But Mr. Curtain, who also knew what she was up to — subtlety had never been Kate’s strong suit — only screeched again and said, “On the contrary, you may be useful indeed! I’ve been giving the matter some thought, you see, and the fact is that once I have a proper distillation of the duskwort, it should be simple enough to keep you asleep — helplessly, quietly asleep — except on such occasions as I deem appropriate. Say, whenever I require more information. Benedict has already proven himself quite weak where you children are concerned.”
“Well, I suppose that isn’t the dumbest idea you’ve had,” said Kate, just to show pluck, for Mr. Curtain’s suggestion had made her feel sick with dread. “There are rather a lot of us to keep hidden, though. Do you have some kind of shrinking machine, too?”
“Properly stacked, Miss Wetherall, I should think you would all fit nicely in a single locked closet.” Mr. Curtain pursed his lips, pretending to consider. “But you’re right, it may prove too much of an inconvenience. I’ll need to reflect upon it. What do you say, Benedict? Would you prefer to be gotten rid of entirely, or to sleep your life away in a closet?”
“I am partial to long naps,” Mr. Benedict said. “But I’ve never been gotten rid of before, so it’s difficult for me to say.”
Mr. Benedict’s implacable calm seemed to ruffle Mr. Curtain, whose smirk faded, replaced by an icy stare. “Then it’s lucky you will not be the one who chooses. Now do be quiet, all of you. I’ve had enough of your distractions. I hate to interrupt my work again, but I assure you — and this is a promise — the next person who utters a word will receive my full attention.”
There was no doubting Mr. Curtain’s sincerity on this point — or what he meant by “full attention” — and the remaining hours of the night were spent in awful silence, under threat of those shiny silver gloves, with no sounds at all save for those of Mr. Curtain and S.Q. working away.
Reynie’s mind was also working away — and furiously, at that — but to no good effect. He had tried countless times to think of a means of escape. Tried and failed. And meanwhile he was imagining all sorts of things he would prefer not to imagine, such as the terrible reunion of Mr. Curtain and his Whisperer, and what would happen to Rhonda, Miss Perumal, and all the others whose nosy questions Mr. Curtain would never tolerate. Nor, unfortunately, did Reynie’s imagination stop there. Instead it wandered bleakly on, out of Mr. Benedict’s house and into Stonetown, where Reynie saw a crew of Ten Men stalking the slumbering streets, every last resident having been sent to sleep by a “proper distillation” of Mr. Curtain’s duskwort. Try as he might, Reynie could not avert his mind’s eye, and so he saw with frightful clarity the ease with which Mr. Curtain’s men carried away all those who dared oppose their master. There would be no struggles, not even a cry of complaint. Just a city waking up in the morning with one less opponent of Mr. Curtain.
Mr. Curtain would have what he’d always wanted. He would be in absolute control. All that was required was that he change his name to Nicholas Benedict. Most people would never guess what was happening.
The children would be out of the way by then, of course. That much was certain. The question was what Mr. Curtain was going to do with them. Reynie couldn’t think of any possibilities that didn’t make him sweat.
His only hope — however slim — was that Milligan might save them, and as night drew nearer to morning, Reynie clung to it with increasing desperation. When Mr. Curtain mused aloud that it was taking his Ten Men much too long to track down the escaped Number Two (“the woman,” he called her), and sent S.Q. out of the cave with a radio to contact them, Reynie tensed in expectation. Perhaps Milligan was waiting outside and would ambush him! But S.Q. returned with the report that the radio waves were silent. This news caused Mr. Curtain to furrow his brow suspiciously, and it gave Reynie some reason to nurse his fragile hope a bit longer . . .
But that hope fell apart completely just before dawn, when McCracken came limping into the cave.
Kate let out a gasp, then burst into tears, for the Ten Man’s appearance could mean only one thing. The other children looked at one another in despair, and Mr. Benedict, his own eyes brimming as he heard Kate’s devastated sobs, reached out to comfort her — then slumped sideways against the stalagmite, asleep.
McCracken observed all this with amusement as he limped over to await Mr. Curtain, who at the sound of his approach had retreated — in perfect, creepy silence — to the other chamber. S.Q. had likewise disappeared, but the Ten Man stared shrewdly at a nearby stalagmite as he called out, “Code Seven, Mr. Curtain! No need for an ambush!” In a patronizing tone he added, “S.Q., I’ll remind you that Code Seven means ‘all clear.’ Your boot tips are plainly visible, at any rate.”
As S.Q. emerged from his hiding place looking sheepish, Mr. Curtain rocketed into view at such a speed that his wheelchair seemed certain to slam into McCracken. He skidded to a stop at the last instant, however, and McCracken acknowledged his entrance with an admiring bow. If Mr. Curtain had actually struck him with the chair, McCracken would have been sent flying, and as a Ten Man he had great esteem for impressive displays of force.
It was lucky for McCracken he hadn’t been sent flying, for he was already in a terrible state. He was using his necktie as a sling for an injured arm, his face was bloody and streaked with soot, his elegant suit was tattered and scorched, and his briefcase positively bristled with tranquilizer darts. His expression, however, revealed an obvious satisfaction, and when he spoke it was in his usual calm, deceptively pleasant way, as if he’d simply come to report on the weather.
“We ran into a spot of trouble,” McCracken said, in response to Mr. Curtain’s look of disapproval. He nodded toward the children. “Where’d you find the chickies?”
“They found me,” Mr. Curtain said coldly, “having stolen my Salamander, which was in your care. And I’ve captured and held them, which was more, apparently, than your imbecile crew could manage. Do remind me why I pay you.”
McCracken grinned, revealing a number of missing teeth. “We’re good for your morale. Anyway, you didn’t have to deal with Milligan.”
“Benedict’s agent? He’s on the island?”
“Ohhh . . . so they didn’t tell you,” said McCracken, lifting an eyebrow.
Mr. Curtain shot the children a venomous glance. “They did not. Milligan, eh? I suppose his involvement explains why I haven’t heard from Jackson or Jillson.”
“No doubt,” McCracken agreed. “But you needn’t worry about further interference. Milligan’s been dealt with.”
“I take it you dealt with him yourself,” said Mr. Curtain, looking the Ten Man up and down. “You’re in a pathetic condition.”
“Not just me. It took the lot of us. I must say Milligan was like no one I’d ever fought. Fast as a tiger and clever as a fox. But he never had a chance, really. The man had an absurd reluctance to do anyone real harm. You should have seen the lengths he went to just to avoid killing Crawlings, who was doing everything he could to dash him to pieces. Once I discovered that weakness, it was only a matter of time until I finished him.”
“So you did finish him?” Mr. Curtain asked. “Skip to the end, McCracken. And you, S.Q., stop standing there like a lamppost and get back to work.”
“The end was rather a disappointment,” said McCracken as S.Q. hurriedly resumed scraping and packing. “Our fight had taken us high up on the middlemost mountain, where I had backed him onto a cliff at the edge of a ravine — the other men were out of commission by this point — and he was enduring a shocking number of hornet stings rather than come out from behind a boulder he was using to shield himself. But I was gradually moving into position to finish him off, and when he realized this, he chose a less painful end. He jumped.”