The Immortals (9 page)

“Time to go, Mr. Schultz. If we need an expert in dead languages and dead snakes, we’ll know where to find you.”

Selene DiSilva warned me the cops might not be up to the task,
Theo thought as he watched Brandman and Detective Freeman get into a black sedan and pull away. Now he realized the extent of her understatement. But if he had to find Helen’s killer on his own, he would.

Across the street from the precinct house, the banner of a public library flapped in the wind. Mothers toting young children, old men with canes, and teenagers with suspiciously thin backpacks all made their way up the concrete steps and into the nondescript beige building, seeking knowledge… or at least Internet access.

Libraries…
Theo mused. Nothing in that building would help his quest, but he knew a librarian whose assistance might be invaluable. As he started toward the subway that would take him back to Columbia, he called the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Greek and Roman Collection.

“Come on, you’re saying you can’t tell me what happened over there?” he begged Steve Atwood, a staff researcher who worked in the museum’s Onassis Library for Hellenic and Roman Art. Over the years, Steve and Theo had worked together many times, building a friendship based as much on their shared fondness for eighties science fiction as on Theo’s invaluable assistance translating the collection’s manuscripts. “Was there any weird evidence of cult ritual during the robbery? Laurel leaves left behind maybe?”

“Sorry, Theo. We’re all under a strict code of silence about the details of the burglary. They’re afraid of copycats.”

“At least tell me what kind of pottery they took.”

“Can’t do it.”

“Wait a sec. You’re the one who once ‘borrowed’ a third-century Greek terracotta of a satyr head to use as a prop in your
latest webisode, and you’re telling me you can’t bend a few rules?”

“It was only a Roman
copy
of a Greek terracotta. But I see your point.” Steve lowered his voice. “The stolen items weren’t on display, I’ll tell you that. Whoever broke into the storerooms knew how to get through some pretty tight security—or they had a connection on the inside. The whole thing’s a huge embarrassment, that’s really why they’re being so hush-hush. Afraid to stain our ‘institutional reputation.’”

“And?”

“And what? I’m not supposed to tell you
anything
, remember?”

“I’ll make you a deal. Give me the details and I’ll help on your next film.”

“Really? I’m doing an homage to
Land of the Lost
next and I need a
Tyrannosaurus rex
.”

“I’m your man.”

“Let me hear it.”

“What?”

“Your dinosaur, of course.”

“You are such an asshole,” Theo grumbled. He attempted his best screeching roar.

“More like a dying housecat, but you’ll get better once you’ve got the costume on.”

“No doubt. So the artifacts…”

Steve’s voice dropped to a whisper. “One was a bell-krater, pretty valuable.” Theo felt a twinge of disappointment. A large, two-handled vase shaped like an upside-down bell was nothing like a
kiste
or a
kalathos
.

Steve went on. “I’m not sure about the other one, but I get the impression it wasn’t very interesting. I swear I don’t know anything else.”

“Then who does?”

Steve gave an exasperated groan. “Okay, fine. I’ll talk to the curator and see if I can get you photos. Since you’ve helped us
out before, they might make an exception. I’ll have to do some major sucking up on your behalf first, so you’re just going to have to be patient. It might take until tomorrow. If they relent, I’ll messenger the pictures over to your office.”

“Messenger? Talk about
Land of the Lost
. What sort of prehistoric operation are you all running over there? Can’t you just e-mail me a scan?”

“Don’t look at me. They don’t want any traceable Internet chatter about the details because they’re worried about hackers selling the information to the black market. And I’m putting my ass on the line for you here, so your
T. rex
better be good.”

“I’m working on waving my midget forearms right now.”

At the 168th Street subway station, a few blocks from the hospital, Selene leaned back against a steel girder and closed her eyes, trying to steady herself after the encounter with her family. Seeking to wipe away the memory of her mother’s frailty, she willed herself to remember her sacred grove instead: the forest at Ephesus. The tops of the tall cypress trees whispered in the wind, creating a natural wall around the spring-fed pool, their scent banishing the odor of hospital antiseptic that clung to her clothes. The soft swish of willow fronds dabbling their leaves in the water replaced the memory of beeping heart monitors. The image of her sleek hounds rolling in the grass brought a smile to her face where before there had been only sadness.

But she couldn’t keep the sacred grove before her eyes. One memory supplanted another. The waving cypresses gave way to the marble halls of her home on Olympus, where she’d spent her childhood in her mother Leto’s loving embrace. It was there that mother and daughter had fought for the first and final time.

I push open the high wooden doors of our home with a strength that belies my childish frame. Skipping with joy, I rush to find my mother where she sits in the courtyard, a sunbeam illuminating the distaff in her hands. As she turns to greet me, her dark veil slides askew. Her hair, a thick river of burnished chestnut, catches the sun’s glow before she tugs the veil back into place.

“I have been with Father,” I announce proudly. A shadow crosses my mother’s face, but her smile never falters.

“He has granted me six wishes. His love for me knows no bounds.”

“Indeed?” she asks calmly, turning her attention to the golden thread wound around her spindle. “And what has mighty Zeus promised you?”

“A bow like Apollo’s, but gold instead of silver.” I raise my arms into an archer’s stance, already feeling the weight of the bow in my hands. “To roam the wild and hunt all my days.” I glance around the marble courtyard with its careful mosaics and I yearn for escape.

“Won’t you be lonely?” my mother asks gently.

I scowl at her. “Of course not! I have wished for more epithets than any other Olympian. And when my own names cannot keep me company, Father has given me maiden nymphs to hunt at my side. And animals, too—a pack of lop-eared hounds to join in the chase and wide-antlered stags to pull my chariot.”

My mother chuckles. “And what was your final wish, my little Huntress?”

I do not hesitate.

“To remain eternally chaste.”

The distaff clatters to the ground. My mother’s soft turquoise eyes flash with unaccustomed anger. “You have chosen a hard life for yourself, child.”

I cross my arms across my chest. “Harder than being forced into a loveless marriage, like Aphrodite’s to crippled Hephaestus? Harder than being chased across the world by a jealous wife, as you were?”

“Aye, child.” My mother stands and looks down upon me. I try to stand up taller so I might look her in the eye, but her anger cows me. “I was chased,” she says. “Hounded mercilessly by Hera’s fury. But in the end, was not my struggle worth it? I knew the love of Zeus, King of the Gods, Lord of the Sky. I have you. And your brother. The greatest happiness a woman can ever experience. Will you give that up?”

“I know what I’m doing, Mother. I give it up in return for a far greater joy.”

“You’re only a child! What do you know of life’s pleasures?”

“I am a goddess! An Olympian!”

Mother bites her lip and sinks once more onto her stool. “Yes, an Olympian.” She picks up her distaff and slowly rewinds the unraveled thread. “And so, like your father, you’ll never question the rightness of your actions. You act for your own pleasure, your own whims, like the rest of them.” All the anger is gone from her voice. “I thought perhaps—as my daughter—you would be different.”

I kneel at her feet and lean my head upon her knee. I will not ask for forgiveness and I do not regret what I have done—not for an instant. But her sadness strikes like an arrow in my breast. After a moment, her gentle hands brush the hair from my forehead, and she presses a kiss against my temple. “I see now you are your father’s child. I only hope you might remember that you are mine as well.”

Now, so many years later, Selene couldn’t get the conversation out of her head. Leto had never alluded to it again, and her devotion to her daughter had never wavered. But deep in her heart, Selene always knew that she’d disappointed her mother in some fundamental way—not by remaining childless (her brother Apollo had provided plenty of grandchildren), but by denying herself love. Her mother had been right—when the nymphs and forests had been destroyed by an age of plastic and wavelengths, Selene was left to pass the centuries in solitude. But about one thing at least, Leto had been wrong. Selene did feel guilt. Sometimes it seemed it was all she
could
feel. And now, with Leto dying, that guilt only grew heavier. She had not made her mother proud. And now she never would.

In the subway station, a stifled shriek ripped her from her memories. She spun toward the sound like a lioness catching the scent of prey. Nearly sixty feet away, on the far end of the opposite train platform, stood a thickset man in a Yankees sweatshirt. His bulk blocked her view, but she glimpsed a pair of delicate
high heels just beyond him. Standing in the lee of a steel column, the man no doubt thought he was safe. They always did. Even an alert cop might not have noticed anything amiss.

It was one in the afternoon. The station should have been packed with workers on break, rushing to lunch dates or doctor’s appointments or snatched moments at the gym. Instead, due to a lucky chance, the platform stood nearly empty. Even so, under normal circumstances, Selene would never hunt her prey in the light of day. Back alleys and darkened parks were her usual stomping grounds. But with her mother near death, the normal rules of Selene’s existence no longer applied. Her heart began to pound, banishing the cold fear that had settled in her gut back at the hospital.
Maybe this morning wasn’t a fluke. Maybe I’m really the Punisher again, not just a counterfeit pretending to epithets I no longer deserve.

The faint vibrations in her feet told her that a downtown train was still at least a stop away, and she could hear an uptown train on the opposite track, even farther. Fifty yards down the platform, a security camera’s eye shone knowingly. She ducked behind a column and assembled her bow. She nocked a shaft to the string and stood so only the arrowhead peeked out from behind the column. She couldn’t see to aim. But unlike Selene DiSilva, the Far Shooter had never missed.
Here goes,
she thought, visualizing the camera. She breathed in, then out, to steady her hands, and let the arrow fly. A faint tinkling of glass was her reward. She jogged down the platform to retrieve the fallen arrow, unable to wipe the grin from her face, and stuffed the shaft and bow into her bag.

A murmur of protest from across the track drew her attention. The thickset man stepped closer to his companion, who cringed before him. Selene leaped down onto the track. Deftly avoiding the electrified third rail, she crossed all four tracks in a few graceful leaps. Bracing one hand on the far platform, she swung onto it effortlessly, landing just out of the station agent’s sight.
She sprinted silently toward the couple; she could already see the big man’s arm drawn back, ready to strike.

In an instant, Selene was beside him, grabbing his fist with her own.

He gave a grunt of surprise. His muscles bulged as he fought to free himself, but her grip held firm, her weakness in the face of Mario Velasquez a dim memory.

Selene could see the woman clearly now, her mascara smeared under tired eyes, limp orange hair falling in choppy bangs across her forehead, tight tank top barely concealing her breasts. “Get out of here,” Selene commanded her. The woman hesitated for an instant, her eyes darting to the man. “Don’t worry about him. Just
go
.” High heels clicking on the concrete, she ran toward the exit.

The Punisher turned back to the man in her grasp. Suddenly, a gust of warm wind from the tunnel. Then, the unmistakable clatter of the approaching uptown train.

“I’m giving you two options: Swear to leave her alone, or refuse and I break your arm.” Reveling in her restored strength, Selene bent his arm backward until his eyes grew wide with pain. “I need an answer. Now.”

“Fuck you, lady.”

“Not one of the options.” She bent his arm a little more. His tendons strained beneath her grip, about to snap.

“Okay, okay, option one! Option one!” he gasped. His eyes streamed as she released him. He stepped away, rubbing his arm. “You crazy cunt.” He spat at her feet. “You know she’s gonna come back to me anyway.”

“Huh. Then I guess I’m going with option three.” The rest was a blur of motion. Selene lunged forward, the fat man scuttled backward, the roar of the oncoming subway drowned out any further conversation, and then he was tripping, falling, mouth wide open in silent astonishment as he tumbled off the platform edge—directly into the path of the uptown train.

The name written on the whiteboard beside the bed was “Sammi Mehra.” The girl was already on tranquilizers. The hierophant had only needed to adjust the IV drip to make sure she didn’t struggle when he lifted her into the wheelchair and rolled her to the elevator. When they’d strung her up, she’d woken long enough to begin sobbing in a language he didn’t know. From the chestnut color of her skin and the wave of her patchy black hair, he assumed she was from South Asia somewhere. India, maybe, or Bangladesh. It didn’t make any difference.

She wasn’t an ideal choice. He’d have preferred someone healthier. This girl had been on chemo for a while. Still, she was pure. Young. Fourteen at most. She looked even younger, tiny and frail in her hospital gown.

As she hung there, limp and silent, her blood dripping into the container below and her chest moving almost imperceptibly, the hierophant considered the perfect symmetry of it all. One dies so another can be reborn. Balance. Harmony. These forces had always ruled the universe, and would again.

He ordered his acolyte to lift the dead snake and wrap it
around the girl’s throat, squeezing away her last few breaths. For the snake is a creature of the earth. It knows the dark secrets of the Underworld. It hisses them in the ears of those willing to hear.

Tonight, sleeping beneath the gently swaying body of his sacrifice, the hierophant would pray for dreams of prophecy and healing.
I will listen to the whispers of snakes,
he thought with a shiver of excitement.
And tomorrow, I will go forth once more into the city. The bringer of destruction. The father of creation.