The Prisoner's Dilemma (25 page)

“My name is Garrotte and I’ll be your driver today,” said Garrotte, grinning impishly from behind the wheel as McCracken squeezed into the passenger’s seat. The other Ten Men chuckled and took seats in the back with the children. “Don’t forget to buckle up! We want a safe and pleasant ride.”

“You may as well get comfortable, sweets,” murmured Sharpe, folding up his spectacles and closing his eyes. “We’ll be riding around awhile.”

It turned out that by “awhile” Sharpe meant several hours. Miserable, interminable hours, during which the children were not allowed to move or speak as the van crept along the jammed city streets. And all the while the Ten Men seemed completely relaxed. They sat calmly, comfortably, sometimes dozing (though never all at once), sometimes engaging in amiable chatter. From time to time one would rise to peer out the windows in the back doors of the van, then return to his seat, smiling to himself.

Reynie spent the first part of this long ride trying to calm down and come up with a plan. He was having trouble with both. His nerves were shot; his mind was fatigued; his body was exhausted. But after more than an hour of searching for bright spots, Reynie suddenly had an encouraging thought—their situation was undeniably awful, but wasn’t it also an opportunity? After all, they were being taken to Mr. Curtain, and Mr. Benedict needed to
find
Mr. Curtain.

Reynie began to get excited. If he just paid close attention to where they were taken, then found a way to let Mr. Benedict know—there had to be
some
way—the tables would be turned! Not only could they be rescued, but Mr. Curtain could be captured once and for all!

Heartened by his idea, Reynie glanced around, meaning to give his friends covert looks of encouragement. To his surprise he found them all dozing, their heads lolling heavily on their necks. He almost laughed. Even considering all they had been through, it was hard to imagine sleeping at a time like this. And then, in less than a minute, Reynie had joined them. And like them he spent the following hours repeatedly jolting awake, finding himself miserable, cramped, and scared, then succumbing yet again to the powerful need for sleep.

This happened over and over again, and time passed strangely between the weird dreams Reynie experienced while sleeping and the very real, equally weird nightmare he faced each time he awoke. But eventually, finally, the cycle ended; the van stopped. It idled in one place for much longer than it had done before, and Reynie, noticing this, slowly grew alert. Despite the hours of driving they were still downtown; through the high windows in the back doors he could see a distant traffic light. But something had changed, and after a moment he realized what it was. The traffic light was red. The power was back on. And the night’s unusual darkness was giving way to familiar gray dawn.

“Good morning, sunshines,” Sharpe yawned, resettling his spectacles and scratching his head. He sprayed a misty breath freshener into his mouth and smiled sleepily at the bleary children.

In the front of the van McCracken’s radio crackled, and a man’s voice—Reynie recognized it with a shiver—said, “What is your status?”

“We have secured the goods and await orders,” McCracken replied.

Mr. Curtain’s gleeful tone was unmistakable even through the radio. “You secured the goods? Confirm that—you secured the goods?”

“Confirmed,” McCracken said, laughing. “We have indeed secured the goods.”

“Then proceed to base at once!” Mr. Curtain barked, followed by a screechy sound that someone else might have thought was radio interference but that Reynie recognized as Mr. Curtain’s laugh.

McCracken tucked his radio into his suit coat and nodded at Garrotte, who instantly swerved across the sidewalk and into a parking garage, zooming up to the first empty level. Garrotte and Crawlings leaped out of the van with boxes under their arms. At once there came a banging overhead, and a prolonged scratching noise rather like the sound of a person unstripping package tape. Meanwhile McCracken and Sharpe were taking out blindfolds and securing them over the children’s eyes—and Reynie’s hopes were plummeting. So much for paying close attention to where they were going.

“Mr. Curtain’s orders,” said McCracken in a falsely apologetic tone. “One can never be too careful.”

Garrotte and Crawlings got back in. “We’ll make good time now,” Garrotte called back to them cheerfully. “Just listen to
this.
” He threw a switch, and overhead a siren began to wail. The Ten Men had disguised the van as an ambulance.

With the siren blaring the van was able to move steadily through the city, occasionally slowing but never stopping, until at last, having pulled free of the heavier traffic, the siren was turned off. The van moved swiftly now; its tires hummed on open highway. But
which
highway? Reynie wondered. Headed to where?

“Little bunny,” McCracken said to someone, “you had best stop wriggling your eyebrows. If that blindfold slips loose, you will most sincerely regret it.”

That had to be Kate, Reynie thought. He hoped for her sake that she would do as she was told. They were already in deep enough trouble, and Reynie could see no way out of it.

T
hey rode for a time in silence. Despite their dread of what lay ahead, the children were all hoping the trip would end soon. They were horribly uncomfortable from sitting for so long, the early-morning sun shone painfully into their eyes even through the blindfolds, and everyone was thirsty. Constance made a point of uttering dry, rasping noises and smacking her lips until Crawlings growled and told her to stop.

“Garrotte,” said Sharpe, “be a good fellow and switch on the radio, will you? I’m curious what people are saying about last night.”

Garrotte switched on the radio. The children perked up their ears. A news reporter was speaking excitedly:

“... entire city! Again, it’s a wondrous display of efficient technology, Martha, and real leadership on the part of Jim Pressius. The turbines, apparently, were not even connected to the grid yet, but Pressius’s technicians pulled off an overnight miracle.”

“It’s really something, John! And for the benefit of those just tuning in, will you quickly repeat what you’ve learned about Stonetown’s new power source?”

“Right, well, just after the shocking crash of the computer systems that manage the city’s power grid, Mr. Jim Pressius, the wealthy entrepreneur, stepped forward to offer an emergency alternative. It seems Mr. Pressius owns a tidal turbine system invented by Mr. Ledroptha Curtain, the noted scientist and educator. The turbines are located in Stonetown Bay—the National Guard was immediately deployed to protect them, incidentally—and thanks to the urgent efforts of Mr. Pressius and his experts they began supplying power to Stonetown just before dawn. All this is according to the government’s official statement, Martha, which was released after communications were restored about twenty minutes ago.”

“And still no explanation for the communications outage?”

“Unfortunately, no. Obviously it was connected to the blackout, but authorities are at a loss to explain it. In fact according to Mr. Pressius, there’s only one scientist in the world with a sufficient understanding of energy anomalies and invisible waveforms to explain what happened, much less prevent its happening again—and that’s his friend Ledroptha Curtain.”

The children sucked in their breath. Could this really be going where they thought it was going?

“I’ll remind our listeners that Mr. Curtain is the man who invented the tidal turbines,” said the anchorwoman. “So has Mr. Curtain been involved in any of this, John?”

“Apparently not, Martha. He’s a famously private individual, extremely reclusive, and in fact his current whereabouts are unknown. Our listeners may recall that his well-regarded Institute closed over a year ago under mysterious circumstances—”

“It wasn’t mysterious to
us
!” Kate snarled, unable to contain herself.

“Hush, kitty,” McCracken murmured.

“—his alleged involvement in possible criminal activity?—”

“Alleged!” Kate muttered indignantly. “Possible!”

“I won’t warn you again,” said McCracken. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the program.”

“—as you said, John, and follow up on any developments as the government seeks to contact Mr. Curtain. Meanwhile, we’re receiving a lot of reports of
actual
criminal activity due to the outages, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, indeed, Martha. Apparently looters and burglars had a field day—or field
night,
rather—in Stonetown during these long, dark, and quiet hours…”

At McCracken’s behest, Garrotte checked to see what was being said on the other radio stations. It was all the same: a terrifying night; mounting fears that it would happen again; Mr. Pressius a civic hero; and an urgent need to locate and consult the preeminent scientist Ledroptha Curtain.

The radio voices went on and on, and Reynie was developing a fierce headache. The relentless bright sunlight wasn’t helping—its glare intensified as it passed through the windows, and even with the blindfold and his eyes closed he could feel its heat on his face. He dared not cover his eyes with his hands for fear the Ten Men would think he was trying to remove his blindfold, and when he tried to shift positions Sharpe ordered him to sit still. But physical discomfort was the least of Reynie’s concerns at the moment, for he saw quite plainly what Mr. Curtain was hoping to achieve—and that everything was going exactly as planned.

Mr. Curtain’s “possible criminal activity” had always been classified. The public knew nothing of it, and most of the people in government who did were simply accepting what their superiors told them. If just a few high officials’ minds changed, so too would the official position on Mr. Curtain’s guilt. After all, the most important piece of physical evidence in his case—the Whisperer itself—was believed to have been destroyed. No matter that some people, including the children, knew what
really
happened to the Whisperer. These were already being dealt with.

After about an hour on the highway the van turned off, wound along a twisting side road for perhaps five minutes more, then finally came to a stop. “We’re here,” McCracken announced into his radio.

“I see you,” a man’s voice replied. “We’ll open up.”

There came a rattling, clanking sound, as if a large gate or drawbridge were being opened, and the van started forward again. After some maneuvering, some muttered cursing, and some jibes from the other Ten Men about Garrotte’s parking, the van doors were flung open and the children unloaded. They were marched into a building and up several flights of stairs, where (thanks to Constance’s incessant whining) they were given water to drink and one minute apiece in a cold bathroom. But not until they had been corralled in a bright, stark room were their blindfolds removed. The Ten Men whipped them off with a flourish and withdrew to the doorway.

The first thing the children saw was Mr. Curtain. His appearance startled them, for though the Ten Men had kept up their cheerful banter, no one had heard Mr. Curtain’s voice or any other indication of his presence. But here he was in all his creepy glory, the spitting image of Mr. Benedict save for his haughty expression, his more carefully combed white hair, and the slightly different plaid pattern of his green suit. He was squatting, not sitting, in the seat of his wheelchair, his forearms resting atop his knees—and he was silently circling them like a shark around its prey. His cold green eyes darted from face to face. He licked his lips, then pressed them tightly together, suppressing a smile. His wheelchair made absolutely no sound at all.

He circled them once, twice, three times, expertly maneuvering his wheelchair with subtle manipulations of a handheld remote control. He circled so close that he could easily have reached out and scratched them—and perhaps he would, Reynie thought; he did have the air of someone planning something nasty—and to make matters even more unsettling, the children found themselves quite inside the wheelchair’s eerie bubble of silence. (Kate was frowning in irritation, having let fly a snappy comment only to have it pass unnoticed, while Sticky, for his part, was grateful no one had heard him whimper.) And still Mr. Curtain circled and circled.

Though helpless to act, none of them wished to give Mr. Curtain the satisfaction of seeing them so frightened, and after his fifth or sixth circuit they stopped twisting to keep their eyes on him when he passed behind them. Fixing their gazes ahead, they endured this bizarre and menacing behavior with what little composure they could manage.

Reynie took the opportunity to study the depressing, unvarying features of the room: Large empty metal bookcases stood against each of the three walls he could see, their shelves coated in dust; a desk (equally empty and dusty) stood right up against one of them; and everything looked slightly askew—the furniture seemed to have been shoved against the walls to clear space in the room. Behind them, he knew, was the door through which they had just entered; otherwise the room appeared to have no exits. (Not even for Kate, unfortunately—the ceiling was plaster, the heating register too small to squeeze through.) Judging from the decor and the dust, the room was a dull office that had been some time out of use.

Mr. Curtain glided before them a seventh time, then an eighth, fully smiling now (no longer trying to suppress it). Reynie glanced nervously at him, then quickly glanced away. Who knew what this madman was up to? Was he trying to disorient them? Confuse them?

The wheelchair came round again. With a start, Reynie saw that it was empty.

“Boo!” roared Mr. Curtain from right behind them, and the children fairly leaped out of their skins. They spun to see him leering down at them from his full height. Delighted by their startled faces, he let loose with his grating, screechy laugh and waggled his fingers at them.

“You see?” Mr. Curtain said as his wheelchair circled round to him again. “If you grow too used to something, too complacent, you are easily caught off guard. I am afraid you children grew far too used to having luck fall your way—and far too bold because of it. So very much like Benedict. Not that I am complaining, of course. Your predictability has served me well.”