The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey

Kate’s flashlight found the Ten Men in the rafters. There were two of them, squatting on their haunches and peering down at the children with malevolent smiles, like gargoyles in business suits. They seemed gigantic and spidery, all elbows and knees, and their shadows took up the whole of the ceiling.

“But . . . but how . . . ?” Sticky stammered.

“It isn’t such a mystery, dearies,” said one of the Ten Men. “You’ve just been outsmarted.”

Pandora's Box, or Things Best Left Closed

Hold still if you like your ears,” said one Ten Man with a grin. He showed them a small cylindrical device in his hand. “I don’t want to have to use this pointer on you — it takes all night to recharge the battery.”

The children, who did rather like their ears, were soon placed in handcuffs and made to stand against the back wall of the shelter. Meanwhile the other Ten Man opened the door to admit the rest of his crew. There were four of them in all, not counting Martina (who was holding her head and, for the moment at least, appeared too furious for words), and each was as well-dressed, calm, and cheerful-looking as his comrades. The shelter was suffused with the smell of expensive cologne.

“Garrotte,” said the largest Ten Man, speaking to the one with the laser pointer, “be a friend and fetch us a lantern, won’t you? Now that you mention batteries, we might as well spare our flashlights, too.”

“That’s a lovely idea, McCracken,” said Garotte, who was a bearded man with pointy ears and a flattish nose. In his dark suit he looked unnervingly like a giant bat. “Would you care for any victuals as long as I’m going? Will we have a midnight picnic?”

McCracken chuckled. “Just the lantern, thank you, Garrotte. I’m still full from supper.”

Given the nature of their work, the Ten Men’s pleasant demeanor was more disconcerting than anger or harshness would have been, and indeed it would be hard to find anyone more disconcerted than the children. Even Kate was in a heightened state of alarm, not only because they were captured (though that did contribute somewhat) but also because she recognized the largest Ten Man’s name — McCracken — and knew him by reputation.

Milligan had mentioned him before. The leader of all the Ten Men, McCracken was also the most elusive (Milligan had never laid eyes on him), and Kate now had the dubious honor of meeting him before her father did. He was an imposing figure — a huge man with shoulders like bedside tables, perfectly coiffed brown hair, and piercing blue eyes — but his reputation was more imposing still. According to Milligan, McCracken was the most dangerous Ten Man of all, and now here he stood, smiling at them in the darkness.

“You might as well open your little peepers, cookie,” he said to Constance, who had squeezed her eyes closed, trying to imagine herself elsewhere. “We can see you even if you can’t see us, you know.”

“Leave her alone,” Sticky squeaked, his words inaudible although he had intended to shout. McCracken didn’t even notice he’d spoken. Sticky swallowed, trying to find his voice. He was experiencing something close to a breakdown, not from fear (although he was certainly afraid) but from an overwhelming feeling of shame. All thought of pride or personal safety had long since flown from him now. The only thing Sticky wanted was to save his friends from whatever lay in store as a result of his terrible blunders. Yet he had no means of saving them — his talents were of no use here — and his mind was spinning in a tumult of frustration and despair.

Reynie was in quite a jangled state himself. What had struck him at once — and most unpleasantly — was how quickly McCracken had appraised the situation and taken control of it. In a matter of minutes he’d learned of the children in the village, deduced where they would hide, and gone into the shelter’s rafters to await them. It was McCracken who had spoken to them from the rafters, and he had spoken correctly: the children had been outsmarted, which meant McCracken was very smart indeed.

Reynie took a few deep breaths. If they were to have any chance of getting out of this, he had better calm down and think.

Martina Crowe, meanwhile, had mastered her anger well enough to speak and had begun barking orders at the Ten Men. To the children’s surprise, the Ten Men seemed to answer to her. None of them appeared to like it very much (though McCracken seemed amused), but whenever Martina spoke they answered, “Yes, ma’am” and did what she said. She couldn’t have gained this authority through any action of her own — Mr. Curtain must have granted it to her — but it was hers, regardless, and Martina clearly relished it.

The first order she gave was for McCracken to chain up the children so they couldn’t run again. McCracken had obviously planned on doing that — he’d just taken a length of slender chain from his briefcase — but he only smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am,” and finished what he’d begun. Each child’s wrist had already been handcuffed to the next child’s, with Kate at one end, followed by Constance, Sticky, and Reynie. Now McCracken cuffed Reynie’s free hand to the length of chain, which appeared to be nothing more than a lot of paper clips linked together — the sort of thing a bored businessman might create while sitting through a long telephone conference. In fact (as McCracken cheerfully explained) the chain was made of high-tensile metal, perfectly unbreakable by human hand.

“Not even I can break it,” said McCracken, wrapping the other end of the chain around one of the shelter’s wooden beams and securing it with a padlock. He winked. “And I’m good at breaking things.”

“Stop socializing with them, McCracken,” Martina snapped. “Give me the key to the handcuffs.” She thrust her hand out peremptorily, and McCracken, with an unconcealed smirk, put the key very daintily into her palm. The children stared at the key, which seemed the perfect symbol of their predicament. They were now in the hands of Martina Crowe.

And Martina Crowe hated them with a passion.

Martina Crowe hated most things, actually. She hated the children in particular, but the children only represented the top of a long list. She also hated weakness and foolishness, and because she regarded most behaviors as weak or foolish, these two categories contained many subcategories, which in turn contained still more subcategories, and so on until very few things were left outside the range of Martina’s hatred. One of these few things, however, was barking orders. Martina was fond of barking orders, and especially fond of barking them at Ten Men. She also enjoyed distributing them evenly, so that no one was left out. For instance, after she’d demanded the key from McCracken, Martina looked imperiously at the bespectacled Ten Man and barked, “Find me something to sit on, Sharpe!” Then she ordered Garrotte, who had just returned with a lantern, to place it on the floor in the center of the room. And finally she snapped her fingers at the fourth Ten Man (a bald man with only a single eyebrow — the one over his left eye — which gave him a perpetually wry expression), and barked, “Close the door, Crawlings!”

Reynie watched Crawlings bar the door with a feeling of great desolation, as if it were his own tomb being sealed. He hoped Milligan had only been delayed, but when Milligan came back — if he