Kate crouched, watching them carefully, her lasso at the ready. (For once Constance had followed Kate’s advice — had untied herself so that the Executives couldn’t yank her down — and the rope was now free). The others circled and circled, eyeing the lasso, looking for a weakness. But it was Kate who saw one first: Martina had taken an awkward step, was slightly off balance. Kate feinted to the side — moving as if to flee — and when Martina lunged to stop her, Kate snared her ankle with the lasso and jerked her off her feet. Martina landed in the dust with an angry growl.
It was an excellent throw, but it was also the beginning of the end. Before Kate could let go of her rope, Martina grabbed it and heaved. Kate was pulled off balance, and Jackson chose that exact moment to give her a shove — and no gentle shove, at that. It was as if she’d been struck by a ram. Kate went reeling, trying to catch herself.
But it was Jillson who caught her.
The next few minutes were wretched ones indeed. Kate’s ears were boxed, her hair pulled, her cheeks pummeled with Jillson’s boltlike knuckles. And though she writhed and twisted, swung her fists, and kicked her feet, she could do nothing to stop them. Kate had told herself she could handle the Executives, but she’d been fooling herself — just as she had fooled herself for so long. She couldn’t do everything by herself. She realized that now.
Kate stopped struggling. Why struggle? She was of no use now to her friends, herself, or anyone. She was completely overcome, helpless and alone. The bitter irony wasn’t lost on Kate: The moment she finally admitted to herself she needed help, there was no help to be found.
As if reading her thoughts, Martina hissed, “Now you realize how outclassed you are, don’t you, Wetherall? I don’t blame you for giving up.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Martina,” Kate mumbled through bloody lips. “I’m just taking a nap while you yammer on.”
This infuriated Martina, and as Jackson and Jillson redoubled their grips on Kate’s limbs, the raven-haired girl prepared to unleash her most vicious attack yet. Stepping back to get a running start, she cried, “I’ll kick you until you cry for mercy, Wetherall! I’ll make you suffer until you beg me to stop! I’ll beat you until you admit I’m the best! I’ll —”
“You’ll do no such thing,” said an unfamiliar voice, followed by three successive swit, swit, swits, upon which Martina’s eyes crossed, Jackson and Jillson sighed, and all three collapsed upon the ground unconscious, dart feathers blooming from their shoulders as if by magic.
Where Martina Crowe had been, Milligan now stood with his tranquilizer gun. Covered from head to toe in slimy black mud, his left arm in a sling fashioned from an Executive’s blood-stained tunic, Milligan — wonder of wonders! — was grinning at Kate with joyous eyes. That was why his voice had seemed unfamiliar — it was too cheerful. She hadn’t recognized it at all.
And yet. Staring at him all the while, Kate rose unsteadily to her feet. And yet . . . something about those eyes. There was something familiar about him, after all. Something . . .
“Sorry it took me so long, Katie-Cat,” said her father.
The Best Medicine
You,” Mr. Curtain repeated, looming over the children and glowering in particular at Reynie. “You betrayed me! After all I did for you — welcomed you to my Institute, soothed your fears with my Whisperer, offered you a role in my Improvement — after all this, you chose to defy me?”
“I don’t suppose you’d accept an apology,” Sticky offered. (A cheeky response for him, especially since he was too petrified by the sight of Mr. Curtain’s towering figure even to reach for his spectacles, though every bone in his body wanted to give them a terrific polishing.)
Mr. Curtain laughed a terrifying, screech-owl laugh, and said, “Oh, no, I’m afraid not, George. But I thank you for reminding me how pathetic children are. Quick to follow, quicker still to flee. Yes, quite pitiful, and annoying as gnats, but certainly not a threat. To think you hoped . . . what did you hope for, anyway? To defeat me? But you’re only children!”
Mr. Curtain erupted into laughter again, a long fit of convulsive screeching. Calming himself with some effort, he said, “Well, no matter. I needn’t dirty my hands clutching your grubby little collars. I’ll summon my Executives to bear you off.”
Mr. Curtain turned to walk back to his chair. He paused, however, at the sight of Reynie Muldoon’s penetrating stare. The boy’s eyes shifted rapidly back and forth, as if calculating something with great concentration. Before Mr. Curtain could ask what the devil he was doing, Reynie said aloud, as if to himself, “Okay, so it isn’t laughter.”
“What are you blathering about, Reynard?” Mr. Curtain demanded.
Reynie hardly seemed to hear him. “With Mr. Benedict, it’s usually laughter that does it. But if it’s not laughter with you, then what? It must be something, otherwise you wouldn’t strap yourself so carefully in. You’re so afraid of losing control — but how, exactly?”
Mr. Curtain’s eyebrows shot up. His entire head quivered like a struck bell. “I have no idea — what the devil are you — snakes and — I haven’t time for your childish —,” he sputtered.
“Yes, you’re definitely afraid of something,” Reynie said more forcefully, his eyes lighting up. “The chair, the straps, the reflective glasses — they’re all there to keep your secret safe from the children. But why are you so afraid of children? Maybe that’s why you keep saying we’re so harmless. You’re trying to convince yourself. In fact you’re scared to death of us! You’re like a tiger afraid of mice! Why else would you stand there shaking in your boots?”
“It’s not from fear, you insignificant speck of dust!” roared Mr. Curtain, his face livid with rage. “How dare you! I’ll crush you all like the gnats you are!” And with that, he sprang forward . . . only to drop in a green-plaid heap at the children’s feet, where he promptly began to snore.
Reynie’s breath escaped in a whoosh of relief. Then he nodded. “Laughter usually puts Mr. Benedict to sleep. With Mr. Curtain, it’s anger. Quick, Sticky, let’s tie him up with our sashes.”
Sticky released Constance’s hand, which in his fright he had unconsciously seized, and loosened his sash. “So that’s the reason for the chair and the glasses. When he gets really mad, he goes to sleep, but he doesn’t want anyone to know!”
“All those times he seemed so furious and then suddenly got quiet,” Reynie said, knotting his sash around Mr. Curtain’s ankles, “I always thought he was getting ready to kill me, but really he was just asleep!”
“Um, fellows?” said Constance. “He’s awake.”
The boys jumped back. Sure enough, Mr. Curtain’s eyes were open and looking wildly about. When they fell upon Reynie’s face, they narrowed with hatred. “Oh, that’s right,” he said, yawning. “I was on my way over to kill you. But what’s this? Sashes? Surely you don’t think mere ribbons could restrain me?”
Reynie’s face fell. “I sort of hoped they would.”
“Then you are even more foolish than I perceived you to be,” said Mr. Curtain, and spreading his arms and legs with one powerful thrust, he ripped the sashes in two.
“If we’re so foolish,” Constance shouted before he could rise, “then what does that say about you? You made the boys Messengers even though they always intended to betray you, and we’ve tricked you again and again. We even know about your narcolepsy, though you tried so hard to hide it. If we’re foolish, then you’re the greatest fool of all, since we’re obviously much smarter than you!”