Duck Boy (10 page)

“You mean travel?”

“Perhaps,” she replied. “That’s my best guess, based on what happened to
your mother.”

Steve was still baffled, so Aunt Shannon continued her explanation. “Our
family alchemy, our journals and notes from seven or eight generations of
alchemists, points to a different kind of prime matter. As humans, we all have
many characteristics in common. There is only one prime matter, but it has
many, many expressions.” She paused for a moment. “This is all so complicated.
Am I making any sense?”

“Sort of,” Steve replied. “I’m getting some of it, I think.”

“Good. That’s good. Now where was I… oh yes… Um… the spiritus mundi. What
will bring this prime material into existence is something special—unique to
you. It’s not an element. That much I’ve learned. Those old alchemists would
have laughed if I had suggested to them that Richard is my Benu stone. But he
is. And he won’t work for you. You need to find something yourself that points
you to the prime material in just the right way.” She lifted her teacup to her
mouth, closed her eyes, and tipped her head and the teacup back, draining it
with an extended slurp.

“Once you have your Benu stone, you need the next big ingredient: words.
Words are the second thing you need. Words are generally more flexible than
most things,” Aunt Shannon said. “That’s why I think they hold promise.” She
poured herself another cup of tea and drained it in a single gulp like an
alcoholic on the start of a bender, then stared at the bottom of her empty
teacup as if to check whether there was anything left. “Words were here long
before most everything else. And they will be here long after we go. We all use
words because we want something to happen. We want him or her to do this or
that.” She leaned toward Steve. “If you use a word well—The Word—you can change
everything for the better.” She raised her eyes to meet Steve’s. “I think if
you use the word properly, you can change the world.”

“Like the way you found clock and lock and make them change.”

“Right. Absolutely right. Even without a Benu stone, the words that we
believe change things. But with those words and my Benu stone, I can make the change.”
A shadow darkened her face, and lingered.

“So have you tried other words?”

“Oh yes.” Aunt Shannon suddenly looked very tired. “Oh yes, Deary. A great
many. So very many. These are the only two I’ve found. My entire life’s work
results in two words.” She shook her head as if to rid herself of the
depressing thought. “Although this is how these things begin. Think of
electricity. It had been known to exist for at least two thousand years. It was
the late 16th century before someone noticed and named it. It was another 100
years before it became useful.” She smiled and closed her eyes. “Good ideas
take their time.”

“Does this work in other languages? I mean, have you only tried English
words?”

“Oh,” Aunt Shannon, said with a start. “I’ve never tried another language.
That’s good.” Her eyes shone brightly. “Yes, I like that idea. Hmmm.” She
nodded.

“How did you ever discover it”

She smiled widely. “Happy accident. I think they call that serendipity.” Her
smile faded. “I started thinking this way when Richard passed away,” Aunt
Shannon continued. “The minister said some words as Richard’s body slid into
the fire—he said ‘dust to dust, ashes to ashes.’ And as I heard those words I
wondered how they might have helped Richard’s body to burn in the fire. What
would have happened if the pastor said ‘get up Richard… be alive!’’’ Tears
circled Aunt Shannon’s eyes, and she dabbed them with the sleeves of her
blouse.

“So I started experimenting with words to revive Richard. One afternoon I
was experimenting in the kitchen holding a watch and Richard and… well, you
know the rest.” She smiled. “It seems I can’t change Richard, but he can change
things.” She paused to swallow. “I need you, Steve. I need you to help me. I’m
stuck. I know there’s something more to all of this, but I haven’t been able to
discover what it is.”

“What can I do? Where should I start? Should I read that book in my room?”

Aunt Shannon sighed. “The book in your room won’t help much with your
experiments. Our kind of alchemy doesn’t rely on experiments with human body
parts or purifying some prime material so we can make our Benu stone. Those
books talk about the wrong methods and try to do things backwards, most often.

“The only point they agree on is that change—radical change—is possible. All
of them suggest you can change things. But you don’t need to read those books
to find that idea. Every ordinary story says the same thing—things can change.
Sometimes the change is bad, sometimes good, but each story shouts that change
is possible.” Aunt Shannon ran her finger around the inside of her teacup and
licked it. “I think we should begin somewhere else.” Aunt Shannon’s eyes
focused on Steve, her eyes filled with a friendly fire.

“Start experimenting. Begin your great work—find your Benu stone. Learn
about what you can do and what you can’t. We’ll work together to move on. I
think the key is here in her liber mutus.” She jabbed her index finger at
Steve’s mother’s research notebook.

“Excuse me,” Steve said. “You’re losing me again here. What is a ‘liber
mutus’?”

“A ‘liber mutus’ is a wordless book. Latin again.”

“But her book is full of words.”

“But she hasn’t clearly said what she was doing. She just jots down the odd
thought and random insight. It doesn’t spell out what we need to do to find
what she was working on. So, on the big picture, it’s silent—wordless, in
effect. Still, I think her notebook has the clues we need to find her, even though
it doesn’t say how she did what she did. I think your mother was touching her
Benu stone, and then she said something or did something and was transported
somewhere. Somewhere nice, hopefully.” But her smile seemed a little thin, her
voice hollow as she spoke the last sentence.

The sharp-edged replay of his last words to his mom cut through his
thoughts. “I wish you would go away and ever come back. EVER.”

“I hope it’s nice, too,” Steve replied.

Chapter 8

“In the old days, alchemists believed that to make a Benu stone you had to
start with the prime material and burn it, refine it, burn it and refine it
some more, and purify it a few other ways.” Now that Aunt Shannon had Steve’s
attention, she seemed prepared to talk for days. Sitting at the kitchen table
with her empty cup and cold teapot, she showed no sign of slowing down. “Mr.
Gold thinks that he must build a Benu stone the old-fashioned way—he’s read too
many books. He hasn’t lived enough. It’s not about making; it’s about finding.
That’s why books of alchemy won’t help you much.”

“What would my Benu stone be?”

“I don’t know, really.” Aunt Shannon put her finger to her lips. “It’s
something as dark as fear and hate that can be purified into something as light
and white as truth and love.”

“Sorry. Huh?”

“As near as I can figure it, your stone will be something that represents
your greatest fear and your greatest hope at the same time. Like my Benu
stone—my worst fear was Richard dying.”

“He did die.”

“Yes, he did. His death, for me, was the darkest thing I could imagine. But
over time, as I worked through my pain, my darkness became light—a triumph of
sorts. That’s when I noticed that Richard gave me the power to work my
experiments.”

“Hmm.” Steve thought for a moment. His forehead wrinkled as he puzzled over
Aunt Shannon’s words. “I’m feeling foggy. I think I need to talk about
something else for a while, until my head clears a bit.”

“Good idea,” she replied. “Why don’t we get out of the house for a while?”

“Sure.” Steve added a nod to his reply.

“I’ve got something I’ve been absolutely dying to do. And I need you with me
to do it.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I think we should drop by the police station and read the police report.
That report might remind you of what happened that night, and we’d get some
clues to go along with your mother’s research notes.”

“Maybe we should drop by the house, too,” Steve suggested. “I left my
backpack at home. It’s got some clean clothes I’ll need. I can pick it up.”

“That’s a great idea, Steve,” Aunt Shannon exclaimed, obviously pleased. “We
can reenact what happened the night your mother disappeared while we’re there.”

Aunt Shannon picked up the phone and called the police station. “Do you know
who the detective was?” Aunt Shannon asked as she waited for someone to answer
the phone at the station.

“Yeah, ask for a guy named Larry Garner. He was the main investigator for
our case.”

Aunt Shannon bowed her head to concentrate as she made the arrangements to
visit the detective. She was able to make an appointment for that afternoon at
one forty-five.

After a light lunch, the two of them grabbed their coats. As they walked out
the front door, Aunt Shannon pointed across the street to an unkempt,
split-level house. “That’s where Lindsay lives—you know, that girl I introduced
to you this morning. I hope you two can get to know each other better.”

Steve didn’t reply. It was cold, and a new blanket of snow groaned under
their feet as they walked to the garage.

The two of them climbed into the old beast and started it. It coughed a
little before it galumphed into a steady, lumpy rumble. Aunt Shannon eased it
into reverse and pulled the car out of the shadows into the feeble afternoon
sun.

Steve and Aunt Shannon walked into the police station five minutes before
the appointment was scheduled to begin. They announced their arrival to the
constable at the desk. The constable made a short phone call and informed
Detective Larry Garner of their arrival, then led them through a large room
cluttered with cubicles, desks, and busy people to a man seated at a desk in
the far corner, next to a window. Larry Garner, an overweight, middle-aged man,
stood to greet them as they approached.

“Hello there. You must be Shannon Pankratz-Bacon.”

“And you must be Detective Garner,” Aunt Shannon replied.

“Most people call me Larry.” He shook her hand and then noticed Steve.
“Hello, Steve.”

“Hello, Mr. Garner,” Steve replied.

“You said you wanted to discuss the disappearance of Mrs. Best. You are
family, right?”

“I’m family. I’m Susan’s aunt.” Aunt Shannon smiled sweetly. “Actually, I
want to see the file on your investigation.”

“If that’s what you came to see me about, I’m afraid you’re wasting your
time. That information is confidential,” Larry replied. “It’s not for public
viewing. It’s for police purposes only.”

“Young man,” Aunt Shannon said firmly, “I need to see that file. I want to
help your case.”

“I’m sorry,” Larry replied, “tell me what you know, and let me put the
pieces of the puzzle together. That’s my job.”

“Very funny,” Aunt Shannon replied dryly. “What do you think will happen if
I read the file? Are you worried I’ll solve the case before you do? I’m an old
lady. I’m certainly not going to hurt anyone, am I?”

Larry shrugged. “You might.”

Aunt Shannon rolled her eyes. “Besides, you haven’t got a case.” Aunt
Shannon paused. Larry rolled his eyes. “You have no motive, no method, no idea
what happened to her, do you?” Larry’s polite smile flattened into an unhappy
line as she spoke. Aunt Shannon continued. “You can’t be any worse off than you
already are. I’m just a little old lady, Detective. Humor me. Besides, there’s
nothing in that file that Steve couldn’t tell me.” Steve grinned widely at
Larry and nodded.

“All right, all right. I haven’t got the time to banter about it all day.
I’ll be right back.” Larry crossed the room and retrieved the file from a row
of filing cabinets and returned to the desk. “Have a seat.” Aunt Shannon sat in
his desk chair. “Steve, you can borrow that chair there.” Larry Garner pointed
to a chair next to his desk. Steve nodded and pulled the chair close to Aunt
Shannon. “I only have one rule about this file. If you break my rule, you’ll
never see this file again: do not, under any circumstances, remove this file or
any part of it from this building. If you do, I will charge you with theft and
obstruction of justice and anything else I can conjure up. You can view it at
my desk, and when you are finished, leave it here.” He pulled a coat from a
rack beside the window and turned to leave.

“Hey, Clueless.” Steve and Aunt Shannon turned to see a square-jawed police
officer standing across from Larry’s desk. The police officer turned to Aunt
Shannon and Steve and pointed at Larry. “You know why we call him Clueless,
don’t you?”

She forced a smile. “I have no idea.”

“Clueless hasn’t cracked a case here in three years,” said the officer, smirking.
“He’s good at writing parking tickets, though.”

Larry attempted to ignore the comments. “I’m making a call or two and I’ll
be back in an hour or so,” he announced.