The Perilous Journey (45 page)

A strange thing began to happen then. As Kate ran down passage after passage and climbed ladder after ladder — and as the calculator continued its menacing countdown — her mind began to sort through a great jumble of images and thoughts. She saw the Ten Man in Thernbaakagen, the one who had intended to lash them with his whip. She saw Mr. Curtain standing over her with those wicked, shiny gloves, and she heard him speaking gleefully of what he planned to do to Mr. Benedict. But more than anything she thought of Milligan, of what McCracken and the others had done to him. Was this her life flashing before her eyes? If so, why did she have the odd feeling that she was making her mind up about something?

She was almost to the deck now. She glanced at the calculator readout: 15. 14. 13.

Kate flew up the final ladder and over to the railing, where her eyes were met with a scene of utter chaos. Two Royal Navy patrol boats were coming around the ship’s stern, loudspeakers booming and floodlights crisscrossing every which way through the mist. The Salamander was directly below, its occupants — Mr. Curtain and the Ten Men — looking up at Martina Crowe, who had become tangled in a line on her way down and was hanging by her foot some ten feet above them, screaming for Mr. Curtain to help her. All of this Kate observed in a split second.

In the same split second, Mr. Curtain saw Kate at the railing with the calculator in her hand. He gave a visible start. “Move!” he ordered McCracken. “Leave Martina! Leave her, I say!”

McCracken sent the Salamander roaring backward, its treads spewing mud and water, but Kate was in perfect position. It would be so easy to stop them. A well-placed throw — and Kate was nothing if not a good shot — and the calculator would land directly in the Salamander’s path. The explosion would wreck it. Sure, it might kill the wicked men inside, but those men had had no qualms about such matters when they’d stuck the explosive on the security hold door, had they? If anyone deserved to be sent sky-high with their own evil contraption, it was these men, and no doubt about it.

Kate saw Garrotte flick his wrist. She leaped to the left — a razor-sharp pencil whistled past her shoulder.
You just made it even easier,
she thought, cocking her arm to throw. The men in the Salamander, powerless to do anything else, bent down and shielded their heads with their arms. They were sitting ducks. This would be the easiest thing in the world…

Except that Milligan was right.

Kate was not like Mr. Curtain and his nasty associates. Not at all. Back on that rooftop in Thernbaakagen Milligan had told her as much, and she saw now what he meant. Seeing those men there, helpless to stop her from doing what they themselves would never hesitate to do, Kate realized — with a certain degree of disappointment but also a degree of pride — that she could never do it, could never do something that would make her more like her enemy and less like her father. And so, instead of throwing the calculator into the Salamander’s path, she flung it out over the bay, where it splashed into the water. An instant later the
Shortcut
trembled with the concussion of an underwater explosion, and from the spot where the calculator had splashed a geyser of water shot twenty feet into the air. The patrol boats, though a safe distance away, rocked back and forth in the waves caused by the blast.

From the Salamander a cheer erupted, followed by laughter, and Kate watched as the machine moved rapidly away on the bay shore, where the patrol boats were helpless to stop it. The Ten Men were clapping — applauding her decision with scornful delight. As the Salamander rumbled away, Mr. Curtain smiled and blew Kate a kiss.

Kate made sure he saw her wipe it off.

I don’t like it,” Constance said. “How am I supposed to find anything?”

“You mean you
used
to be able to find things in here?” Reynie asked.

“That’s not the point,” said Constance.

The young members of the Mysterious Benedict Society were sitting in a circle on the floor of Constance’s bedroom, which during their absence had been thoroughly cleaned and tidied. Indeed the whole house had been scoured, and many of its drafts sealed up and leaky faucets fixed, for the Washingtons and Perumals, having no other outlet for their anxious worry, had kept themselves busy. Constance had been back only a week, which was hardly enough time to return things to their proper state of disorder, and she’d complained about her room every chance she got.

“It’s a little better, isn’t it?” Kate said, pointing to the pile of laundry on Constance’s unmade bed. “You haven’t washed anything since we got back, and your top drawer is completely empty except for a moldy corn dog. I don’t even want to know why
that’s
in there.”

“Why were you going through my drawers?” Constance demanded.

“Looking for this,” said Kate, waving the travel journal Mr. Benedict had given them. “And I see you cheated — you took another turn.”

Constance stuck up her nose. “When inspiration calls,” she said, “I have no choice but to answer.”

The children had begun making entries in the journal — just as Reynie had promised Constance they would — and the first entry had been made by Constance herself, who composed a rather disgusting haiku about the trials of seasickness. Kate had followed that entry with a page of lemon juice scribblings she insisted mustn’t be revealed for ten years, and Reynie had written a lively, two-page summary of their adventure — an account that ended with the revelation that Mr. Curtain had
not
escaped with fifty boxes of duskwort, as the children had at first believed.

It was thwart-wort, Reynie had written, every last bit of it, and Mr. Benedict knew it. He and Number Two had scoured that cave before Mr. Curtain ever showed up. Half a century was more than enough time for the few specimens Han de Reizeger had seen to overcome the duskwort. Mr. Benedict kept this information to himself, correctly guessing that should Mr. Curtain ever be forced to choose between confronting his enemies or making a quick escape with his precious moss, he would choose the latter. And so it was thwart-wort, not duskwort, that Mr. Curtain salvaged from that mountain cave, and even though he and his men would manage to slip away in the mists, he had yet to discover his final disappointment.

Reynie had not written about the other, more personal disappointment that they all felt. The duskwort had promised a possible end to Mr. Benedict’s sufferings; now it was simply the stuff of history and legend. And though Mr. Benedict refused to mourn its loss, which had prevented certain catastrophe at the hands of his brother, everyone who loved him wished things could have turned out otherwise. All of this Reynie found too difficult to express with suitable eloquence, and so he’d concluded his entry with a simple but cryptic line that could apply just as easily to Mr. Benedict or Mr. Curtain:
One more dream destroyed.

Now it was Sticky’s turn to make an entry — they had agreed he should go last, so that he didn’t accidentally use up all the pages before the others had written anything — but Constance had skipped his turn and made another entry herself.

“It’s fine,” Sticky said, lifting up his bandaged hands. “I can’t hold a pen very well with these on, anyway.”

“Your mom won’t let you take them off ?” asked Reynie, whose own hands were mostly healed from the cuts and blisters inflicted in dragging the sledge. Sticky was the only one still wearing bandages.

“Not yet,” Sticky said with a shrug. He leaned back on his elbows and jauntily crossed his legs. These private meetings in Constance’s room gave him some much-needed relief from his parents’ attentions — they spent half their time babying him and the other half berating him for his reckless behavior — and his gratitude put him in an expansive mood. “Let’s hear what you wrote, Constance. I can’t wait.”

“Oh, you’re really going to like it,” Kate said, handing the journal to Constance with a mysterious smile.

Constance cleared her throat. “This poem is entitled ‘The Terrible Fall.’ ” She waited a moment for her title to sink in — she obviously thought it a very good one — and then, in a dramatic voice, she began to recite:

The night was black, the owl did call.

I stood upon the silo tall,

Never suspecting I would fall…

Thanks to the boy who bumped me.

Though frightened, I had stayed alert.

No thoughtless slumberings did divert

Me from my task, till I got hurt…

Thanks to the boy who bumped me.

“For the twentieth time, Constance,” Sticky said, his expansive mood greatly diminished, “I’m
sorry.
Did you have to write a poem about it?”

“I know you’re sorry,” Constance said, speaking up to be heard over Reynie and Kate’s tittering. “Now please hold your comments until I’m finished. There are three more verses.”

The remaining verses would have to wait, however, for just then Number Two knocked on the door. “Sorry to interrupt whatever you’re plotting,” she said when they let her in, “but Moocho wanted me to tell you the pies are almost ready. Mr. Benedict has cleared the officials out of the house, and Captain Noland and Joe Shooter are expected to join us. It should be a cozy gathering.” She reached into the pocket of her yellow pantsuit and took out a measuring tape. “Also, I’ve been wanting to measure you. Stand up, please.”

With resigned expressions, the children stood. They were all happy to see how Number Two had recovered — she was almost her old self again — but they also knew she was determined to “make them something special” as a token of her gratitude for risking their lives on her behalf. Kate had seen her drawing up patterns that morning, and the four of them had been avoiding Number Two ever since. They were trapped now, though, and one by one they submitted to being measured, with only Constance raising any complaint.

“You’ve all grown so much!” said Number Two, jotting the figures down on a scrap of paper. “I suppose that’s to be expected. At some point your bodies have to catch up with your hearts.”

The children rolled their eyes. Number Two had been given to such mushy pronouncements ever since she’d returned to her senses. (At first Kate had argued that these were actually a sign she was still delirious, but Number Two had scolded her into submission, then hugged her and kissed her until Kate fled.) Reynie, for his part, was secretly counting on Constance to annoy Number Two back into being her old, no-nonsense self.

“There!” Number Two declared. “Now if you’ll finish up whatever mischief you’re engaged in —” Here she interrupted herself, setting down the scrap of paper to dig anxiously in her pockets. She took out a packet of raisins and emptied it into her mouth. “Just a quick snack before pie,” she said, chewing hungrily. “Now do come along soon. Moocho will be disappointed if you don’t get it hot.”

When Number Two had gone, Constance noticed the scrap of paper with their measurements written on it. “She forgot this.”

“Lose it,” Reynie whispered.

The entire house was now suffused with the wonderful sweet smell of cherry pie, and with eager faces and watering mouths the children hurried down to the dining room. There they found Mr. Benedict, Rhonda Kazembe, Number Two, and the Washingtons and Perumals all gathered around the long table, with seats left open for the children and the expected guests (extra chairs had been brought from all over the house). Moocho Brazos was busily setting out plates, pots of coffee and tea, and pitchers of milk. “Five minutes,” he said when the children came in. “Also, Mr. Washington, if you get a chance…” He handed Sticky’s father a doorknob. “I’m sorry, these old things with their weak screws —”

“Never mind,” said Mr. Washington. “I’ll have it back on in a jiffy.”

Moocho thanked him and went back into the kitchen.

“Isn’t that the second doorknob of the day?” asked Mrs. Washington.

“I believe he’s as excited as the rest of us,” said Rhonda, rising to greet the children with warm hugs, just as she’d done a hundred times since their return. “After all those days of worry, every day without it feels like a celebration!”

Constance waved her arms madly about as if being attacked by bees, but Rhonda managed to hug her regardless.

“If you think you’re excited
now,
” said Kate, “wait till you try Moocho’s pie. I’d better go ask Milligan if he wants ice cream with his.”

Rhonda cleared her throat. “I, um, just checked on him, Kate. He’s still asleep.”

“Still? Is it real sleep or is he pretending again, do you think?”

Rhonda exchanged glances with Mr. Benedict, who remained inscrutably silent. A few days before, Milligan had returned from the hospital to rest and heal in Mr. Benedict’s house. He was in a fairly mummified state, all bandages and casts, and was unable to leave his bed, but he could not have had more attentive nurses — or more nurses, period — than his friends and family in the house. What was more, the children were attempting to keep Milligan entertained by talking to him, singing to him, reading to him (Constance recited several poems, including one called “A Slight Misjudgment in the Darkness”), and even performing skits. They’d been doing this ever since his return, more or less without interruption, and Milligan had taken to pretending he was asleep in order to get some peace.

“I suppose I might have seen him peeking at me a little,” Rhonda admitted. “But you know it’s for —”

“Oh, good grief,” interrupted Kate, already at the door. “He won’t want to miss Moocho’s
pie,
will he?”

Reynie took a chair between Miss Perumal and her mother, both of whom patted him affectionately. They couldn’t have him close enough these days — Miss Perumal looked anxious every time he left the room — and Reynie had been patted so often he worried he might be ground to dust. (“Consider yourself lucky,” Miss Perumal had said the day before, when he’d jokingly complained about it, “that the pats aren’t significantly
harder.
” And she’d fixed him with such a stern look that Reynie reminded himself not to make such jokes in the future. His return had been greeted with enormous relief and happiness, but like Sticky he’d also found himself in considerable trouble.)