The Prisoner's Dilemma (11 page)

Sticky regarded her solemnly. Then he put a hand over his heart and said, “I shall always remember this moment,” and Kate and Reynie laughed until Constance, blushing, covered her head with a pillow.

That evening a cold rain set in that did not let up for days. There was no going outside, and in the drafty rooms of the house even the brightest lamps seemed somehow to cast more shadow than light. It was gloomy, in other words, and adding to the gloom for Reynie was an unpleasant realization that had come to him slowly: Once the Whisperer had been removed from Mr. Benedict’s care, the government would no longer think it necessary to guard the children and their families. All of them would be free to return to their lives.

Which meant saying goodbye to his friends again. This time, perhaps, forever.

The prospect put Reynie in a terrible mood. He ate little and spoke even less, and kept to himself more than usual. He saw no point in mentioning any of this to his friends—no point in depressing them, too—and he especially avoided Constance, who might divine his thoughts without even trying. Miss Perumal noticed, of course. She checked him for fever every day, and asked more than once if the incident with Constance had upset him more than he was letting on. But Reynie always insisted he was fine. He had many reasons for not wishing to discuss his concern with her, not least his dread of having his fears confirmed.

Reynie was already troubled, therefore, when he bumped into Kate one afternoon in the kitchen. But what she told him made his stomach flop.

“I just overheard Number Two telling Rhonda,” Kate whispered, glancing around to be sure they were alone. “The order’s gone through committee again.”

“When?”

“This morning, apparently.”

“No, I mean when are they coming for the Whisperer?”

“The day after tomorrow. Wednesday afternoon. They don’t intend to tell us until that morning. They don’t want to worry us.”

“We’d better call a meeting,” said Reynie.

Sticky had to be rescued from Mrs. Washington, who was once again begging him to let his hair grow out, and Constance had to be roused from a long nap that she had strenuously argued she didn’t need, but the Society eventually held its meeting. Sitting around the rug in the girls’ room as they had done so many times before, they spoke aloud their questions in hopes of generating an answer, or at the very least a clue.

What would happen to the Whisperer when it left the house? Did Mr. Curtain’s spies know it was to be relocated on Wednesday? Even if not, even if the move was uneventful, would Mr. Benedict finish what he was doing before then? What
was
he doing, anyway? It had been several days now, and still he was down in the basement, working feverishly among the computers.

“I suppose we’ll find out on Wednesday,” said Sticky, when after much discussion no answers emerged. “One way or another, we’ll get some answers then.”

“One way or another,” Reynie repeated grimly.

There followed a long silence, during which the three older children stared glumly at the rug. Finally Constance heaved an exasperated sigh and said, “Can we just talk about this and get it over with? You’re all thinking the same thing, you know. And don’t get mad at me for knowing, either. I can’t help it—your thoughts might as well be screaming at me.”

Startled, they all looked at Constance, and then at one another, with expressions half-sheepish and half-relieved.

“Sorry,” Kate said. “I know I’ve been avoiding everyone—”

“You have?” Sticky said. “I have, too! I didn’t want…” He hesitated. “Well, it just didn’t seem decent to be worried about what happens to
us,
not when there’s this much more important question…”

Reynie shook his head wonderingly. “I thought I was the only one thinking about it.”

Kate snorted. “Are you kidding? It’s all I’ve been able to think about for days. And is it just me, or does anyone else think Mr. Benedict gave us that riddle as a distraction? Something to take our minds off what’s going to happen?”

“I’ve wondered about that,” Reynie said. “And the exercise with Constance, too. It seems like quite a coincidence that he gave us so much to think about all of a sudden.”

“Well, it didn’t work, I can tell you that,” Constance said peevishly. “I’ve been constantly worrying about what will happen if that nasty man gets his hands on the Whisperer again, and I can’t stand to think that Mr. Benedict might not have enough time to find a cure for his narcolepsy, and on top of it all there’s this thing with, you know…” She pointed at her head.

“What, are you worried it will go off?” Sticky asked.

“Ha ha,” Constance said, making a face at him. “You wouldn’t think it was so funny if you’d been through what I went through. I’ve never felt so sick in my life.”

Sticky refrained from saying that the experience had not been exactly pleasant for him, either. “Listen, though, Constance, do you still think that’s what Mr. Benedict’s working on—a cure for his narcolepsy? You aren’t getting any thoughts or vibes or whatever that it’s something else?”

Constance rolled her eyes. “For one thing, I haven’t seen him any more than you have. And for another, I’ve been trying to keep my thoughts to myself, if you know what I mean. But I hope that’s what he’s working on, don’t you?”

“I hope a whole lot of things,” Sticky said.

“So do I,” Kate said.

“So do I,” Reynie said.

And they were all telling the truth, yet somehow, strangely enough, none of them felt very hopeful at all.

On Tuesday afternoon, the day before the Whisperer was scheduled to be removed, Mr. Benedict was still at work. If it was a remedy for narcolepsy he sought, he obviously had not found it yet, for when an unexpected visitor arrived and Number Two hurried down to tell him who it was, he fell straight to sleep in his chair. He had seemed quite startled, Number Two told Rhonda upstairs (forgetting, in her fretfulness, to keep her voice down)—startled and even upset, and now she was having trouble waking him.

“I’ll go back down with you,” said Rhonda gravely. She turned (they were just outside the dining room) and saw Constance in the doorway, listening. “Constance, would you go tell Milligan—”

Milligan appeared behind her. “I already heard. Constance, scoot along upstairs, won’t you?”

By the time Number Two and Rhonda had managed to wake Mr. Benedict, everyone in the house knew what had happened and who was at the door. The children were crowded at the girls’ bedroom window, which was open for the sake of the cool air, and were peering down into the courtyard for a glimpse of the infamous Mr. Pressius.

“That’s him?” Constance muttered as Kate held her up. The rain had only just subsided, and on the shining wet stones of the front walk a well-dressed man stood talking to Ms. Plugg. He was evidently quite tall—he towered over the guard—and under his arm he carried a bouquet of pink carnations in the way some businessmen carry newspapers. “That’s the rich creep who made the deal with Curtain?”

“Must be,” said Sticky. “If he couldn’t prove who he was, Ms. Plugg wouldn’t have let him in through the gate.”

After a while the front door opened and Milligan stepped out, dressed in his usual weather-beaten attire, and said something to Mr. Pressius in a low tone. The children strained their ears, but from this height it was impossible to make out his words. They saw Mr. Pressius jab a finger rudely—perhaps he thought Milligan was the gardener—and make some short reply.

Ms. Plugg spoke up then, gesturing at Milligan as if explaining who he was, and Mr. Pressius took a hasty step backward.

But Milligan only laughed (that much was easy to hear) and motioned for Mr. Pressius to follow him inside. Then he looked up at their window—clearly he’d known they were watching—and subtly shaking his head, he mouthed the words, “Don’t come down.”

Mr. Pressius followed Milligan’s gaze. To their surprise, he smiled and waved as if perfectly delighted to see them.

“Great,” Kate said, lowering Constance to the floor. “I suppose it’s no use pretending we couldn’t tell what Milligan said.”

“Why is that awful man here?” Constance demanded.

“Hard to say,” Reynie replied, still gazing out the window. “They’ve had their dealings, you know, and Mr. Pressius has government connections. Maybe he’s making some kind of proposition. His timing makes me think it has to do with the Whisperer.”

“It would have to be a slimy proposition,” Kate suggested, “in which case their meeting will be short. Mr. Benedict won’t even consider it.”

“Probably not,” Reynie said in a hesitant, troubled voice. “And yet…”

The others looked at him.

“Everyone was clearly surprised he’s here,” Reynie said. “Even Mr. Benedict was surprised—Number Two said so. And Mr. Benedict isn’t usually surprised by this sort of thing.”

“Gosh, that’s true,” said Kate. “That can’t be good, can it?”

Their mood shifted then from indignant curiosity to anxious anticipation. Everyone hoped that Kate’s prediction would prove true—that Mr. Pressius would quickly be shown the door—and that afterward a barrage of questions might yield some answers. The older children agreed that they would politely but resolutely insist upon their right to know what was going on. Constance, for her part, practiced making herself cry.

Exactly twenty-three minutes passed—they were keeping close track by the wall clock—and then Rhonda came up to say, with an odd catch in her voice, that Mr. Benedict wanted to see them in his study. Even before she’d finished speaking Kate had tossed everyone their jackets and sweaters, and they dashed to the door.

It occurred to Reynie as they bustled downstairs that they hadn’t seen Mr. Pressius leave, despite keeping watch at the window. Were they about to meet him? The prospect made him uneasy. But then Milligan arrived at the study just as they did, reporting to Mr. Benedict that he’d ushered their visitor to the gate “without further incident,” and Reynie had the sudden conviction that Mr. Benedict had timed his summons so that they wouldn’t see Mr. Pressius leave. But why would he do that?

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” said Mr. Benedict, who looked anything but comfortable himself. A red mark was plainly visible on his forehead—the apparent result of a sleep-induced tumble—and a stack of books that had fallen from his desk lay in disarray about the floor where he now sat. He greeted the children with his usual warmth, smiling at each in turn, but rarely had he appeared quite so haggard and worn.

As they found places to sit on the floor, Reynie also noticed that the pink carnations were lying on Mr. Benedict’s desk, not far from his humble potted violet, but that two or three petals lay on the floor near the wastebasket—as if someone had thrown the flowers away only to think better of it afterward.

Milligan went out, closing the door behind him, and Rhonda and Number Two sat in the empty chairs. When everyone was settled Mr. Benedict stroked his ill-shaven cheek, apparently seeking the proper words.

“I know you’re all wondering why Mr. Pressius was here,” Mr. Benedict said at last, “and I’m afraid I must tell you. First, however, allow me to offer a bit of background. Some days ago the government, which as you know is desperate for funds, sold my brother’s tidal turbines to Mr. Pressius. The terms of the deal are obscured by a certain amount of legal embroidery, but suffice it to say that the Whisperer shall retain its power source and the government shall be able to pay off a few debts.”

“How could they sell the turbines?” said Constance. “I didn’t realize the government even owned them.”

The other children groaned.

“We’ve talked about this,” said Sticky, “about a hundred times. The government seized them after Mr. Curtain escaped.” And before Constance could make a retort he said, “But there’s been nothing in the newspapers about selling them, so the deal must be a secret. Is that right, Mr. Benedict?”

Mr. Benedict tapped his nose. “
Unofficial
is the preferred term, I believe. The arrangement calls for Mr. Pressius to sell back to the government—at a very modest rate—most of the electricity produced by the turbines, which his private technicians shall have operating at maximum capacity soon. The government will save a great deal of money on energy costs, and over time Mr. Pressius will earn a reasonable profit. These are the stated reasons for the arrangement.”

“The stated reasons,” Reynie repeated, significantly. “So what about the real ones?”

“
Those
surely have to do with my brother. After all, if Ledroptha plans to regain control of his Whisperer, he must also think of securing its power source. I’m certain Mr. Pressius is acting on his behalf—no doubt he stands to gain far more than a ‘reasonable profit’ for doing so.”

The children, aghast, muttered and shook their heads.

“The government will continue to provide heavy security,” Mr. Benedict went on, “but Mr. Pressius will cover the costs. Thus the authorities enjoy the illusion—I should say delusion—of retaining control of the turbines, and meanwhile they may pat themselves on the back for making such a clever arrangement.”

“They need more than patting,” Constance grumbled.