The Immortals (4 page)

Perched on the limb of a maple near the river’s edge, Selene stood vigil. Hippo lay silently beneath a cluster of rhododendrons nearby. Together, they’d watched the official from the medical examiner’s office zip the body into a black shroud and carry it to the waiting ambulance. Then a short, gray-haired detective and his team had scoured the area, photographing the rocks, picking among the boulders with tweezers.

All morning, she’d sat forward on the branch, straining to hear the policemen’s conversations from twenty yards away. Another private investigator might’ve brought a parabolic microphone to eavesdrop more effectively, but Selene had a senior citizen’s view of advanced electronics. Computers and touchscreens and the Internet all seemed like very recent inventions that she couldn’t possibly be expected to understand. Not all gods avoided such innovations, but as the Goddess of the Wild, Selene found it especially hard to adjust to a digital world. Her ten-year-old cell phone, essential for keeping in touch with clients, was her only concession to modern technology. She’d recently learned to text—that was plenty of progress for now.

Soon, a light rain began to fall, forcing the cops to speed up their investigation before the evidence washed away. Not long after, a uniformed officer reported that a researcher at Columbia had called in a missing person report on her roommate—a woman matching the victim’s description.

She listened carefully, hoping to catch a name, an address, something to provide a lead, but learned nothing of use. As far as she could tell, the police never noticed the evidence of Greek ritual at the crime scene. Their lack of insight didn’t surprise her, but did disappoint; she had no doubt the chiton and the wreath held the key to understanding the crime. She couldn’t tell the cops herself: The anonymous phone tip she’d left about the body carried enough risk. She had a long, fraught history with the police force she’d once belonged to. Drawing their notice would be incredibly dangerous.

The rain fell harder; the cops bustled around the riverside, their expressions dour, packing up their equipment before the rain could damage it. They left a few straggling pieces of yellow police tape around the scene and a row of wooden barriers blocking the area from curious passersby and nosy reporters. Selene found her maple tree secluded in a rare midday quiet.

She moved closer to the tree trunk, resting her cheek upon the bark, trying to shield herself from the worst of the storm. The tree was old, its roots reaching past hunks of granite bedrock, twisting around water mains and steam pipes to reach into the ancient loam beneath the city. Selene tried to hear the pulse of the tree’s veins. Now, it was only sap. She kept telling herself that. But she couldn’t forget the days when it had been a heartbeat—a last reminder of the dryad within.

One by one, the nymphs had grown wan and weary, their glossy hair dulled, their long limbs attenuated. The changing world saved no room for the creatures of glade and spring. Selene still felt drawn to the trees, those hardy denizens of the city, eking out a life among cement and steel. Yet she found little
comfort in them—only heartache, a remembrance of the companions she’d lost. One more reason she chose not to live in the forests and mountains that were her birthright. Too often, the woods only reminded her just how alone she really was.

The squall passed as suddenly as it had arrived. Broad sunbeams pierced the scudding clouds and filtered through the maple leaves, drying Selene’s skin and clothes. Hippo rolled into the sun’s warmth with a contented sigh and fell instantly asleep. Selene gave a sympathetic yawn: She Who Roams the Night wasn’t used to being awake in the middle of the day.

Selene would’ve liked to lie back in the crook of the tree limb and join her dog for a brief nap. But there was work to be done. If she couldn’t trust the cops to investigate the crime thoroughly, she’d have to do it herself. By the height of the sun, she knew it was nearly noon. Time for the regular dog walkers to enter the park for their lunchtime foray. The most dedicated came late at night as well. If anyone had seen something suspicious in the park last night, it’d be them.

Selene woke Hippo and walked back down the waterside path. She hopped over the blue police barricade while the dog crawled underneath, nearly lifting it off the ground with her wide back. After the quiet of the secluded crime scene, Selene winced at the crowds. To her, Riverside Park meant darkness and dusk—a slash of rock and tree and wild animals suspended between river and city. But at lunchtime, the park buzzed with people snatching a few gulps of fresh air. They stretched across benches, faces turned to the sun, or strode lazily along the boardwalk at the river’s edge, squinting at the light bouncing off the water.

The narrow, fenced dog run roiled with yapping, fetching, peeing canines, all seizing their fifteen minutes of freedom before their owners (or more likely, their hired walkers) confined them inside an apartment for the rest of the day. Before long, a barrel-chested woman appeared, a water bottle in one
hand and seven leashes in another. Her army of retrievers, German shepherds, and cockapoos walked just ahead of her down the stone stairs toward the dog run. Selene didn’t know the woman’s name, but she saw her often in the park late at night.

“Excuse me,” she said, approaching the woman before she could enter the enclosure. The pack of dogs immediately strained at their leashes, lunging toward Selene with unbridled glee.

The dog walker grunted and leaned back on her heels, sweat popping from her brow as she restrained her charges. “Whoa, they’re usually better behaved than this. Your dog’s not in heat, is she?”

Selene shook her head, equally bewildered. As the Lady of Hounds, she’d once been irresistibly attractive to dogs, but she’d lost the power of that epithet along with all the others.

The dogs continued to strain toward Selene. The cockapoo began yapping, and the others followed suit. Then the dogs in the nearby enclosure bounded to the fence, adding to the commotion. The tallest ones stood on their hind legs, paws resting on the chain-link, and howled. The little ones ran in crazed circles. Hippo began to whimper, backing up with her tail between her legs.

Selene turned toward the dog run and growled. The dogs instantly calmed. Next, she took half a step forward toward the dog walker’s charges and snapped her teeth at them. They froze, silent. Then the largest shepherd rolled over on his back like a submissive puppy. Hippo sniffed his belly disdainfully. Selene was pleasantly surprised she’d managed to control them. More often, dogs just got more riled up when she tried to use her old powers of command.

The dog walker’s eyes widened. “You’ve got to teach me how to do that.”

“Only if you answer a question first.”

“Thirty dollars an hour. But I’m not sure I could handle that monster of yours. What is she, part Newfoundland?”

“I don’t need you to walk my dog. I just want to know if you saw anyone suspicious in the park last night.”

“Like a murderer?” she asked with a grimace. “I saw the news this morning.”

“And?”

“I never went that far up. There was a sign from the Park Service saying the area was closed for repairs.”

After striking out with the first dog walker, Selene approached a few others. But all had been similarly dissuaded from the northern end of the park. On her predawn hunt, Selene hadn’t noticed any closure sign, meaning the killer had removed it after he completed the murder. He
wanted
the body to be found. A thoughtful, organized killer, who believed he could play with the police and not get caught.
But he wasn’t counting on me,
Selene thought as she walked back toward the river.

A few passersby peered past the barricades in idle curiosity, but none stopped to investigate. From here, a slight hill obscured the murder site, and unless they saw blood on the ground, jaded New Yorkers showed little interest in crime scenes.

So she was surprised to glimpse a flutter of movement at the crest of the hill. Probably just another cop, come back for further investigation. But still…

She and Hippo slipped past the barriers and moved up into the woods so they could approach unseen.

A man crouched on the rocks beside the shreds of police tape, staring out at the river. He’d clearly jumped right over the barricades, but he didn’t look like a cop: too narrow across the shoulders, too slumped in his posture. She felt a tremor of excitement.
This could be the killer, returned to gloat over the scene of his crime.

He looked downriver for a moment, revealing a sharp nose and a gentle mouth. Sunlight winked off his wire-rimmed glasses, obscuring his eyes.
I know the type,
she thought, disappointed.
A man happier in an office than a forest, who wouldn’t know how to wield a weapon if his life depended on it.

When he stood, his lanky height surprised her—he’d seemed small and defeated huddled by the water’s edge, but now she could see the corded strength of his movements.
Maybe he
is
strong enough,
she relented.
The woman wasn’t very big, after all.

Suddenly, he spoke.
“Se tan enaulois hypo dendrokomois,”
he began.

At first, Selene could barely process the words. Then she couldn’t help smiling triumphantly.
Ancient Greek. What better evidence that he’s involved in a ritual killing?
She forced herself to remain hidden, listening.

“Mouseia kai thakous enizousan.”

It had been centuries since she’d heard a mortal speak the ancient tongue so fluently, but she had no problem understanding his words.

Selene recognized the elegy. A summons to the wild birds of the forest to join in a requiem for Helen of Troy.

Selene felt his words like a wound. Nearly two thousand years ago, the Olympians’ capriciousness—protecting then punishing, manifesting then vanishing, healing then destroying—had
pushed men toward a new god, one both understandable and understanding, who cemented his will in commandments and wrote his words in books. Mankind abandoned Artemis and the other Athanatoi—Those Who Do Not Die—and the Diaspora began. They fled their heavenly perch, condemned to wander the mortal realm below, remembered only as figments of ancient imagination, insubstantial as dreams.

“You, O Helen, carry to the sorrowful sorrows

And pain upon pain.”

The man’s voice drifted to a murmur. He stood for a moment in silence, the wind whipping his fair hair across his high forehead. Finally, he turned to face the boulders where the woman had lain in her yellow shroud.

With Hippo beside her, Selene left the shadows of the woods. She stood for a moment, watching the grieving man at the waterside. Normally, she avoided talking to men—female clients like Jackie Oritz were hard enough to deal with. She preferred hurting first and asking questions later.

But in truth, Selene had little choice. His dirge had not just summoned the birds of the wild—it had summoned the deities of the wild as well. It would seem that the gods were not forgotten after all.

Only after Theo had finished the poem did he look down at the rocks where Helen’s corpse had lain.

“Katharsis,”
he said aloud with a bitter laugh. “All these years explaining it to my students, and I guess I finally understand what it means.” He took a last shaky breath and lifted his glasses to rub his eyes, glad no one was around to see the tears that had finally come.

He kept imagining Helen’s terrified screams as she realized what was about to happen to her. He could do nothing to help her now, but at least he’d marked her passing in a way that might return some of her stolen dignity. The right words had eluded him: He’d used Euripides’ instead.

The boulders revealed no sign of tragedy—at least none that Theo could see—but hopefully the police had found plenty of evidence that would bring Helen’s killer to justice. For him, there were other responsibilities to attend to—making sure Everett hadn’t thrown himself off a bridge, providing a shoulder for Helen’s roommate to cry on, dealing with the inevitably tone-deaf press release no doubt already drafted by Bill Webb. He turned to go.

A woman and a large shaggy mutt stood a few yards away, staring at him.

“Holy Roman Empire!” he yelped, stepping backward and nearly tripping over his own feet.

She lifted one perfectly sculpted black brow and looked at him with eyes so light they seemed almost silver. “Don’t worry. I’m just walking my dog. I’ll pretend I didn’t see you jumping the police barricade.”

“Good. And I’ll pretend I didn’t just exclaim something utterly pretentious.” He started walking away. As he passed, he glanced again at the woman and almost stopped in his tracks. Flawless pale skin, aquiline nose, chin-length black hair peeking out from beneath a ratty New York Liberty cap. At first he assumed she was young, but something about her stern gaze made him suspect she was closer to his own age. Perhaps thirty. She was extremely tall—almost as tall as he—and though she wore a leather jacket over baggy pants, nothing could hide the sleek lines of her long limbs. A gust of wind blew across Theo’s face, carrying the scent of a summer cypress forest that only added to her allure.
I must be delusional,
he thought, looking at the maples and oaks in their September foliage.
Wishing I were back in Greece.

“Did you know the woman who was murdered?” the stranger asked suddenly, stopping him when he was a few yards past her.

He wanted to shake his head and keep walking. The standard New Yorker’s response to nosy tourists or needy panhandlers. But Theo had never been the standard New Yorker. And he couldn’t bear to deny Helen’s existence.
Soon enough, no one will ask after her again.

“We taught together up at Columbia,” he said. “Her name was Helen Emerson.”

“So you’re here looking for evidence?”

“Me? The closest I’ve ever gotten to detective work is piecing together potsherds from ancient urns.”

“Then what’re you doing in a crime scene?” the woman asked. “My dog refuses to pee in any other part of the park. I’ve got an excuse.”

“Maybe I refuse to pee anywhere else, too.”

She didn’t smile. Instead, she closed the distance between them. Now she stood only a few feet away, her face cloaked in the shadow of a nearby tree. Again the scent of cypress washed over him.

“You’re sure you aren’t involved in the investigation?” she asked.

“Police work’s beyond my pay grade. I’m a classicist.”

“You were close to her?”

“You’ve got a lot of questions, you know.”

She shrugged. “Just curious.” She stroked her huge dog absently as she spoke, as if only vaguely interested in what Theo was saying.

“You’re not a reporter, are you?” Theo asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Do reporters usually bring their dogs to crime scenes?”

“Maybe they should. Might provide some much-needed cheer.” The woman just stared at him. Theo gamely placed a hand on the dog’s wide head. It snarled and snapped at his fingers; he took a quick step back.

The woman didn’t even try to restrain the dog. “She doesn’t like men.”

“Oh. Well, honestly, right now I don’t either.”

She finally laughed. Brief, dry, bitter. “I don’t hear that every day.”

“Well, it’s not every day a man kills a friend of mine and dumps her body in the river,” he retorted, suddenly angry.

The woman’s levity vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The set of her jaw, the narrowing of her eyes, made him think she understood exactly what he meant.

“Theodore Schultz,” he said impulsively, offering his hand.

The woman just stood, staring at him,
through
him with her silver eyes. Judging. He noticed her fingers twitching and thought for a moment she might refuse to touch him. But finally, she stretched out her hand. Her flesh was as cold and smooth as shadowed marble. She didn’t offer her name.

When she spoke again, all hint of idle curiosity had vanished. “Tell me exactly what Helen taught,” she demanded.

Theo nearly walked away right then, shaken by her sudden, startling ferocity, but he found himself answering. “Unless you’re a classicist, it won’t mean much to you. We spend most of our time trying to convince our students that the ancient world is still relevant, but they’re all too busy trying to get jobs as hedge fund managers to really believe us.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“She was a professor with the Archeology and Art History Department, with a specialty in images of femininity across ancient cultures. Priestesses of Isis, the Panathenaic Festival, Vestal Virgins, a whole range of things.”

“And was she one?”

“One what?”

“A virgin.”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he said, struck by a sudden image of Helen, lying naked in a sunbeam on his rug, flipping through the latest
Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrologists
. “Why does it matter?”

“Don’t you see what happened to her?” Her lip curled in a snarl. “You really think this is some random homicide? She was
mutilated
. Ravaged. This was a ritual.”

“How do you—”

“Did you care about this woman or not?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then start using your head, Professor. A criminal this
heinous doesn’t usually stop with one woman. He’ll strike again. Trust me. So I need you to tell me everything you know about this case.”

“I don’t know anything,” he said, angry now. “If I did, don’t you think I’d be doing something about it? Who
are
you anyway?”

“I’m a private investigator of crimes against women. I found her.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“I found her lying on the rocks with her eyes open and her womb cut out. A bloodless piece of meat. Torn apart by some man who wrapped her up in a chiton, bound a laurel wreath around her brows, and dressed her hair in six braids. Did they tell you that part?” She narrowed her eyes, as if waiting for his reaction. “Your friend Helen was dressed up like a virgin sacrifice. You’ve read your Homer, right, Professor? The gods don’t like human sacrifices—and neither do I.”

Theo doubled over, his stomach heaving, body convulsing. He’d eaten little that day, but still he retched until bitter bile dripped from his lips.

He took a final rasping breath, then straightened, wiping his mouth with the last scrap of dirty tissue in his pocket. She watched him coldly, unsurprised. “
That’s
catharsis,” she said.

Had she given him a clean tissue, offered to call for help, or expressed her sympathy in any way, Theo would’ve gone home that day, mourned his former lover, and eventually gotten on with his life: immersing himself in intellectual challenges, taking on the occasional social justice cause, basking in his students’ adoration. But the complete lack of pity in those steely eyes was like a slap in the face, challenging him to be a bigger man.

“Have you told the police what you know?” he asked.

“That’s your job. I don’t work with the police. I don’t work with anyone. But you can give them all the facts so they’ve got a chance to solve this thing.” She grimaced. “But I’m warning
you, they may not believe you. Policemen don’t always accept the extraordinary.”

“Why not? Sure it’s a bit bizarre… but if you’re right about the chiton and the wreath, a ritual sacrifice makes some sense to me.”

“Yes, but you’re an expert in the field. A learned man.”

Is that what I am?
His academic knowledge had never felt less relevant. “But I’ve got no expertise in life and death circumstances. No one gets hurt, or even particularly disappointed, if you translate Virgil poorly.”

“The cops need you. You’ll see things they can’t, or won’t.” One brow lowered skeptically, she looked him over. Judgment. Again. But she must have seen something she thought worthy, because after a moment, she reached into the bulky black pack on her shoulder, pulled out a pen and a scrap of take-out menu, and scrawled a few lines. “Here’s my number. Tell the police everything, but leave me out of it. And if they let you down, call me.” She took a single step closer to him. The sharp scent of pine tickled his nostrils. “I have no intention of letting Helen’s murder go unavenged.”

“Neither do I.”

“Good.”

He looked down at the piece of paper.
Selene DiSilva. Private Investigator.

He thought immediately of the Homeric Hymn to the Moon Goddess.
Hail, white-armed goddess, bright Selene, mild, bright-tressed queen.
He’d never understood the “mild” part. The Moon had always seemed fierce and lonely to him, like Artemis, the celibate Huntress who shared Selene’s mastery over the night sky.

“Good luck, Professor.”

“And to you, Moon Goddess.”

She laughed. A bitter, harsh sound. Her huge dog pranced and barked along.

Then she left, her every motion a lesson in grace, melting back into the woods as mysteriously as she’d emerged.

In the myths,
he thought, watching her go,
you can tell by her blazing eyes and her proud bearing that a goddess has visited you in mortal form.
Then, for the first time since he’d learned about Helen, he laughed.