The Immortals (8 page)

The elevator finally arrived. They got in beside a nurse and her charge. Selene was grateful for their presence—it meant she didn’t have to respond to Paul’s revelation—but she couldn’t bear to look at the patient, a wizened infant in a large wheelchair. Her flesh looked like paper that had been crumpled and smoothed out again, over and over until the slightest breeze would tear it to shreds.

“I won’t do it. I won’t become that,” Paul said, trembling, as they moved through the lobby.

“The Eldest wasn’t really one of the Twelve, you know,” Selene insisted. “She gave up her seat to the Wine Giver, remember?”

“Of
course
I remember. But still, she was an Olympian once and now she’s
dying
. Man stopped worshipping her long ago, but at least they revered the hearth for another fifteen hundred years. Not anymore. Now it’s all central heating and LEDs. She might try to play out her old role, but it’s not enough anymore.”

Selene kept walking. “Don’t worry, Brother.”

“Don’t tell me what to feel. I
am
worried.”

The door to a large black Suburban parked in front of the hospital swung open. A pretty young woman launched herself out of the car and into Paul’s arms. “Oh, honey, is everything okay?” she cooed, kissing his cheek.

Paul kissed the girl back. “Sophie, this is my sister. Selene, this is my muse.”

Selene took in the girl’s outfit—a torn crepe skirt that barely brushed the top of her thighs, tall motorcycle boots, an
expensive cardigan—and rolled her eyes. Little rich girl trying to look edgy for the indie-rock musician.
His muse, indeed.
Had Paul so easily forgotten the real Muses? Their nine half sisters, goddesses of inspiration and art? They were probably long dead by now, but calling pallid Sophie by their name was the height of disrespect.

Three young men emerged from the SUV, hipsters with unfortunate facial hair and conspicuously large glasses. Paul introduced them in turn: his bassist, drummer, and keyboardist. Each patted Paul on the arm or shoulder, as if unable to keep their hands off him, demonstrating an unmistakably slavish devotion to their frontman. Paul’s manager unfolded himself from the front seat, significantly better dressed in slim trousers and a button-down. He took a headset out of his ear and nodded dismissively to Selene. “Paul, we’re running late, buddy. You’ve got a sound check in twenty.”

Selene shook her head at her brother. “I told you not to worry about a lack of worship anytime soon.”

Paul gestured for his entourage to get back into the car. “It’s not the same thing, and you know it,” he said, turning his back on their adoring faces. “And it’s certainly not going to help Mother. But I’m not going to let her die. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“You’re saying I won’t?”

“I’m just saying you may not have the strength. The worship of sun and music continues, but hunting…”

“Leave it.” She turned to go.

“You may despise me for what I did two and half
thousand
years ago, but you’re still my other half.”

“Do you even remember?” she hissed, spinning toward him. “Or has the memory of your treachery faded, along with so much else? I
wish
it would fade for me. But it’s still here.” She jabbed a finger into her temple. “And here.” She struck her
chest. “A bright, sharp blade honed by centuries of retelling. Every time I see you, it’s like I’ve been stabbed all over again. I came across an ocean to be rid of you, and you followed me here. I know if I moved again, you’d just keep tracking me. You and all your damn
groupies
. So
please
. It’s the one thing I ask of you—leave me the fuck alone.”

“I know when and where Helen’s murderer will strike next,” Theo began after an officer had shown him to Detective Brandman’s desk in the precinct house.

The cop turned away from his computer monitor and raised his eyebrows in a gesture halfway between curiosity and skepticism. He folded his hands on his desk beside the orderly stacks of files. “Whoa there. Who are you again?”

“Theo Schultz. I was with Everett Halloran yesterday.”

“Right. The other professor. And what’s your relationship to the victim exactly?”

I should tell him,
Theo thought. But it was none of the cops’ business, was it? His relationship with Helen was long over. And as for that one illicit night in her bed… better no one knew about that. The last thing Everett needed was more grief.

“We were colleagues. Good friends.”

“Um-hum. And you think you know about our killer? Interesting. I’m listening.”

Theo placed his own bursting folder of notes on the desk and announced, “There’s a cult attempting to reenact the Eleusinian
Mysteries, and their next ritual takes place
tonight
, so we better get moving.”

The detective ran a hand across the gray stubble shadowing his chin and blinked his bloodshot eyes. Theo felt no pity: He, too, had spent the whole day researching the case. “You’re going to need to start from the beginning, Professor,” Brandman said wearily. “A
cult
? Like Hare Krishna or something?”

“Neither so amusing nor so innocuous, I’m afraid. The Greeks took their cults extremely seriously. Nearly everyone belonged to at least one. There were cults devoted to each different god, each with its own rites that only initiates were allowed to know. That’s why we call them ‘Mystery Cults,’ from
mysterion
, meaning ‘secret ritual.’ The one in the Greek city of Eleusis was the most popular Mystery Cult in the ancient world, and I believe Helen got mixed up in a group trying to bring it back.”

He could tell from the way Brandman kept glancing back at his computer that he’d already determined the theory was a waste of time. Theo wasn’t used to having his ideas so summarily dismissed. On the way to the precinct house, he’d imagined the cops’ gratitude when they realized Theo had solved the case. A call from the commissioner maybe. A thank-you note from the mayor. Instead, Brandman merely demanded, with thinly disguised impatience, “Where are you getting this from?”

“From Helen. I found a note she left for me.” Theo flipped open one of his files and handed Brandman the letter. “She was writing a book on the Eleusinian Mysteries.”

The detective scanned the note. “And this manuscript she talks about—”

“I never got it. Maybe you found it in her office?”

Brandman ignored the question. “So what do you know about this supposed cult?”

“A lot. Also—nothing.”

The cop grimaced, but Theo kept going before he could interrupt. “Some of the rites were public, but most were reserved
for initiates only. If you dared to reveal the climax”—he drew a finger across his throat—“
snnnnnnnk.
So no one blabbed. Hundreds of thousands of initiates participated over almost
two thousand
years, even after Christianity took hold. Yet all that time, not a peep.”

The cop dropped the letter into a file folder of his own. “I see.” A young black woman in a suit vest and shoulder holster approached the desk, but Brandman waved her off with a “this will only take a second” gesture. He frowned at Theo. “I’ve got work to do, Mr. Schultz, so I hope you’re about to explain how a ritual you know nothing about is relevant to the Emerson case.”

Despite Brandman’s clear disdain, Theo smiled. He’d made a whole career out of explaining the modern pertinence of long-dead civilizations. “Never underestimate a classicist. Scholars have pieced together an impressive amount from the various sources that allude to the Mysteries.” He pulled a calendar from his files, each day crowded with notes, and pointed to Monday. “Here’s where the cult ritual begins. Day One. Traditionally, this is when the priests carry the cult’s Sacred Objects from Eleusis to Athens.”

“Sacred objects?”

“Yup, the
hiera
. Can’t have a cult without them. Try to think of them like the saintly relics Catholics keep in cathedrals: holy objects only revealed on special occasions and believed to have supernatural properties. We don’t know what the Eleusinian
hiera
were exactly, but they might have included a clay model of a vulva.”

“And you think they cut out Helen Emerson’s—”

“Yes, exactly.”

Theo knew the cop was hooked when he deigned to pick up a pen and make a few notes of his own.

“That’s not all,” Theo went on. “The priests need special containers to transport the
hiera
. On Monday night, I believe the
cult members robbed the Met Museum and stole two pieces of ancient pottery for that purpose.” He paused, waiting for Brandman to make the connection.

Instead, the cop just beetled his brows. “We have absolutely no evidence tying the Met robberies to Helen Emerson.”

“Tell me exactly which artifacts were stolen and I’ll prove it to you. I bet anything they were a
kiste
and a
kalathos
, but the press reports didn’t specify.”

“A what and a what?”

“A chest and a basket, like the special containers used in the original Mystery.”

“You’d have to speak to the Nineteenth Precinct. It’s not my case.”

“Not your case!” Theo said too loudly. “You think the burglaries of ancient Greek specimens from two major New York museums and the murder of an archeologist in the same week are unrelated?”

Above his mustache, Brandman’s cheeks flushed red. “
Two
museums? If you’re referring to the Natural History—”

“Day Three,” Theo interrupted, jabbing at his calendar and ignoring the detective’s sour scowl. “They called it ‘Seawards Initiates.’ The Eleusinian initiates bathe in the ocean—like a baptism. That’s when Helen was killed. The cult members didn’t just
dump
the body in the river, they put it there as part of a ritual seawater purification. The Hudson’s really a tidal estuary. It’s partly salt water.”

Brandman tossed down the pen, rolled his chair back a few inches, and crossed his arms. “A tidal estuary. Huh.”

Theo pressed on. “And here’s the Natural History connection. Last night, someone broke in, and did they steal the Star of India sapphire or a priceless fossil of a feathered dinosaur? Nope. Just an Aesculapian rat snake. That’s preparation for tonight, Day Five of the ritual: the
Asklepia
, a celebration in honor of the medicine god, Asclepius.”

The young female detective approached once more, this time handing Brandman a piece of paper. While he read the note, she looked pityingly down at Theo, as if she’d sat on that side of the desk before and understood how frustrating it could be.

Brandman read the note, nodding. “Thank you, Detective Freeman. We’re almost done here.” He checked his watch before returning his attention to Theo. “Your friend Everett Halloran’s alibi checked out. He was at the office that night, seen by a few other professors. Where were
you
two nights ago?”

“In my apartment. Grading papers.”

“Anyone to corroborate that?”

“I live alone.”

The detective raised an eyebrow. “The forensic report comes back tomorrow. Detective Freeman just made contact with one of Miss Emerson’s other colleagues. I need to leave in a few minutes, Professor. But before I do, let me get this right. Has this cult of yours ever been associated with murder?”

“Well, no, not originally,” Theo admitted. “All surviving Greek texts describe severe societal proscriptions against human sacrifice.”

“And how long has it been since this cult’s even existed?”

Theo shifted a little in his seat. “About sixteen hundred years.”

Brandman rolled forward and rested his elbows on the desk so he could lean closer to Theo. “So
why
would they want to kill a nice girl like Helen Emerson?”

“Because the Mysteries weren’t just a random religious festival. They were
life-changing
. The great philosopher Cicero wrote that among all the divine institutions that Athens contributed to human life, the Eleusinian Mysteries were the best. Considering the accomplishments of the Athenian Golden Age, that’s saying a lot. Supposedly, the secret climax of the ritual answered mankind’s greatest questions: how life began, how to live happily, and how to die well. Those are the same questions we’re still
asking today. They’re the fundamental basis of our religion, philosophy, poetry—
everything
. So if Helen had somehow uncovered what those answers were…”

“Killed over a secret that hasn’t mattered for thousands of years?” Brandman gave him an incredulous look. “Or are you saying some classicist murdered her over academic jealousy?”

“It’s not that simple. They might have thought—”

“You keep saying
they
.” Brandman said with an angry wave of his hand. “We have no evidence that there’s more than one killer at this time.”

“It’s
got
to be a ‘they.’ These cults usually have a priest—a hierophant—leading the ritual, but they’re all about group-think. Otherwise it’s like an
American Idol
where Ryan Seacrest is the only guy in the audience. Cults don’t work if it’s just one initiate.”

“This sounds like a conspiracy theory.” From his tone, Theo could tell the cop suspected he was one more crackpot in a city full of them. “When you walked in here, you told me you knew where to find the killer. So get to the point, Professor.”

“My pleasure.” He smothered his growing frustration and gave Brandman an earnest smile. “Tonight is the feast of Asclepius, when the initiates ask for magical healing dreams. They sleep in a cave with a sacred well, not far from Asclepius’s Temple.
That’s
where we’ll find them.”

“Mm-hmm.” Brandman gave him a cold smile. “I see. You’re saying we need to find a cave. Near a well. Near a temple.”

“Exactly.”

“Fine. Come back when you find one within a fifty-mile radius of New York.”

“But Detective—”

With a grunt of frustration, Brandman pulled a photo from a folder and tossed it onto the desk. Theo’s words died in his mouth. Helen—splayed across a slab of gray rock. A yellow sheet covered her breasts, but the rest of her body lay revealed. He saw
only a glimpse of the bloody desecration between her legs before he looked away.

Brandman said nothing for a long moment, but Theo could feel the cop’s small eyes boring into him. “This isn’t some academic exercise, Professor,” he said finally. “It isn’t about philosophical pondering about life and death in another era—it’s about
real
life. And
real
death.
Today.
”

Theo swallowed hard and looked back at the photo. The sheet was pinned on one of Helen’s shoulders. “Was there another pin in the sheet?” he asked. Traditional chitons were secured on both sides of the body.

Brandman guffawed, then shook his head incredulously. “You’re staring at the mutilated body of young woman and
that’s
your first question?”

“Well?”

“No. There was no other pin.”

Strange, but that didn’t prove anything. “What kind of plants are those?” Theo pointed at the foliage in Helen’s matted hair. Selene DiSilva was right—it did look like a wreath. “Bay leaves?”

“Yes. So?”

“So?” Theo snapped. “Don’t you see?”

“I see that botany is another one of your areas of supposed expertise. What of it?”

“We call them bay leaves, but Greeks call them laurel. The laurel wreath is specifically associated with Apollo. Since Asclepius was Apollo’s son, this only corroborates my Eleusis theory.”

“My turn to teach you something, Professor. Cops call it ‘confirmation bias.’ Once you’ve got a theory in mind, everything you see backs it up. It’s a delusion. So as amusing as I’m finding all this—”

“Late-night comedy is
amusing.
Cat videos are
amusing
.” Theo wasn’t sure when he’d stood up, but he found himself leaning
over the desk, close enough for the detective’s cologne to assault his nose. “Bumbling cops who don’t know a good lead when they see one—that, too, might be considered
amusing
. But the fact that bay laurels only grow in the Mediterranean, so those leaves didn’t just drift into Helen’s hair, they were
put
there by her killer—that’s deadly serious.”

Brandman stood. His jacket fell open, revealing the leather corner of a shoulder holster. Theo took a step back, instantly regretting his belligerence. The cop’s mustache twitched with a hint of a sneer. “On behalf of the NYPD, I thank you for your academic insight. We’ll pursue every lead, I assure you. We’ll be working on this case to the utmost of our ability and hope to have it resolved shortly.”

Theo wondered what sensitivity training course that line had come out of. He handed Brandman his annotated calendar. “At least take this. You’re going to need it.”

The detective put the calendar in a folder without looking at it further. “I can assure you that if, in the course of the investigation, we happen to find a bunch of guys meditating in some cave with your stolen snake, I’ll let you know.” He started shutting down his computer.

“You’re still missing the point,” Theo said between clenched teeth. He knew it was useless to keep arguing, but what choice did he have? “In the
original
Mysteries, they would’ve just dreamed and feasted. But if this new cult killed someone for a ritual as innocuous as the seawater purification, think what they might try next. The ritual goes on for
ten
days, and we’re only on Day Five. Every day the ceremony becomes more intense, until the final climax. We need to catch them
now
.”

“Agreed. He might kill again. Which is why you need to leave.”

“Maybe I could look through the stuff you took from Helen’s office? See if her manuscript is—”