The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Prisoner's Dilemma

by Trenton Lee Stewart

  Milligan looked like himself for a change—no disguises, bandages, or casts—and his bright, buoyant aspect, so much like his daughter’s, brought smiles to the faces of everyone in the room. A tall man with flaxen blond hair and ocean-blue eyes (the same color as Kate’s), Milligan wore a shabby assemblage of boots, jacket, and hat that quite belied his position as a top secret agent. But agent he was, and no sooner had he greeted them than he drew Mr. Benedict, Rhonda, and Number Two aside to speak in private.

  Reynie overheard the words “just as we thought” and “sooner than expected,” and noting Mr. Benedict’s expression—attentive and composed, yet also faintly troubled—he realized that here, at last, was some kind of important development. But whatever it was, it appeared to be an undesirable one.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Mr. Benedict said, turning to address the table, “my visitors have arrived. Mr. Bane is bringing them up presently. No, no,” he said when the others made to leave, “please stay as long as you like. This is an official matter and must be dealt with in my study.” He went out, accompanied by Rhonda, Milligan, and Number Two.

  Mrs. Perumal murmured something to Mrs. Washington, who shared a questioning glance with her husband. Apparently Reynie wasn’t the only one who had sensed this “official matter” was significant.

  “You have half an hour before your afternoon lessons,” Mrs. Washington said. “Wouldn’t you three like to go outside?”

  “Actually,” said Kate, already moving to the door, “I need the boys’ help with something. Don’t worry, we’ll keep out of everyone’s way.” She beckoned to Reynie and Sticky, who hurried after her so eagerly that the adults, had they not been intent on having a private discussion themselves, might have been suspicious.

  The boys followed Kate down the long hallway past Mr. Benedict’s study, thinking they were headed upstairs to talk. To their surprise, however, she turned at the stairs and darted down a seldom-used passage which, as far as Reynie knew, led to nothing but an overcrowded storage room and a utility closet.

  “Wait, you really do want help with something?” Sticky asked as they hustled to catch up. “I assumed you wanted to talk about these mysterious visitors.”

  “We can talk later,” said Kate. She opened her bucket and handed each of them an empty water glass that she’d smuggled from the dining room. “Right now we’re going to listen.”

  “You mean eavesdrop?” said Reynie, raising his eyebrows. He knew this trick—by putting your ear to a glass and the glass to the wall, you could sometimes make out what was said in the next room. He felt his heartbeat quickening.

  “But we’ll be seen!” Sticky objected. “Eavesdropping on an official meeting won’t go over very well, you know.”

  “Lower your voice,” said Kate with a glance back down the passage. She drew the boys into the utility closet and shut the door. “Listen,” she whispered as she groped for the light switch, “this meeting is obviously unusual. I mean, Mr. Benedict has countless meetings, but you can tell this one is different, can’t you?”

  The light came on. The boys, squinting, nodded.

  “And chances are we won’t be told anything about it, right? It’s for our own protection, they’ll say—and that’s probably true—but aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know?”

  “Of course,” Reynie said. “I’m just wondering how you plan to get away with it.”

  Kate looked at Sticky, who was trying not to fidget for fear of knocking over a broom or dust mop. They were rather tightly packed. Cautiously, he nodded. “Yes, how do we do it?”

  “Like so,” Kate said with a grin, scooting aside a mop bucket to reveal a large access panel in the wall. She quickly removed its screws, saying, “This old house has been through a lot over the years. Walls knocked down and relocated, plumbing replaced, sockets rewired, you name it. There are lots of what you’d call… eccentricities. Here we go now.”

  She lowered the panel to the floor, exposing a tangle of brightly colored, insulated wires draped before a dark empty space—like vines overhanging a cave entrance, Reynie thought, or a bead curtain in a doorway. Kate took out her flashlight, leaving her bucket on the floor nearby. “It’s a tight fit,” she explained. Sweeping the wires to one side, she shone her flashlight into the darkness, then looked back over her shoulder at the boys. “Don’t worry about the wires, they’re not connected anymore. Now listen, we need to be as quiet as mice. No, quieter than that. As quiet as… as…”

  “Dead mice?” Reynie suggested.

  “Perfect,” said Kate with an approving nod. “As quiet as dead mice.”

  And with that, the boys followed Kate into the walls.

  Having passed through the curtain of dangling wires, Reynie discovered that he could stand upright in the space between walls. It was narrow, with scarcely room to turn his head, but by edging sideways as if shuffling along a ledge he was able to move without bumping the walls. Once or twice Kate directed her flashlight at the floor, drawing his attention to a spot of uneven footing. Each time Reynie swiveled his eyes toward Sticky to be sure he had noticed, too. Then he nodded to Kate, and silently they moved on.

  In this way they soon arrived at the wall of Mr. Benedict’s study, beyond which they could hear the muffled tones of conversation. Ever so quietly and carefully, they raised their water glasses and pressed them to the wall.

  Reynie heard Number Two’s agitated voice as if from the bottom of a well: “… unannounced? If not for Milligan…” Her words grew indistinct; Reynie pressed his ear to the glass so hard it hurt. “… the whole point being to catch you off guard, no? They want—”

  Mr. Benedict’s muted voice came in. “I know, Number Two, but at least we’ve had the experience of observing their methods. It’s instructive, don’t you think?”

  A forceful knock sounded at the door. Through the listening glasses the banging came like a series of detonations. Reynie jumped, almost dropping his glass, and Kate (using her opposite ear and thus facing him) wrinkled her nose.

  “One moment, please!” called Mr. Benedict, and then in a lower tone, barely audible to the eavesdroppers, he said, “Number Two, you and Milligan had better escort Mr. Bane back down to his post. We don’t want—Why, hello!”—this in a louder, cheerful tone as the door was rudely opened—“Yes, please do come straight in! Take those two chairs. Just brush away the crumbs there—Number Two was enjoying a biscuit. Perhaps you’d care for something yourselves? No?”

  A few more pleasantries (on the part of Mr. Benedict), a tense and hushed exchange the eavesdroppers couldn’t make out, and the study door closed. Mr. Benedict and Rhonda had been left alone with the two visitors. One of them Reynie had deduced to be Ms. Argent, a highly placed official who often met with Mr. Benedict, and who was always present when the captured Executives were brought to the house for questioning. She was a key figure in the cases involving Mr. Curtain, and Reynie could easily picture her silver hair and pinched features.

  The other visitor had been introduced as Mr. Covett S. Gaines, a man whose deep, gravelly voice, as perceived through the listening glasses, sounded like the rumblings of a tiger.

  “Let us cut to the chase,” rumbled Mr. Gaines when the door had closed.

  “Certainly,” said Mr. Benedict. “And who is to be chasing whom?”

  “What? Is that a joke?”

  “Perhaps not a very funny one. Please continue.”

  “Very well. Now let’s see… you’ve thrown me off my track.”

  “I believe you were about to inform me that you are the head of a new committee assembled to deal with matters concerning the Whisperer, and that as such you have a few questions for me.”

  “How the devil did you know that?”

  Ms. Argent said, “He often knows such things, Mr. Gaines. The best course is not to grow exercised.”

  The iciness in Mr. Gaines’s tone was not lost even through the wall. “I thank you for recommending the best course, Ms. Argent. Perhaps you sho
uld lead the way, seeing as you know it so well.”

  Ms. Argent cleared her throat. “We’re here to clarify certain things in Mr. Gaines’s mind.”

  “Before you make your final decisions, you mean,” said Mr. Benedict.

  “No one said anything about decisions,” growled Mr. Gaines. “Right now we’re talking about facts—and I want all of them. I need to know how this Whisperer works, what powers it, what its connection is to you, everything. Start at the beginning, Benedict. Assume I know nothing.”

  “That won’t be difficult,” said Mr. Benedict, and Rhonda’s spurt of laughter was surprisingly clear—she must be standing next to the wall—but she instantly disguised it as a coughing fit as Mr. Benedict pressed on. “I mean to say it won’t be difficult to give you the facts. It’s everything else that I seem to have trouble conveying.”

  “Please,” said Ms. Argent, “just answer Mr. Gaines’s questions.”

  Mr. Benedict proceeded to relate the facts. The Whisperer, he said, was powered by the tidal turbines his brother had invented and installed in Stonetown Bay. Due to their remarkable design, these turbines were capable of generating enormous energy (a mere fraction of which had once powered Mr. Curtain’s Institute), but which currently remained unused save for the energy they transmitted to the Whisperer.

  “Transmit?” interjected Mr. Gaines. “How? With cables? Wires? Speak plainly, Benedict!”

  “Forgive me,” said Mr. Benedict, and then, making liberal use of terms such as “electrical resistance” and “electromagnetic induction” and “receiver coils”—along with a great many terms that only Sticky, of all the eavesdroppers, even faintly recognized—he explained that the energy was transmitted invisibly, without cables or wires. “Is that plain enough, Mr. Gaines?”

  “Er, yes… quite,” Mr. Gaines replied after an uncertain silence. “Please continue.”

  “The Whisperer,” continued Mr. Benedict, “was modeled after my brother’s own brain, and was once responsive only to his mental direction. Given the similarities of our brains—I trust you’re aware that Ledroptha and I are identical twins—I have managed to induce the Whisperer, with certain modifications, to respond to my own directions as well… but of course you will be familiar with all this from the case files.”

  Reynie felt a tickle at the end of his nose. A spider had descended by a strand of web and settled lightly upon him. In the ambient glow from Kate’s flashlight, he could just make out the spider’s doubled image (doubled because his eyes were crossed), and somehow resisting an urge to thrash about in panic, he moved his hand slowly and deliberately to brush it away.

  “—of the original functions still in place,” Mr. Benedict was saying when Reynie was able to concentrate again, “along with other modifications that have allowed me to aid its victims in recovering their memories. So as you can see, if the Whisperer were to fall into my brother’s hands again, he would be an immediate threat. Not only could he suppress memories—as he has done before with devastating effect—he could retrieve them as well.”

  “You mean he could obtain key information,” rumbled Mr. Gaines. “Sensitive information.”

  “Precisely. Passwords, codes, any bit of classified material a person might possess—he could have it all at his disposal. He would need only be within range.”

  Ms. Argent asked, “And how far exactly would that range extend, Mr. Benedict?”

  “It is not so much a question of distance as of focus. Ledroptha could use the Whisperer on anyone in his presence—any person toward whom he could direct his full attention.”

  Mr. Gaines said, “So if I were standing, say, in the courtyard outside this house, and he was looking down at me from a window…”

  “You would be in range, yes.”

  “And he could, what do you call it, brainsweep me,” Mr. Gaines said. “He could wipe away my memories. Or extract my memories for his own purposes—essentially read my mind.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if there were a whole crowd of people in that courtyard?”

  “In theory they would all be at risk,” said Mr. Benedict, “though in reality perhaps not. The Whisperer responds only to very specific, very powerful mental direction, and the concentration required to use it is exhausting. My brother has a fierce mind and could certainly do a great deal of damage, but he is human, after all. He would need to rest.”

  “You keep saying your brother,” said Mr. Gaines slowly, “but what about you, Benedict? The Whisperer responds to your mental direction, too. So couldn’t—in theory, I mean—couldn’t you do all those things we’ve just mentioned?”

  “In theory, yes.”

  “But he wouldn’t!” Rhonda cried.

  Mr. Gaines’s demanding tone had become conciliatory now, almost ingratiating. “Oh no, I never meant to imply Mr. Benedict would use the Whisperer for the wrong reasons. But if it were for a higher purpose, I mean? For the good? Take for example these captured former Executives. Your questioning of them has produced no useful information—”

  “On the contrary,” said Mr. Benedict. “I have found it helpful indeed.”

  “No offense, but the committee has deemed that information useless,” said Mr. Gaines. “Psychological motives and personal foibles aren’t exactly facts, you know. Or perhaps you don’t—well, let’s not argue, Benedict. The point is with the Whisperer you could find out more definite things, could you not? Secret information that would lead us to your brother?”

  “I doubt it,” said Mr. Benedict. “Ledroptha has never trusted even his closest assistants to keep his most guarded secrets. He chooses instead to spread information around selectively, and to season it with red herrings… by ‘red herrings’ I mean false leads.”

  “I know what a red—”

  “I may have misinterpreted your look of confusion,” Mr. Benedict said quickly. “Perhaps you simply don’t understand my position. So let me be clear: I will not use the Whisperer on anyone—anyone, Mr. Gaines—against that person’s will. It is an intrusion, a violation. One’s mind is one’s most valuable, private possession. I would no sooner break into your memories, Mr. Gaines, than I would break into your home.”

  “We’re not talking about me!” protested Mr. Gaines. “We’re talking about criminals, Benedict! Listen, I can understand your hesitation with these Executives—I’ve read your arguments about how they were captured as children and raised up under Curtain’s influence, how they should therefore be shown some lenience, even forgiveness, and so on—but leaving them aside, I don’t see how you could refuse to probe the minds of these wicked fellows who worked for Curtain, these… what do you call them? These elegant thugs your man Milligan has brought in?”

  “The agents call them Ten Men,” said Ms. Argent. “Because they have ten different ways to hurt you.”

  “Right. These unsavory Ten Men. Nothing they’ve said has helped us get one step closer to your brother. In point of fact they’ve hardly said anything at all.”

  “Nor will they,” said Mr. Benedict. “Not so long as they perceive any chance of Ledroptha gaining power.”

  “So you admit it! You admit your brother may yet be seeking a way to gain power! But you won’t use the Whisperer on these vicious—”

  “Tell me, Mr. Gaines, have you ever spoken with Milligan about the years of crushing sadness he endured because of the Whisperer’s effects? Or the mental anguish he experienced while trying to resist being brainswept in the first place?”

  “I don’t need to speak to Milligan about it. His is a different case entirely. In this case, couldn’t you—”

  “I have nothing further to say on this matter, Mr. Gaines.”

  There was a long pause, during which the eavesdroppers strove to keep still and quiet. Sticky was especially tormented—his natural fidgetiness was at its peak in moments like this—but the others were struggling, too. In Kate the reminder of those lonely years she and Milligan had lived apart had stoked an old, low-burning anger, and
she felt like running, jumping, climbing, fighting—anything to work off the emotion. And Reynie, as he often did when his mind was racing, felt a powerful urge to pace.

  Instead the three of them stood frozen, ears to their listening glasses, waiting.

  At length Ms. Argent broke the silence. In a tentative voice, as if she herself didn’t much like what she was about, she said, “What about your new side project, Mr. Benedict? Don’t you wish to pursue that work?”

  “What new project?” asked Mr. Gaines. “Why am I just hearing of this?”

  “Mr. Benedict believes the Whisperer might be used to alleviate the symptoms of his narcolepsy. By way of a kind of hypnosis—is that right, Mr. Benedict? A sort of fooling of the brain’s habitual responses to stimuli?”

  “I’m impressed, Ms. Argent,” said Mr. Benedict in an amiable tone. (Reynie imagined him tapping his nose, as he often did when someone gave a correct answer.) “You remember perfectly something I never mentioned to you.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “That’s quite all right. I’ve made no real secret of my project, and it does interest me to see how information travels.”

  “We’re offering you a deal,” said Mr. Gaines, having instantly latched on to Ms. Argent’s implied suggestion and making it his own. “You can get rid of your narcoplexy, or whatever you call it, and in the meantime you’ll use the Whisperer as we see fit. That’s a fair trade, Benedict. You know it is.”

  “I know nothing of the kind. It was not just my own situation I hoped to improve, Mr. Gaines, but that of countless people with similar conditions, since it stands to reason that what works on me might work on others. Regardless, I am not sure my ideas are even practicable; to determine that would require considerable research and experiment. But even if I were sure, Mr. Gaines, we would have no deal, for I simply will not do what you ask of me.”