Reynie shrugged. “At least dead fish and fumes would be something different.”

  “Speaking of different,” said Kate with a grin, “I wonder how they look?”

  The boys chuckled. They all knew the adults were compelled to wear disguises in public. For a secret agent like Milligan, disguises were run-of-the-mill—the children were rather used to seeing him transform into a stranger—but it was comical to imagine dear old Mrs. Perumal, for instance, or the burly, mustachioed Moocho Brazos, dressing up to conceal their identities.

  The use of disguises and other security precautions were well-known to the children, who always pressed for every detail of the outings. They knew the routine by heart, and in lieu of actually getting to go out themselves they often went over it in their minds:

  First Milligan would contact his personal sentries—a group of trusted agents posted throughout the neighborhood—to ensure they had seen nothing suspicious in the vicinity. Then he would distribute empty cardboard boxes and bags to the other adults, and with a casual word to the courtyard guard about “a project at Mr. Benedict’s other property,” he would escort his charges to a small house across the street. This house, with its narrow front yard and modest porch, looked as tidy and well-maintained as any in the neighborhood, but in reality its interior was in an awful state of disrepair. Mr. Benedict had purchased it years ago, not to be inhabited but to serve as a cover for the entrance to a secret tunnel.

  Milligan would lift open the cellar doors at the side of the house. The doors were made of flimsy wood, set slantwise to the ground and held closed with a simple, sliding metal bolt—the sort of cellar doors that suggest nothing more important lies beyond them than dusty fruit jars and discarded boots. In the cellar itself, however, was another door, this one made of steel, with a lock Milligan said could not be picked and to which only he possessed a key. This door opened onto the secret tunnel—a narrow, damp passageway that stretched several blocks and ended beneath the Monk Building, a typically drab and unremarkable office building downtown.

  At the Monk Building the adults would mount several flights of a dark stairway (with Mr. Washington supporting Mrs. Washington and Moocho carrying her wheelchair) until they reached a hidden anteroom, where they caught their breath and donned their disguises. The anteroom opened by means of a secret door into an office that belonged to Mr. Benedict, and in its wall were tiny peepholes that allowed Milligan to ensure the office was empty. (He didn’t want them stumbling unexpectedly upon an astonished custodian.) Finally, when he was sure the coast was clear, Milligan would lead the adults through the office, down the Monk Building’s seldom used public stairs, and at last out the building’s front doors.

  It was hard to imagine exactly how they felt as they stepped out onto the plaza in the heart of Stonetown’s business district. Perhaps they broke into wide smiles at the prospect of a day’s freedom. Or perhaps they were overcome with a sad nostalgia, remembering the days before they had ever heard of Mr. Curtain. But just as likely they would be glancing warily about and hoping not to draw attention. They must feel uncommonly strange in their disguises.

  “Do you ever worry about them?” Sticky murmured after a pause, and Reynie and Kate returned his sober gaze. They could hear Constance rattling around in the pantry.

  “Sometimes,” Reynie admitted. “But I remind myself that the authorities are on high alert, and there’s been no activity reported anywhere near Stonetown—”

  “And Milligan can spot a Ten Man a mile away,” Kate put in. “And he can do more than spot him, if it comes to that.”

  The boys nodded, even though the last time Milligan encountered Mr. Curtain’s henchmen he’d needed several weeks to recover from the injuries. The circumstances had been different then—they knew because they’d been there—and they quite shared Kate’s confidence in her father.

  “You’re right,” Sticky said. “They couldn’t be safer if they had a dozen guards.”

  “Yes, they’re fine,” Reynie said. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  “Of course they are,” said Kate.

  They spoke without real conviction, however, for though the adults were surely as safe as could be expected under the circumstances, the question remained: How safe was that, exactly?

  Kate pulled the plug in the sink, and in troubled silence the friends watched the sudsy water drain away.

  Constance emerged from the pantry with a half-empty sleeve of cheese crackers, her cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s. “What’re you wooking at?” she said, spewing crumbs.

  “Nothing,” said the others at once, and Constance scowled. It infuriated her when they tried to protect her. They couldn’t help themselves, though, nor were their reasons entirely selfless: Constance was always difficult, but when she grew anxious she was perfectly unbearable.

  “Let’s go outside,” Reynie said, turning away before Constance could search his face. “We still have some time before afternoon lessons.”

  The children enjoyed being outside, but getting there was a tiresome business. First they had to seek permission from an adult, who often had to check with someone else to verify the alarm code, for the code was changed almost daily and all the downstairs doors and windows were wired. (Mr. Benedict’s first-floor maze had been renovated into makeshift apartments for the Washingtons and Perumals, and the alarm system—with its direct signal to the police station as well as Milligan’s sentries—provided an important new defense.) Then they had to wait while the adult conferred with the outside guards, and only then could they venture into fresh air.

  The children usually preferred the large backyard, where there was more room to run about, and in Kate’s case to turn a few dozen handsprings and flips. The exception was when Mr. Bane was posted there. Mr. Bane was an unpleasant guard, a gruff and grizzled man who seemed to believe children should be kept in boxes until they were proper adults. When Mr. Bane was in the backyard, they went into the courtyard instead.

  Today, as it happened, Mr. Bane was off duty altogether, and as soon as they had hustled into their coats and hats, and Reynie had helped Constance with her mittens (she was close to tears trying to get her thumbs in their places), they ran out the backdoor. They were greeted by Ms. Plugg, a tough, stocky guard who had been walking about on the frost-covered grass to keep warm.

  “Afternoon, children,” Ms. Plugg said, nodding as they came down the steps. She had an oddly large and rectangular head, rather like a cinder block, and when she nodded Reynie always had the disquieting impression that it was sliding off her shoulders. “Kate. Reynie. Constance. Um… Tacky? I’m sorry, I forget your name.”

  “Sticky.”

  “Right!” said Ms. Plugg, snapping her fingers. “Good afternoon, Sticky. I promise I won’t forget again.” Yielding the yard to the children, she took up a watchful position at the top of the steps, where Sticky, unfortunately, could hear her mumbling quietly to herself, “Sticky… Sticky… hmm. Always fiddles with his glasses… fiddlesticks! Okay, fiddlesticks. Good. I’ll remember that.”

  Sticky’s stomach fluttered disagreeably as he walked away from the steps. He had grown so used to b
eing with his friends, he felt somehow caught off balance—and deeply embarrassed—overhearing a stranger’s observations about him. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, watching it rise as vapor in the cold air, Sticky made a spontaneous, private decision.

  Kate, meanwhile, had been about to put down her bucket, but Reynie caught her arm. “Don’t start tumbling just yet,” he murmured, and looking over at Sticky and Constance he said, “Let’s walk a minute.”

  His look wasn’t lost on any of them. Sticky and Constance glanced furtively over their shoulders, and Kate’s eyes narrowed as she rebelted her bucket to her hip, opening the flip top for quicker access to its contents. They all fell into step with Reynie as he set off around the yard.

  No one spoke. The only sound was the crunch of their footsteps on the frozen grass. The yard was enclosed by a prickly hedge, behind which stood a tall iron fence with sharp points at the top of each paling. At the back of the yard Reynie stood on his tiptoes to see over the hedge, and through the fence, into the quiet lane beyond. Something had obviously spooked him.

  “Guess what?” he muttered. “Mr. Bane wasn’t here on the last errand day, either. Remember? First we moped around in the courtyard, and then we came back here to play kickball.”

  Constance shrugged. “So? Mr. Bane’s never here on errand day.”

  Kate gasped in disbelief. “And you didn’t see fit to mention that?”

  “I never thought about it!” said Constance, her voice rising. “I never even—”

  “Shh!” said Reynie, with a nervous glance toward Ms. Plugg. “It’s okay, Constance. We all have a lot on our minds. But if what you say is true—”

  “It’s true, all right,” said Sticky, already reaching for his polishing cloth. He caught himself, scratched his chest instead, then crossed his arms. “I should have noticed it myself. Mr. Bane’s been off duty every single time.”

  “Like I said!” Constance snapped. “But what’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is it can’t be a coincidence,” Reynie said. “The guards work on a rotating schedule, with different days off each week. It’s not very likely errand day just happens to keep falling on Mr. Bane’s day off.”

  “Highly improbable,” said Sticky, doing the numbers in his head. “In fact—”

  “What the boys mean to say,” Kate interrupted, before Sticky could dive into an explanation of calculating odds, “is that something’s going on. What do you think, Reynie? Mr. Benedict doesn’t trust Mr. Bane? He doesn’t want him to find out about errand day?”

  “It’s already being kept secret from the house guards,” Sticky pointed out. “Why be extra careful with Mr. Bane?”

  “Maybe because Mr. Bane is extra nosy,” Constance suggested.

  “Maybe,” Reynie said. “But we should also consider the possibility that Mr. Bane does know about it. What if he’s figuring out when errand day is going to be, then arranging the duty schedule so that he’s off?”

  “How could he find out?” Constance said. “And why would he do that?”

  Reynie shook his head. “I don’t know. But it makes me awfully uneasy.”

  It made all of them uneasy, and for a moment they stood in silence, contemplating what Mr. Bane might be up to. They had never liked the man, but until now no one had suspected he might be treacherous, mostly because they thought Mr. Benedict was too shrewd to allow someone untrustworthy to guard the premises.

  “You know what?” said Kate, brightening. “If we’ve noticed this, you can bet Mr. Benedict has. He might even be the one behind it, right? So let’s ask him later and stop worrying about it. We’re wasting our fresh-air time!”

  The others were less blithe than Kate, but she did have a point. So they agreed to drop the subject, and after some minutes of kicking a ball around they, too, began to shake off their misgivings. They even managed to feign enthusiasm when Kate whistled Madge down from the eaves and urged them to stroke her feathers.

  Madge (whose full name was Her Majesty the Queen) was a talented bird, much attached to Kate and much smarter than most peregrine falcons, which Kate thought should endear her to everyone. The boys had pointed out—as gently as they could—that the raptor’s cruelly sharp beak and cold, predatory expression made her somewhat less than cuddly, and that perhaps people could be forgiven for maintaining a respectful distance. But Kate had seemed hurt by this thought, so for her sake the boys tried to act fond of Madge (and Constance, perhaps not to be left out, did the same).

  Today the three of them managed a few tentative feather-touches and false compliments before retreating to the steps, after which they felt remarkably better, for there is nothing like the fear of being raked by talons to take one’s mind off other concerns. And as they watched Kate and Madge go through their training routines their spirits rose higher still—the routines were wonderfully entertaining.

  Kate would puff on her whistle, producing different sequences of high-pitched notes, and depending on the sequence Madge would either alight on Kate’s fist (now protected by a thick leather glove) or else circle above the yard, “hunting” for strips of meat, which Kate took from a sealed pouch in her bucket and flung into the air. Madge would stoop upon these tidbits with such astonishing speed and accuracy that her young spectators couldn’t help but gasp and applaud (and once or twice Ms. Plugg couldn’t help but join in), and Kate beamed happily and made comical, exaggerated bows, doing her best not to seem overly proud.

  Sitting there on the bottom step, with the sun just breaking out from a cloud and his friends—even Constance—all smiling and chatting good-naturedly, Reynie was suddenly struck by the thought that this curious imprisonment of theirs, however they might grumble about it, could very well prove to be the best time in their lives. For who could say what would happen when all of this was over? Wasn’t it possible, even probable, that their families would all go back to their former lives?

  Reynie felt an old, familiar ache. He instantly recognized it as loneliness—or in this case anticipated loneliness—and not for the first time he lamented his too-vivid imagination. Too easily he imagined the pang he would feel the first hundred times he ate breakfast without his friends—without Kate chattering away much too energetically for that time of morning, without Sticky adjusting his spectacles and translating something from French, without Constance trying to sneak something from his plate. Too easily he imagined himself surrounded by strangers, trying to make new friends in some other place.

  “You all right?” Sticky asked, nudging him. “Are you worrying about you know what?”

  With a start, Reynie realized that he was staring off into the distance. He shook his head. “No, just… daydreaming. I’m fine, thanks.” And he smiled to prove it, privately laughing at himself for being so gloomy. Wasn’t he here with his friends right now? What good did worrying do? At this very moment Sticky was sitting beside him on the step, recounting a study he’d read on the “potentially salubrious effects of daydreams on mental health,” and below them Constance was attempting to retie her shoe with her mittens still on, and Kate was there in the yard, spinning with her arms out wide and gazing up at her falcon in the sky.

  Reynie took a mental picture, and saved it.

  Watching quietly from the top of the steps, Ms. Plugg, like Reynie, was feeling a curious mix of emotions. She was impressed, charmed, and concerned all at once. In her two months at this job, she had never been on duty in the backyard when Kate worked with Madge. Like all of the guards, she’d been aware of a falcon nesting high in the eaves, and had known that it “belonged,” more or less, to one of the children, but she’d had no notion of the bird’s skill—or the girl’s, for that matter—nor of the obviously strong bond of friendship between the two. And now from the bottom step she could hear the bespectacled boy (what was his name? Oh yes, fiddlesticks)—could hear Sticky speaking like a scholar about some study he’d read, and she observed his friend Reynie listening with actual interest and understanding as he tied the
cranky little girl’s shoe for her.

  So charming was the scene that Ms. Plugg found it hard not to be distracted, which bothered her extremely, for Ms. Plugg was a dutiful guard, and her duty, as she understood it, was to look out for strangers (especially well-dressed men carrying briefcases) and for any activity that might be deemed suspicious. Her duty was not to gawk at this ponytailed girl training a bird of prey, or to eavesdrop on the brainy conversation of these two boys—all of which was certainly unusual activity, but none of it was suspicious.

  Ms. Plugg was used to unusual. This house was an unusual house; this job an unusual job. For one thing, she had been told almost nothing about the house’s residents. Their occupations and histories were a mystery to her, as well as to most—if not quite all—of the other guards. According to Ms. Plugg’s superiors, the guards’ job was not to ask questions. Questions would be a waste of time, for most of the answers were highly classified and would not, therefore, be given. Ms. Plugg and the other guards had been told only that the house’s occupants were important, and that their importance was directly related to what was in the basement.

  As all the guards knew, what lay in the basement was a bank of large computers. The computers hummed almost imperceptibly, and night and day, week in and week out, they continued in their mysterious activity. Ceaseless, rapid, extraordinarily complex activity. Although the guards (most of them, that is) had no way of knowing it, the computers were among the most powerful and complicated machines ever invented. They were unusual, in other words, and guarding them was part of Ms. Plugg’s unusual job.

  The climate-controlled basement in which the computers were situated was inaccessible except by way of a hidden stairway that originated inside the house. Once in a while, the guards had reason to descend briefly into the basement, but they were under strict orders never to touch the computers (or even to look at them too closely). These orders were hardly necessary. If an enormous monster had lain sleeping in that dimly lit basement, a creature far more powerful and intelligent than any of the guards, why, nothing on earth could have induced them to risk waking it, and their instinctive feeling about the computers was much the same. The only person who ever touched the computers was Mr. Benedict, whom Ms. Plugg, for her part, regarded as something like an amiable and perhaps half-foolish lion tamer entering the dreaded cage.