The Immortals (12 page)

“Tonight’s the start of Day Six, the
Pompe
,” he explained, “meaning ‘procession.’ It starts off on a morbid note, at a cemetery outside Athens. Then it gets a little rowdy during the journey down the Sacred Way. And finally it ends all hush-hush at the secret Telesterion, or ‘Hall of Completion,’ in Eleusis. So, if we want to catch them before the procession gets started, we should hit the city’s graveyards. Otherwise, it’ll be hard to predict where they’ll show up.” He went on to explain the last days of the ritual, trying his best to keep things simple and engaging, just like he would for a classroom of economics majors.

When the little lecture was over, Brandman placed his notes carefully in a manila folder, then sat back and stared at his captive for a long, painful moment. “There’s one thing… or one major thing in a whole slew of things… I don’t understand, Professor.”

“Ask. I
want
you to understand so you can catch these guys.”

“Why. Why would anyone bother?”

“Because it’s a powerful Mystery.”

Brandman’s brow wrinkled. “It
was
powerful, three thousand years ago—”

“About sixteen hundred years ago would be more—”

“—but not now, Professor.” He sighed, a bit dramatically. Theo noticed Freeman stifling a grin.
They’re playing with me,
he thought. Brandman tapped his papers more exactly into place. “You’re an Ivy League man, right?”

Theo bridled. He knew that tone. It meant that someone was about to accuse him of being stupid just because he’d been smart enough to attend the best schools. The detective leaned an inch forward in his chair. Theo found himself staring at a single gray hair protruding from Brandman’s otherwise impeccably trimmed nostrils.

“You know about Occam’s razor?”

Theo nodded. “
Lex parsimoniae
, ‘the law of parsimony.’ All things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

Brandman looked to Freeman, who joined him in a brief golf clap. The older detective then spun the folder to face Theo, so the professor could see the densely written page of notes and calendars created from his testimony. “Does this look simple to you?”

Theo bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from retorting.

“You know what I think is a
much
simpler explanation, Detective Freeman?” Brandman asked.

“What’s that?”

“That our professor here had something to do with the gruesome murder of the woman who broke his little heart in two. He’s trying to distract us with a wild-goose chase across the city based on some ancient mumbo jumbo. And I think that if there really is some ‘Mystery Cult’ involved, then Schultz is probably the one heading it up.”

Theo choked a little. Brandman pushed a paper cup of water toward him with a solicitous smile.

Now, hours later, staring at the Danish, Theo realized,
That’s probably when I should have asked for a lawyer.
But the two detectives had left the room after the accusation, and no one had ever read him his Miranda rights.

Eventually, a technician had arrived and asked to take blood and hair samples. Fingerprints, too, although he assured Theo he wasn’t being arrested. Theo complied without question. At some point, Freeman had returned to escort Theo to the men’s room and bring him cold coffee and a box of Danish. Normally, he abstained from junk food—he’d read too many terrifying articles in the
Times
about killer preservatives and carcinogenic chemicals—but if they kept him much longer, he might have to relent. He was eyeing the least offensive of the bunch—a round pastry with a sweet cream cheese center—when he heard a raised voice in the hallway. The nearly soundproof door prevented him from catching the words, but he recognized Brandman’s gravelly voice.

Moments later, the door swung open and Brandman, red-faced, strode into the room.

“Well, Professor, you’re free to go. We’re not bringing any charges at this time.” He adjusted the cuffs of his suit as he spoke, as if to distract himself from whatever rancorous thoughts raced through his head.

“Really?”

“Do you want to stay?”

“Not unless you change the menu.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. The taxpayers can’t afford ‘arugula,’ or whatever it is you usually eat for your afternoon tea.”

You walked into that one,
Theo thought. Antagonizing Brandman further was, he decided, counterproductive. “Sorry if I sounded like a prick. Thank you. For the Danish. And for letting me go.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank the criminal justice system. We
can’t hold you indefinitely. And—so far at least—we don’t have enough evidence to secure a warrant for your arrest.”

“Because I didn’t do anything.”

“You lied about your relationship with the victim. You threatened a policeman. And tonight, we’ll be searching every cemetery in Manhattan because of you, even though it’s probably a colossal waste of time. You’ve done plenty, Professor, trust me. Stay close. We’ll have more questions for you. I guarantee it.”

Selene and Hippo left Central Park at 100th Street. A block and a half later, they reached the Twenty-fourth Precinct. Selene didn’t need to come down this particular street to get home. But she knew this precinct had jurisdiction over the section of Riverside Park where Helen Emerson’s body had been found.

“Theodore Schultz is inside,” she said to Hippo. “Probably talking his way into even more trouble.” The dog looked up at her, tongue flapping.

“You think that’s funny, huh? Might be good for him to be in a bit of danger, right? Get him out of the library. What do you think, should we stay and talk to him? Or leave this one to the cops and go worry about my own family for once?” Hippo wagged her tail. “That’s an awfully noncommittal gesture,” Selene complained.

She moved to sit on the steps of the library across the street, staring at the entrance to the police station, still unsure if she should wait or not. She certainly wouldn’t go inside. She hadn’t been inside a police station since 1975, when she last wore the uniform. She’d hated that outfit—the miniature fedora perched
on her head, liable to fall off at any moment, wide-heeled pumps made for walking, not climbing or sprinting, and worst of all, the stiff blue knee-length skirt. She and Geraldine Hansen had often laughed about that skirt. Every time they detained a suspect by kneeling on his back, they had to choose between splitting the seams or hiking it up and displaying their pantyhose-encased buttocks to the world.

Back in the 1920s, when the Huntress joined the force the first time, she hadn’t worn a uniform at all. The original “patrolwomen” were meant to be motherly figures—they didn’t even carry guns. She’d never been able to tell Geraldine about that experience, of course, but she’d often thought the young woman would’ve enjoyed hearing about the NYPD in the Jazz Age.

Silver-eyed Melissa DuBois had applied to join the newly established Policewomen’s Bureau using a stack of references painstakingly forged by Swifty O’May, the fastest officer on the force, known for chasing down criminals for dozens of city blocks without breaking a sweat. They might have called him Superman, if the character had been invented yet. To the Huntress, he was just Hermes.

Her tenure at the all-female Bureau was a heady time for the Relentless One. For the first time in centuries, she found herself among a group of women who shared her passion for protecting the innocent and bringing the men who harmed them to justice. Against her better judgment, she’d made real friends. She clung to the job like a lifeline, careful never to kill the men she arrested or reveal any of her more suspiciously preternatural attributes. She wanted to remain Melissa DuBois for as long as possible.

Yet after twenty years on the force, when her companions had grown stout and gray and she remained as young as ever, she’d had no choice. One day, Melissa DuBois fell ill. A week later, she was dead. The Huntress moved to a new neighborhood, took a new name, and forgot the friends she’d abandoned.
But with or without a badge, she’d never forgotten the women she’d sworn to protect.

And I’m not about to now,
Selene thought, staring at the precinct house.
He won’t escape. Not this time.

“We’ll wait for the professor, Hippo,” she said, scratching the dog behind her ears. “Mother will understand.” As if in response, the dog bounded up, tearing the leash from Selene’s grasp, and loped across the street. “Come back here, you ridiculous—” She stopped her scolding when she saw Hippo’s target. Theodore Schultz had finally emerged.

The professor stood a few careful paces shy of Hippolyta, his shoulders hunched. The dog didn’t look happy to see him, but she also wasn’t growling. More confirmation of his innocence: Hippo didn’t recognize his scent from the blankets.

“Schultz,” Selene called.

He started as if from a dream. “Ms. DiSilva?”

As she approached, he stood up a little straighter, his look of surprise dissolving into one of relief. “I didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said with a small, crooked smile.
He’s handsome,
Selene decided.
In a scholarly sort of way.

“Well, I’d almost given up on you, but I see they finally let you go.”

“Yeah, they never formally arrested me,” he sighed, rubbing at his chin as if he expected to have a full growth of beard—as if he’d been in the slammer for three months rather than in a station for three hours. “Just took me in for questioning. The lead detective thinks I’m involved.”

“You’re no killer, Schultz.”

“I wish you’d tell that to the cops. They can’t decide if I’m a bookish crackpot, eccentric but harmless, or a malevolent mastermind about to slaughter another victim.”

She cocked her head. “Neither, I don’t think.”

“I was thinking more Indiana Jones, myself. Saving the world while rakishly handsome and incredibly erudite.” His sudden
grin coaxed a dimple to his left cheek, matching the one on the tip of his pointed chin.

Hippo woofed at him, and Selene gave him a cold stare. She had no intention of encouraging his flirtation. “Sounds like Hippolyta disagrees with your assessment.”

“Hippolyta!” Schultz’s eyes lit up. Selene cursed inwardly, realizing she’d opened up a whole can of worms (
a whole Pandora’s Jar,
she thought ruefully) by mentioning a Greek name.

“You named her after the Amazonian queen,” Schultz went on. “And you recognized the chiton and the wreath. Even the
sex crines
braids. Since when is a PI also a myth geek?”

“Hippolyta wasn’t a myth,” Selene couldn’t help herself from replying, rather tersely.

He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and frowned skeptically. “Well, that depends on how you define ‘myth.’ If you mean she was a historical person, as far as I’m aware, the literature on the subject is inconclusive. Most likely, the Amazonian legends are reflections of the ancient Greek patriarchy’s fear of matriarchal societies. After all—”

Selene was saved from the lecture by his cell phone.

“I’m sorry, I need to answer this,” he said. “Gabriela? You’ll never believe where I just spent the last three and half hours. What—how did you? It’s
online
?” He was pacing the sidewalk now, his face pale as he listened intently. The woman on the other end spoke loudly enough for Selene to hear her screeching through the earpiece. Something about the “Pervy Professor” and a “person of interest” in Helen’s murder.

“No, thanks for telling me. I was bound to find out soon enough. I’m okay, hon—” Selene wrinkled her nose at the endearment. “Not about to drink my poison hemlock quite yet. I’ll be fine. But I have to go. I love you, too.” He hung up and leaned against a nearby lamppost for a moment. Before Selene could ask him what was wrong, he straightened and started walking back toward the precinct house.

“Where’re you going?”

“To tell Detective Brandman where to shove his unwarranted assumptions. Might just get myself arrested for real.”

“Wait!” Impulsively, she placed a hand on his forearm. His tendons jumped beneath her fingers as if he’d been hit with an electric shock. She pulled her hand back quickly. “What happened?” she asked, trying to cover her discomfort.

He turned toward her, his face a mask of anger, and she couldn’t help feeling a tug of empathy. “Somehow the press got wind of the fact that the cops hauled me in,” Schultz said. “It doesn’t even matter that I’ve been released. According to the always reliable Twittersphere, I’m a person of interest.” The hand clutching his cell phone shook. Selene wasn’t sure if it was from rage or fear.

“They don’t have a choice. Since you’re Helen’s ex-boyfriend, they have to investigate you.”

He nearly jumped. “How did you—”

She shrugged. “Men don’t usually stand by rivers mourning their dead professional colleagues.”

“It was a long time ago,” he said tightly. “I don’t see why it’s anyone’s business.”

“It’s everyone’s business actually. Although her current boyfriend is the more obvious suspect.”

“Fiancé actually.”

“That was fast.”

“He’s pretty hard to resist. And he loved her, that was clear just by looking at them together. Besides, he’s got an alibi. I, on the other hand, was dumb enough to be all alone. Like most nights. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go commit professional suicide.” He turned back toward the precinct house.

“You may want to rethink,” Selene said, gesturing toward a news van rumbling down the street toward them. “Seems news has spread.”

“Shit-balls.”

“Just turn back around and walk calmly. Follow me.” This man had information she needed—she couldn’t afford to have him back in jail or terrorized by reporters.

Theo walked beside her, glancing nervously over his shoulder every few steps. Under his breath, he kept up a nearly incomprehensible stream of vituperation. “Gonna shove my Ivory Tower so far up his… Twitter my ass… Teach him to mess with a classicist…”

“I understand your anger,” Selene said, a little alarmed by his rambling. She needed him lucid. “I’ve wanted to strangle more than a few cops myself over the years, but it only ever gets you deeper in trouble. How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” she asked. That sounded like the sort of thing mortals asked when trying to calm each other.

He stopped cursing. “I think I had some toast at like six last night.”

“Well, I know it’s still early, but I’m getting hungry for lunch.” That was an understatement. For the last hour, she’d been positively famished. The aching hunger reminded her of the first few centuries after the Diaspora when, deprived of the gods’ usual nectar, ambrosia, and burnt offerings, she’d needed ten thousand calories a day to sustain her. “We’re out of sight of the reporters, and I know a good place around here. Why don’t you come?”

“Really?” He looked suspicious. With the day he’d been having, she couldn’t blame him.

“Why not?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. She could actually think of a million reasons why not. In most of her interactions with men, they ended up dead.

“You’re not afraid to be seen with the notorious Pervy Professor? Seems the hashtag’s going viral.”

Selene, as usual, wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but she got the gist. “Hippolyta will bite the testicles off any man who looks at me wrong, so I think I’m good.”

A moment later, Schultz gave her a grateful, dimpled grin, obviously deciding she’d been joking. He was wrong.

Theo spent the first part of the meal eyeing the tower of pork dumplings, moo shu pork, pork fried rice, and Chinese spareribs on their table with something akin to awe.

Selene caught his eye. “Do you have a problem with women with big appetites?” she asked as she tore the last strip of meat off the bone with her perfect white teeth.

“Big? I think this qualifies as more like Colossus of Rhodes meets Coney Island hotdog champ.” He looked down at his modest portion of beef with broccoli. “I’m feeling inadequate.”

She shrugged as if to say he was probably right—and it wasn’t her problem. Then she pulled off her baseball cap. She ran a long-fingered hand through her hair, then let it fall back against her pale cheek in a wave as smooth as a raven’s wing.

Theo had never seen her without her hat shadowing her face. Only the waitress’s arrival could drag his attention from the perfect symmetry of Selene’s features. The young Chinese woman balanced another plateful of steamed roast pork buns on the overcrowded table. “Does she always order this much?” he asked with a smile.

The waitress shook her head emphatically. “She comes in once a week. Always pork. But never like this.” She looked at Selene. “You pregnant?”

Selene dropped the bone to her plate with a clatter, spots of red flaring on each pale cheek. “How dare you,” she hissed. She grabbed the edge of the table as if she might rise.

“Ha! She’s just training for an Iron Woman triathlon,” Theo said quickly. He was surprised by his instinctive need to smooth Selene’s way in the world. Social skills were clearly not her strong suit. “Needs all the calories she can get.” Besides, a
triathlon seemed perfectly reasonable: When Selene had removed her leather jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her flannel, he’d had to tear his gaze away from the lean muscles in her arms.

“Okay.” The waitress laughed and winked at Theo. “But if this happens next week, we’ll need to order more pork just to keep up.”

“Does she always give you such a hard time?” Theo asked Selene when the waitress left.

“I’ve never spoken to her before—except to order.”

“She seemed to know you.”

Selene’s brows lowered. “You think because someone teases you and you laugh and she winks… you think they know you?”

“Well—”

“They don’t. No one really knows anyone.” Before Theo could respond, she continued, “Now tell me what else you know about Helen’s murder.”

He started a little at the abrupt transition, but then found himself smiling, glad someone finally wanted to listen. “Well, first off, if we’re right about this whole cult thing, we’re not just looking for one killer. But I don’t know if the cops found any concrete evidence to back me up.”