by Gigi Pandian
Brixton’s voice caught.
“Stop joking around,” Penelope said. “Zoe thinks we’re cold-blooded killers. That’s why she doesn’t want us to know her young friend’s name.”
“How did you—” Brixton began.
“Check your pocket, Brix,” I said. “I bet he lifted your school ID card.”
“If I were to have done such a thing,” Peter said, “it would already be back in his pocket.” His graceful steps carried him across the stage in a flash, and he sat down at the very front of the stage, dangling his feet over the edge. “I can see how curious you both are. I can assure you, we’re not murderers.”
“We’re supposed to just, like, take your word for that?” Brixton asked.
Peter exchanged a look with Penelope. “Since you know the truth about why I’m here, you might as well know everything.” He pointed at the front row of seats a few feet in front of him. “Why don’t you get comfortable?”
Brixton jumped down from the stage and sat in front of Peter. Short of tossing him over my shoulder, I wouldn’t be able to get him out of the theater. But now that I knew Peter Silverman wasn’t a reckless backward alchemist, the immediate danger went up in smoke along with the motive I’d theorized. I sat down next to Brixton.
“What are you wearing?” Brixton whispered. “This outfit is even worse than those jeans.”
“Never mind.” I tugged at the heavy chain mail.
“I changed my name because of my father’s infamy,” Peter explained. He twirled three tennis balls in one hand, his fingers deftly looping the balls around one another. “I spent my childhood under the dark shadow cast by being the son of a murderer.” In the space of a heartbeat, the three tennis balls became two. In another beat, one ball became half the size of the other—father and son.
“That wasn’t the worst part,” Penelope added from the other side of the stage. “It was knowing that Peter’s father was framed. Franklin Thorne is innocent.”
“How’d you do it?” Brixton asked, his wide-eyed gaze fixated on Peter. “How’d you erase your identity so completely? I mean, I really thought you were like a Doppelganger or something.” Brixton glanced briefly at me, making sure I realized he was keeping my alchemy secret. “A library book says he didn’t have kids. My friend Ethan changes stuff on Wikipedia all the time, just for fun. But a library book?”
Of course Ethan, the bored and entitled rich kid, would alter history for fun. But even more reliable books weren’t the absolute truth. I should have known better than to take the book at face value. Recorded history isn’t objective. Everyone has an agenda. Most of the time historians get much of the story right, but I’ve lived through plenty of events with history book descriptions that diverged from reality.
“You two both really thought I was the man in this photograph?” Peter’s eyes darted from me to Brixton. It must have been a trick of the light, but his eyes glowed red for a fraction of a second. “You thought I could help you with cheating death? You mentioned … What was the phrase? Backward alchemy?”
“I was trying to act crazy,” I said with a nervous laugh, “to get you off-guard so you’d open up. The police confiscated my gargoyle statue, so they think I’m involved somehow. I was hoping I could get you to confess. Dumb idea, I know.”
“Dumb, indeed,” Penelope murmured. She strode across the stage, watching me closely, and stopped next to where Peter was sitting at the front of the stage.
“It’s really disturbing to be under suspicion,” I said. “I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I can imagine a lot more than a nosy girl who dyes her hair white for attention,” Penelope said. She sighed and sat down next to Peter, letting her long legs dangle next to his. “Peter has spent his whole life running from a past that he had no choice in creating.”
“How’d you run?” Brixton asked.
“I had a skip-tracer help me write myself out of Franklin Thorne’s story,” Peter said. “That’s how I learned about deception and illusion, and that led me to become a magician. Being ridiculed as a boy caused me to retreat into magic. It made me simultaneously invisible and powerful. I guess you could say I’m an accidental magician.”
I groaned. Along every step of the way, I’d seen only what I wanted to believe. People dismiss anything that suggests I’m older than twenty-eight because it doesn’t fit their worldview, and I was just as guilty. Because my worldview involves alchemy, that’s how I’d interpreted the clues. But Peter Silverman wasn’t a centuries-old alchemist who hung onto old-fashioned ideas; he was a lonely boy who’d latched onto ideas from the past because they were more comforting than his present-day reality.
Even the theme of death and resurrection in the Phantasmagoria stage show didn’t necessarily suggest Peter was a backward alchemist. The macabre theme is common across cultures and eras, and just because it wasn’t popular in this form at the moment, I’d jumped to my own erroneous conclusion. The little things he did that I took as clues were simply the actions of a skilled performer playing the role of Prometheus.
“It’s not about big changes,” Peter said, “it’s the small changes that count. Feeding tiny errors to different sources—a different error each time. That obscures everything.”
I’d known other children who had to grow up too fast, my brother and myself included. Years after growing up, it’s easy to forget how much young people are capable of when they’re thrown into adverse circumstances. Especially when they’re shunned by their peers.
“So you just erased yourself from history?” Brixton asked.
“Not exactly. Pieces of me are there. First, one agency was informed that there was a mistake in their records. Franklin Thorne didn’t have a son; he had a daughter. Another agency was given a different birth date. And another a note about a foreign adoption, with no biological children at all. When my mother had a breakdown, she moved us across the country to live with her sister, my aunt, providing another opportunity. She started using her maiden name, Oakley, to distance herself from the Thorne scandal. I registered for school with a different surname. For the first time, I was my own man. ”
“Wicked,” Brixton whispered.
“As for my first name, I wasn’t born Peter. But I played Peter Pan in high school. I was smaller and had more muscle strength than all the women, so they cast me. The nickname ‘Peter’ stuck. And when I turned eighteen, I took my aunt’s married name, Silverman. Of course if anyone really looked into my past, they’d be able to figure it out. But I was more concerned with getting through my life each day. In time, people forgot about me. But they never forgot about him. A murderer.”
“But even the press reported Franklin Thorne had no family aside from an older, childless sister,” I said.
Peter nodded. “Those first few days, sure. I remember it well. My aunt on my father’s side was fiercely protective. She took over and answered all the calls from the press.” He laughed sardonically. “As a kid, I thought she was protecting us—my mom and me. But she was only protecting herself. She talked about him being a loner and having no family. She wanted to distance herself from him, and not make him seem sympathetic by having a family. She needn’t have worried. As soon as reporters did a little digging, they found us. It took ages to undo what they put me through.”
If only I’d read more newspaper accounts, I would have discovered Franklin Thorne had a son! It was the same problem I was having with Dorian’s book. I was pulled in far too many directions. The necessity of studying the “quick fix” to prevent Dorian’s immediate death had kept me from delving deeply enough into my alchemy practice to find real answers.
“My aunt had it all wrong, though,” Peter continued. “He was innocent. You thought we killed that man to keep the secret that we’re here to find the Lake Loot and keep it for ourselves?”
“He and his friend were treasure hunters,” I said, “so I fi
gured they were on to you.”
“If they were,” Peter said with a shrug, “I had no idea.”
“Why do you think your dad is innocent?” Brixton asked.
“And how do you think you can clear him?” I added.
“As lovely as this evening interlude has been,” Penelope said, “now that your big mystery is resolved and you know why we’re here and that we had no reason to kill anyone, why do you two care?”
“The police confiscated my statue,” I said through clenched teeth, “and they think it might have been involved in the murder. I’m involved whether I like it or not.”
“The murder,” Penelope said, “has nothing to do with us.” She paused, then shook her head and swore. “You think that poor man found out that Peter was Franklin’s son, and thought Peter could tell him more information that would lead him to the loot?”
Peter began to juggle three oranges. I wasn’t sure where they came from, and I wasn’t entirely certain Peter did either. The look on his face made me wonder if juggling was such an unconscious action that he didn’t realize he was doing it.
“If that’s true,” Peter said, “I suppose you think that gives me a motive. But I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even know he was here before the show that night.”
“Zoe,” Brixton whispered to me as Peter ranted. “Look at your phone.”
Brixton had texted me, presumably as a more secretive way of passing along a message: Wallace was in the newspaper as treasure hunter, remember? P & P must have known. They’re lying.
Thirty-One
I finished reading the text message and looked up at Brixton. His eyes were wide and he was trying to raise a pointed eyebrow, but both were raised. In the half-lit theater, the effect made him look like a demented clown.
I gave my head a subtle shake. Brixton was jumping to unfounded conclusions in thinking the magicians were lying to us. People who weren’t conducting their own investigation wouldn’t necessarily read up on the history of a murder victim. An equally rational—or, it could be argued, more rational—approach would be to let the police handle things.
“You asked how I know my father is innocent,” Peter said. He continued to juggle, but his eyes were locked on Brixton’s. “You read that book, so you know the thief is supposed to have pulled off countless heists throughout the 1960s. But they never identified the culprit until this last heist. There’s no evidence it was my father. Only the fact that he was killed by the police that day.”
“But the media—” Brixton began.
“I lived with him,” Peter snapped. The juggled oranges swooped higher into the air, nearly reaching to the catwalk. “Don’t you think I would have noticed? He was a woodworker who made children’s toys. We didn’t have much money. My father’s family once had money, generations before I was born, but that’s not how we lived. He was a simple man who made an honest living. He didn’t deserve this.”
“Franklin Thorne was accused of killing the guard, Arnold Burke, in cold blood,” Penelope said. “But really, Franklin was a hero. It was Burke who was the thief.”
“How did everyone get it wrong?” Brixton asked.
“Franklin Thorne and Arnold Burke looked similar,” she said. “Nothing like how much Peter resembles his father. But both men had mustaches, brown hair, and were close to fifty years old. Witnesses mixed them up.”
“Eyewitness accounts are always unreliable,” Peter said. “It’s the same principle that makes magic shows successful. People see what they want to see—and what they’re led to seeing. Nobody wanted to believe a trusted guard who’d once been a policeman was actually a master thief, so they didn’t see it. But the truth is that my father was the guard’s hostage, not the other way around.”
It was an all-too-common story. I’d seen it play out across the world through the centuries. In many ways the world progressed toward more just societies, but this wasn’t one of those areas. But it’s a noble failing. Nobody wants to believe that a dependable member of society would betray their trust. That’s why our minds fill in the blanks with unreliable, yet well-meaning, eyewitness accounts.
“The story the police tell,” Penelope added, “is that Franklin held up the train car, and when confronted by the guard, Franklin took him hostage. But really, the guard was the thief. That’s how he’d gotten away with so many robberies. When Franklin stepped up to stop the corrupt Burke, he was himself taken hostage.”
“They escaped,” Peter said, “but the police caught up with them later that day. That’s when the shoot-out took place. Both men were killed, and my father was blamed for the whole thing, instead of being hailed as the hero he was for trying to stop the jewel heist.”
“But you are here because of the sapphire necklace that was found,” I said.
“In a sense,” Peter said. “But not for the money. I’m hoping there will be evidence that shows it was found in Arnold Burke’s hiding spot. That will prove Burke was the thief all along.”
“We were performing in Reno when we heard about the discovery of the sapphire necklace,” Penelope said. “We were booked through the end of last month, but we made plans to perform a run of shows here as soon as we could.”
“You look skeptical,” Peter said. For a change, the sarcastic edge from his voice was gone, replaced with a flat, resigned tone. “It’s a look I know well. But let me ask you this: The jewels are identifiable. Utterly unique. How could I profit from selling them? I’d only get the reward money, which isn’t much. Those treasure hunters were in for the fun of it. Maybe some of them came for the trivial reward. But nobody besides the Lake family cares as much as I do. Nobody.”
“What’ve you found out so far?” Brixton asked. “You going to be able to clear your dad’s name?”
Penelope took Peter’s hand in hers. The three oranges he’d been juggling fell to the floor at my feet. She sighed. “Our first lead was a bust. We thought the guard’s old house must have been in the area affected by the winter flooding. On a map it looked like it was. But the flooding didn’t affect that area much. I was wrong. We’ve also tried to talk to Julian Lake, but he’s quite elderly and a notorious recluse, so he wouldn’t see us.”
“We got so busy with the stage show that we haven’t had time to think of next steps,” Peter said. “But nobody is more motivated to find the truth. I’ll get there.”
I was filled with a combination of relief and disappointment. There wasn’t a dangerous alchemist in town, so no one was going to expose my secret. But at the same time, I could no longer hope there was a backward alchemist I could turn to for help with Dorian’s book.
If it hadn’t been for Dorian becoming entangled, at that moment I could have walked away from Peter and Penelope Silverman. I didn’t know how serious a suspect I was, but I did know that Dorian was now central to the investigation. The magicians’ motive had gone up in smoke, and Dorian’s stone toe in Wallace Mason’s hand was confusing the line of inquiry. With the focus on Dorian obscuring the facts, I had little faith the investigation would be resolved quickly. I feared for my friend, trapped in both stone and police custody.
Thirty-Two
The following morning, I drove to the airport to pick up Tobias Freeman.
A practicing alchemist was my best hope for saving Dorian. However, the more I’d seen of backward alchemy, the less sure I was that a true alchemist could help. Also dampening my optimism was the fact that Dorian was still in police custody. Now, even if Tobias had insights about Not Untrue Alchemy, it might be too late for him to help.
Yet I still found myself looking forward to seeing an old friend who would understand. Especially after Max’s rejection of the very idea that alchemy could be real.
I spotted Tobias as he walked slowly through the secured section of the airport. He was no longer the sickly man I’d known as an escaped slave, but a muscular man standing tall as he helped an
elderly couple with their bags. He winked at me from afar, his brown skin crinkling around his golden-flecked hazel eyes in a manner that told me he often smiled. He waited to greet me until he’d left the couple with their grown grandson.
“Zoe Faust,” he said, shaking his head, “as I live and breathe.” He swallowed me in a bear hug.
“I never thought I’d see you again, Toby,” I said into his shoulder, feeling my eyes well with tears.
“Hey,” Tobias said as he let me go. “No need to cry. But why do I think those tears have more to do with the reason you reached out to me than me being here?”
I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Let’s get out of here first.”
He grinned. “All those years ago, I knew I was right about you being an alchemist.”
I took his elbow and led us toward the parking garage. “I can’t say the same about you. I thought of you often for many years. I hoped you’d made it to Chicago and were growing old in peace, sitting on a rocking chair on your own front porch, as you said you dreamed of doing.” Was this man who looked like he could star in an action movie really the same man I’d nursed back to health so many years ago? If it wasn’t for his unusual eyes and his familiar voice, I wouldn’t have believed it.
“You didn’t notice that I was paying attention to what you were doing all those weeks you looked after me.”
“You were barely conscious.”
“You were single-mindedly focused on what you were doing, I doubt you would have noticed if the livestock from the farm next door had run through the house.”
“Nice try. I remember when that happened. I seem to remember the pig—Charlene?—took a liking to you.”
“Charlene was a nice pig! They’re smart, you know. I think she sensed I was sick and was trying to keep me warm.”
I stopped at the edge of the parking garage and turned to face Tobias. “If it wasn’t for that voice, I’d swear I was only imagining you were the same man.”
