The Immortals

by Jordanna Max Brodsky

  May Chin in the front row raised her hand. “Are you saying the Greeks were more advanced than we are? Even though they lived in, like, 400 BC?”

  “Did we invent democracy, theater, and philosophy in less than a century?”

  May grinned at him and scribbled in her notebook while a serious boy with a worried frown raised his hand.

  “Yes, Mr. Freemantle.”

  “Are you suggesting we’d be better off as pagans?”

  “I certainly don’t intend to be reading my future in the entrails of dead birds anytime soon, and I don’t recommend you do either. Might get me into all sorts of trouble with the authorities. What I am saying is that as we enter the second month of this course together, I want you to shake up your perspectives. Open your minds. That’s your assignment for next week. Five pages on how the complex, contradictory, ever-changing nature of Greek mythology may have influenced the progress of Greek civilization as a whole and how our own myths influence our lives today—one copy to me and one to Professor Halloran. Sky’s the limit. Go crazy and have fun with it. Now get out of here—and get some sleep tonight, Anant!”

  The students rumbled to their feet. Belatedly, Theo shouted over the hubbub, “Professor Halloran will be taking over next week to discuss gender relations in Greek drama, so don’t forget to read Lysistrata! You won’t regret it, I promise. Dick jokes and snarky heroines—it’s like the latest Amy Poehler comedy. Enjoy!”

  As the students streamed out of the hall, his co-teacher, Everett Halloran, rose from the front row and clapped Theo on the back warmly. Everett was six-three, his wavy dark hair nearly sculptural in its perfection. Although only an inch or two shorter, Theo, with his narrow frame and floppy fair hair, always felt like some pale mole creature standing next to him.

  “I could listen to you all day,” Everett said, squeezing Theo’s shoulder one more time for good measure. “Your connection with the students is just mesmerizing.”

  “Thanks,” Theo said, a little uncomfortable with what felt too sycophantic to be genuine. But that’s who Everett was, making everyone else feel like they were the center of the universe, while simultaneously pulling them into his own orbit.

  “I hate that I missed the first half of the lecture,” Everett went on.

  “Busy morning?”

  “Up all night working in the office on some research for my latest article.”

  “Helen must’ve been thrilled with that.” Stupid—I shouldn’t even mention her, Theo thought. It only makes things awkward.

  But Everett just laughed good-naturedly. “She’s been so busy with her own preparation for the conference that I’m sure she had no idea. She’s going to present an abstract of her book.”

  “Really? It’s about time. I feel like this book is her Holy Grail, and she’s decided none of us are virtuous enough to see it.”

  “Well, soon enough. Meanwhile, she’s been holed up in the library or at her apartment or God knows where, and I haven’t seen her in days. I’ve been teasing her that she’s the worst fiancée ever!”

  Theo laughed weakly. Everett and Helen had gotten engaged only six months after they started dating. He’d found their haste disconcerting, but not all that surprising. Sitting near them at conferences lately felt like sitting beside a furnace—all heat and flame and glow. If Theo felt it was all a little stifling, well, who could blame him?

  “You coming to the faculty meeting later today?” Everett asked as Theo shoved his lecture notes into his satchel.

  “Only if they threaten me with corporal punishment. Even then I might beg off.”

  “The privileges of tenure.”

  “Damn straight. God knows they would’ve already fired me if they could.”

  “Come on. It can’t be that bad.”

  Theo snorted. “You’re refreshingly naïve. Wait until you’ve been here a little longer. Trust me, the best way to get your colleagues to resent you is to be their students’ favorite teacher. Second-best way is to thwart their dreams of bigger, cushier office space.”

  “You think they’re still sore about the eminent domain dispute?”

  “Word gets round, I see.”

  “Rumblings. It was before my time.”

  “Let’s just say the protest group I formed with the students pissed off the administration to no end. We managed to stop just enough of the university’s expansion so that a few low-income families got to keep their homes, but the Columbia Classics Department will still be stuck here in musty old Hamilton Hall in perpetuity.”

  “And let me guess, our esteemed department chair never forgave you.”

  “That sort of brilliant supposition is why you’re on the tenure track, Professor Halloran. Eventually you, too, will be able to infuriate your boss and still hold on to your job.”

  Everett’s phone buzzed in his pocket. “Ah, speak of the devil.” He held it up so Theo could see Bill Webb’s name on the screen.

  “What can I do for you, Bill?” Everett asked, his voice perfectly smooth and ingratiating as he spoke to the department chair. Theo cringed a little, but he couldn’t help a twinge of jealousy as well. He’d never had Everett’s skill at managing his superiors. “I’m just finishing up our Intro to Myth class. I’m still downstairs in 516.” His eyebrows flew upward as he listened. “Uh-huh. A policeman?”

  Just then, the door to the lecture hall swung open, revealing a bantamweight man in a neat blue suit. He made his way toward the podium, a serious frown just visible beneath his grizzled mustache. “Everett Halloran?” he asked, pulling a badge from his pocket. “I’m Detective Brandman.” With his gravelly voice and stiff brush cut, the cop reminded Theo of an ex-Marine, maybe the veteran of some covert ’80s Latin American operation gone wrong.

  Everett said a hurried good-bye to Webb and stepped forward to greet the detective. “What can I do for you?” he asked, clasping the Brandman’s hand with what Theo knew would be an impressively manly grip. Helen—and everyone else—loved the passionate sincerity Everett’s strong grasp implied. Theo always found it mildly suffocating.

  “Would you like to sit down?” the detective asked.

  Everett obeyed, folding his large frame into a narrow seat in the front row.

  Theo was getting a bad feeling. “What is this about?” he asked.

  The detective ignored him and spoke to Everett. “Your chairman said Helen Emerson listed you as her emergency contact. You’re her fiancé?”

  “Yes…” His polite smile dissolved. “Is she okay?”

  The detective cleared his throat. Then he ripped apart Theo’s world. “I’m sorry to inform you that Helen Emerson’s body was found early this morning in Riverside Park. She’d washed up out of the Hudson wearing only a sheet.”

  Everett stared dumbly ahead as the color drained from his face.

  Theo felt the room around him begin to spin. He sat down heavily beside Everett.

  “How?” he whispered, his mouth gone dry.

  “We don’t know yet,” the detective replied calmly. “But this was no suicide. And certainly not an accident.”

  “Are… are you sure?” Everett stammered. His hands trembled like an old man’s despite his white-knuckled grip on the chair’s arm.

  For the first time, Brandman’s impassive façade slipped a fraction. “We don’t usually reveal the details of the investigation at this point, but we’re having trouble tracking down Miss Emerson’s next of kin. There’s no delicate way to say this.” His lower lip tugged at his mustache as if he would swallow the words. Then, while looking at Theo and Everett as if to gauge their reaction, he said, “Her genitalia had been removed.”

  Theo felt a mantle of ice settle around his shoulders. “Removed?”

  “With a sharp instrument.”

  As if felled by a giant’s fist, Everett slumped forward in the chair and buried his hands in his hair. The detective was still talking, but Theo heard nothing except Everett’s choked sobs and his own racing heart.

  H
e squeezed his eyes shut, but images of Helen streamed through his mind in an unstoppable torrent. Her fair head bent over a thick stack of books in the library. Her hazel eyes shining up at him as they argued over the meaning of some ancient text. Her laughter as she discussed her favorite Egyptian pyramids with a group of undergrads.

  Her body, so frail, so delicate, sprawled across cold rocks, covered in blood.

  Her gentle smile as she lay, flushed and tousled, in his bed.

  Chapter 4

  SINGER OF STITCHED WORDS

  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, Selen
e 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.