Chapter 40

THE EPIC HERO

Shortly after Detective Freeman had arrested Theo, Brandman arrived at the Grand Central police station. He pulled up a chair next to the bars of Theo’s holding cell and sat down. The younger detective stood beside him, her hands planted on her hips.

“Knew we’d catch you sooner or later,” Brandman said. “We’ve had an APB out on you all day.”

“What’s this all about, Detective?” Theo asked, trying not to rattle the bars in frustration. “Captain Hansen said I was cleared of suspicion.”

“That was before this.” He pulled a photo from a file folder on his lap and held it up so Theo could see. A footprint in soft earth. “Size twelve. Bass brand, Albany model. Inner right heel worn down. Found next to Helen Emerson’s body. Perfect match to a pair of shoes found in your office, with corresponding mud in the soles.” Theo felt his stomach clench. “And we’ve got the forensic reports back from the Mount Sinai Hospital basement.” He held up two evidence baggies. “Hair from the Sammi Mehra crime scene,” he said, waving one bag. “And matching sample from the comb in your apartment.”

“You searched my apartment? My office?” Theo tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.

“We got warrants this morning,” volunteered Freeman. “Right after we learned that you’d gone to Natural History yesterday and threatened one of the employees—while in possession of a stolen prehistoric tooth.”

“But I wasn’t in Riverside Park until after you’d already finished investigating the scene. I went to pay my respects that afternoon, that’s all. And I never stepped foot inside the hospital.”

“Uh-huh. And what about this?” Brandman removed a paper from the folder. Theo recognized it with a sick sense of dread. Helen’s note from the box under his bed. “Seems your relationship with the deceased wasn’t quite as long ago as you claimed. One more fling, huh, for old times’ sake, and then she said good-bye for good. Makes sense you’d be looking for revenge after she played with you like that.”

“That’s crazy. I—”

“And then, of course, there’s this.” He pulled one last sheet from the folder. The mangled shreds of Helen’s photo from his office desk drawer, now carefully smoothed and taped back together by the detective with the same care Theo had once shown reconstructing papyri fragments.

“I know how that looks, but—”

“Occam’s razor, Professor. Or should I say, lex parsimoniae?”

“I haven’t even told you about the Corn King…”

“You’re drunk, Professor. I can smell it on you. And before you start blaming a Corn King or a Watermelon Queen or anyone else, save your breath. I’ve had enough of your theories. You’re getting sobered up, then I’m bringing you before a judge. End of story.”

“Let me speak to Captain Hansen. She’ll listen.”

“She’s out with a small army of cops, following your latest lead,” said Freeman.

“Extra patrols in Times Square, Lincoln Center, the Public, Radio City, and every other goddamn theater in the city, looking for your cult,” Brandman added. “But I say they’ll turn up somewhere in Harlem at a church service or down at the South Ferry terminal or smack dab in the center of City Hall. Anywhere but where you say they’ll be.”

“I’m not part of the cult.”

“No? Then how did you know they’d be at some TV studio?”

He could’ve told Brandman about his relationship with Selene. Taken some of the focus off himself. But even after she’d just walked out on him, he refused to violate her wish to remain anonymous. He’d vowed to be worthy of her trust. Nothing could change that. “I’ve told you how I found it. Research. Context. Putting the puzzle pieces together and seeing the pattern.”

Brandman stood and took a step toward Theo, fists clenched. Theo didn’t flinch. Before the cop could say anything more, Theo moved close to the bars so he could look down at the shorter man. “Detective Brandman, I know we’ve had our differences, but we both want to stop any more killings. You can question my motives all you want, but you have to admit I’ve been pretty good at finding these guys. Last time, I was too slow and they murdered Jenny Thomason. This time, I intend to find them before it’s too late.” Theo looked Brandman straight in the eye. Somewhere in this cynical, distrustful cop was a man who’d spent his life trying to serve the people of New York.

“Jake…” Freeman began. “He might be—”

“Forget it. I’m not letting him back on the streets.”

And then, just as Theo decided all hope was lost—a knock on the door. A uniformed cop handed Freeman Theo’s cell phone and whispered something in her ear. At the same time, Brandman’s phone rang.

He turned his back on Theo and answered the call. “Brandman here. Yes, just picked him up. Course I’ve got a warrant, Captain. And DNA evidence placing him at the Emerson and Mehra crime scenes. And don’t forget that Jenny Thomason’s blood was all over him at Rock Center. And you believe that… No, I haven’t—yes, he’s—right away, ma’am.”

Ending the call, the detective swung back toward Theo. “Wipe that smile off your face, Professor. You’re not cleared yet—not in my book. But it seems Professor Martin Andersen called up and told Geraldine Hansen that you couldn’t have murdered Sammi Mehra because you were with him the whole night at his apartment, discussing Helen’s case.”

Theo almost opened his mouth to protest but then snapped it shut again. If Martin wants to save my hide, who am I to stop him? Maybe he feels guilty that the rest of the department has been bad-mouthing me to the police.

“Captain Hansen’s in Times Square,” Brandman went on, “checking out the Duke Theater, where they’ve got a production of Oedipus Rex going on. She wants you there. So let’s see your hands.” Theo obeyed, sticking his hands through a horizontal slot. Brandman cuffed him.

“Hey! I thought Hansen told you to set me free!”

“She did.” Brandman unlocked the door and led Theo out. “But I don’t trust you, Schultz. Somebody’s lying here. Remember those puzzle pieces you keep talking about—well, they don’t fit. Not anymore. So you’ll stay in cuffs until I say otherwise.” He began to march Theo out of the room, but Freeman stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.

“Jake,” she said quietly, “seems Schultz’s phone’s been buzzing like crazy. Someone’s trying to tell him something.” She handed Brandman the phone.

“Let me see that,” Theo said, sure it was Selene.

Brandman ignored him and scrolled through the text messages. “From Everett Halloran,” he said aloud. “‘Try the Liberty Theater on Forty-second Street. It’s been abandoned for years.’” He scowled at Theo. “What’s this all about?”

“He found it? It was his idea in the first place,” Theo explained. “To look for a hidden theater. Come on, Detective, you don’t really think I’m guilty, do you, if Helen’s fiancé trusts me? Now let’s stop wasting time and get to that theater.”

“Captain Hansen said I should take you to the Duke, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Brandman said, slipping Theo’s phone into his pocket. “If she wants to go on a goose chase with you, let her.”

From the backseat of Brandman and Freeman’s car, Theo watched the lights of Times Square flash up ahead. Even with the detectives’ siren blaring, they made no progress. Traffic stood still around them. “What’s going on?”

“Your buddy Geraldine has blocked traffic into and out of Times Square,” Brandman replied. “That hasn’t happened since September eleventh. Everything’s a goddamn terrorist attack to these people.”

“But we’ve got to hurry. The rituals begin at night. It might’ve already started.”

Brandman honked his horn, but the cab driver in front of them only turned around and waved his hands in frustration. In a traffic jam like this, there was simply nowhere to go. The detective pulled at his mustache for a moment, then turned off the car, leaving his lights flashing. “Freeman, stay with the vehicle.” He got out and opened Theo’s door. “Come on, we’re walking.” He held Theo by the elbow and propelled him down Forty-second Street. Before long, they ran up against a crowd so large it blocked the sidewalks entirely. “She’s going to get people hurt,” Brandman muttered. He tried to force his way through the crowd, but to no avail. He detoured downtown a block and dragged Theo through the south entrance of the Times Square Hilton.

“Shortcut,” he explained.

Brandman was almost through to the Forty-second Street lobby exit when Theo skidded to a halt, staring at a photo on the wall.

“Detective! Wait!” He gestured to the photo. Teal walls, battered red seats, a faded, ancient show curtain hanging from the peeling proscenium. The photo looked recent, but the theater was clearly very old. The caption underneath read, Liberty Theater. “Where is this?” Theo begged the hotel doorman. “Please, it’s urgent.”

The doorman pointed to the wall on which the photo hung. “It’s right there. Behind the wall. They can’t destroy it because it’s landmarked, but it’s been boarded up for years, and now it’s covered by Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum next door.”

“Come on.” Brandman pulled Theo’s arm, trying to drag him away.

“Hold on!” No way he was going to be this close to the hidden theater without checking it out. “Has anyone gone in tonight?”

“Well, yes, actually,” said the doorman. “A team of architects and contractors. They’re going to turn the theater into a restaurant next year. They came to look around.”

“Five men?”

“Four. And a woman,” added the doorman.

Brandman stopped pulling on Theo. “Goddamn it.”

“How do we get in?” Theo demanded.

“It’s not open to the public, sir.”

Before Theo could grab the doorman and shake him, Brandman flashed his badge. “Show me the entrance. Now.”

“Right there.” An innocuous double door. It could’ve been a custodial closet.

Brandman placed his ear to the door. “Drumming,” he whispered. “Very faint.” He requested backup on the radio.

“We’ve got to get in there now!” Theo insisted.

“Not until backup arrives with—” A shrill scream emerged from inside the theater. Brandman drew his gun from the holster inside his suit jacket. He met Theo’s glance. “All right, I’m going in.” He put his hand on the doorknob, then looked back at Theo, annoyed.

“You can leave me out here,” said Theo. “Hook my handcuffs to a pipe or something while you face a bunch of angry cult initiates all by yourself. Or you can take me in with you and let me help translate whatever Ancient Greek they’re spouting.”

Brandman growled. “If you make a sound, or warn them in any way, I will put a bullet through you, do you understand?”

Theo nodded. “We’re on the same side.”

“We’ll see.” Brandman nodded to the doorman. “Do not let anyone through this door except the NYPD, got it?”

The cop opened the door and slipped inside, gun in one hand and Theo’s elbow in the other.

When Selene’s phone chimed, she nearly laughed. How typical: an epic battle of ancient deities, interrupted by the most mundane of twenty-first-century intrusions.

“Are you going to get that?” Paul asked.

Selene didn’t answer, just circled around the bed toward him, unwilling to hurl a javelin over their mother’s prostrate form. Paul held a guitar case in one hand.

“Is that where you keep your bow?” she asked, judging how fast he could open it.

“It’s where I keep my guitar.” He held the case like a shield in front of him. “I’d rather it not get stabbed, but better it than me.”

“Don’t bother playing innocent. You tried to kill me last night.”

“Why would I try to kill you? We’re day and night. Civilization and wildness. One without the other is meaningless.”

“I’ve lived without you in my life for a long time now. A more permanent parting won’t be too hard to take.”

Paul flinched. “Is that how you really feel? After everything we’ve been through together? I’ve only ever tried to protect you.”

“Yet you’ve brought me nothing but grief.”

Paul’s eyes flicked to the woman on the bed. “Thank you for waiting until she was gone to say that. She couldn’t have borne it—you know how she always wanted us to reconcile.”

“Only because she didn’t know what you really are.”

“And what am I? God of Light who no longer controls the sun? God of Music who loses his voice after the third week on tour? God of Healing who can’t even save his own mother?” Tears sprang afresh to his eyes. “Even when all my other names were meaningless, I was still the Son of Leto. And if Mother were still alive, I would fight to save myself, for her sake. But now, if I’m not even the Delian Twin anymore…” He shrugged. “I’m not sure what point there is to any of it.” He lowered the guitar case slowly. “So go ahead, Artemis.” He closed his eyes, but the tears still came, streaming down his cheeks like rain. “Put me out of my misery. I’m sure that javelin will do the trick—I’m not really divine, any more than you are.”

Selene tested the weight of the shaft. Her phone chimed again.

Paul groaned and cracked opened his eyes. “Please get that. It’s ruining the solemnity of the moment.”

One eye still on her brother, she reached for her phone with her left hand, intending to turn it off. Then she saw who’d sent the text.

The cult’s at a theater hidden behind the Times Square Hilton and they’ve got another woman, it read. I’m going in after them, but if I don’t make it out, then it’s up to you. Don’t let them win, Selene. Do that for me, at least.

Selene stared at the text for a moment longer. Then she looked up at her brother. He stood with his guitar case hanging by his side, his eyes still puffy and red, resigned to death. “You’re not the killer,” she said softly.

“I can’t believe you thought I was. I am my mother’s son, you know.”

Darkness swallowed Theo and Brandman as they entered the theater’s lobby. Drumming rolled swiftly from somewhere nearby, stirring Theo’s already racing heart. Brandman had consented to give him his phone back, although he still hadn’t removed Theo’s cuffs. Theo wondered what Selene would do when she got his text. On the one hand, he didn’t want to drag her into danger. On the other, he desperately wanted her to show up with a new bow and kick some ass.

The chanting began. Brandman tugged on Theo’s arm. “What’re they saying?” he breathed into Theo’s ear.

He translated the Ancient Greek in a whisper: “We sing to celebrate the Maid, that she might bring forth new life from the earth.” Then a soft, high-pitched singing began. A woman’s voice, tremulous and thin. “That’s not Greek anymore. I don’t know what it is,” Theo murmured. “It doesn’t even sound Indo-European.”

Theo heard a click. Brandman had drawn the safety on his gun. “So they are terrorists.”

“I don’t know if…” Theo began, but Brandman had already released him. He could see the man’s outline very dimly, black on black. A tiny amount of orange light seeped through a crack beneath a nearby door. Brandman eased the door open and slipped through, his gun raised. Theo followed right behind, despite Brandman’s stern gesture to stay put.

The two men crouched behind the last row of seats, peering down the aisle toward the cavernous bare stage. In the center, a small fire hissed and crackled, illuminating the figures around it in grotesque shadow. Only four men now, not five. The one Selene had shot in the stomach at Rockefeller Center had likely never recovered from his wound. As before, they wore cloaks and monstrous wooden masks. One danced in a frenzied circle to the beat of another initiate’s drum. The hierophant, tall and broad in his flowing purple robes, stood watching with a bronze sword clasped in his hand. The final mystes pointed a knife at the woman, who faced the back of the stage, her wrists bound behind her back. Six stiff braids of curly black hair surrounded her skull like a melting crown, swaying in time to her choked, tear-laden song.

“We have to help her,” Theo hissed.

“Not without backup.”

“You’re just going to let them—”

“I’m one gun versus four armed men.”

“Just shoot them!”

“I’d risk hitting the woman.”

Theo was tired of excuses. He scuttled out from behind the seats on his elbows, cursing the handcuffs, and half crawled, half ran down the aisle. Immersed in their dance, the mystai never even turned his way. The woman’s song grew suddenly louder, more desperate, and Theo had the abrupt realization that it was Navajo. Then the woman revolved in her dance until she faced the audience. She lifted her head. Gabriela opened her tear-filled eyes and met Theo’s stunned stare.

Selene felt as if she’d regained the use of a limb long atrophied. She’d learned over the years to compensate for her twin’s absence. To forget how lonely she was, to force away the memories of music and companionship. “Come with me,” she said now, holding out a hand to her brother. “We were always stronger together.”

Paul collapsed back into the chair beside his mother’s bed. “To do what?”

“To save Theo Schultz.”

“Theo?” Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Wait… you mean the Pervy Professor, who’s been all over the TV? Pale. Tall. Skinny.”

“He’s not skinny. He’s stronger than he looks. And right now he’s walking into a trap.”

“Since when have you cared about the fates of thanatoi?” he demanded.

I don’t know, she thought. Maybe since Theo Schultz reminded me how to laugh. But she said simply, “Maybe since I’ve become one.”

“Or since you’ve fallen in love with one.”

“What?”

“I’ve known you since we shared a womb. Yours was the first face I saw, even before Mother’s. I’ve only seen that look on your face one other time—when you spoke of Orion.”

“Don’t you dare say his name. Not after what you did to him.”

“You can’t have it both ways,” he said with a bitter laugh. “You can’t ask for my help and still refuse to forgive me. I did what I did because if you slept with Orion, if you broke your vows of virginity, you’d have been banished from Olympus. Lost all your powers.”

“It was my decision to make. Not yours.”

“Fine. But I’m not about to help you rescue some mortal so you can sleep with him and ruin your life.”

“I’m not going to sleep with Theo. He’s a friend.”

“With your nymphs gone, I’ve been your only friend, Moonshine, don’t you remember? No one else could understand you. No one else could love you with all your faults. Except Mother.” He took Leto’s hand in his own, stroking the tracery of empty veins. When he looked up at Selene once more, his eyes were hard. “Don’t you see? We couldn’t save her. We can’t save ourselves. The Fates have spun the thread of our lives, long and shining like the heavens, and now their shears hover above us, ready to snip. So go ahead, Selene. Waste your last days on a mortal. But I’m not going to help.”

Theo held a finger to his lips to stop Gabriela from calling out his name. He stared at her hard, willing her to hear his unspoken promise: I will get you out of this. He crawled closer to the stage. Now he could feel the warmth from the flames.

The tall hierophant stepped out of the circle and approached Gabriela with his bronze sword. She stopped her song with a strangled gasp.

“Keep singing!” the man cried. She obeyed, stumbling and stuttering over the words. He reached for a handful of her black curls, sliced off a hank, and tossed it into the fire. Then he drew his blade across Gabriela’s left wrist. She screamed. A third man rushed forward with a flask to collect the blood.

Theo had no plan. No weapon. It didn’t matter. He dashed toward Gabriela.

Detective Brandman beat him to it.

Gun raised, the detective vaulted over the orchestra pit. “Police! Hands in the air!”

Gabriela crouched down with her hands over her head.

“Block the door!” the hierophant shouted. One of the mystai jumped off the stage and sprinted up the aisle to obey.

Theo hollered a wordless battle cry and rushed the hierophant, but a skinny mystes tackled him before he could reach the priest—they crashed to the stage in a tangle of limbs and robes. Theo slipped his cuffed hands over the man’s head and clasped him in a bear hug. Somewhere, dimly, he heard a crash as one of the initiates overturned something to block the entrance to the theater. Then pounding and shouts as the police tried to get inside. God, please hurry, Theo thought.

“Drop the weapon, now, or I will shoot!” came Brandman’s cry.

An instant later, gunshots pocked the air. Theo risked a glance at the detective. With Gabriela clutched in one arm, Brandman aimed his gun at the hierophant. Every time he fired, the hierophant swung the blade in an arcing blur, deflecting the bullet. Brandman fired one more time. The hierophant raised his sword again. This time, the bullet ricocheted off the weapon and back toward the cop, striking him in the chest.

The detective pitched forward, carrying Gabriela with him. Her head slammed the ground with a sickening thud. She lay unmoving in Brandman’s arms, a pool of blood widening beneath them.

“NO!” Theo screamed, lurching toward his friend. The mystes slid from his grasp, but Theo didn’t care. Someone tackled him from behind. He slammed face-first into the ground, a bony knee jabbing his spine. Theo’s cuffed hands were trapped beneath his body. He wriggled uselessly in the man’s arms.

“Just in time, Theo,” whispered a familiar voice in his ear. “But did you have to bring the cops? Why do you always have to throw a wrench in our plans?”

Theo twisted, searching out the man behind the mask. But he didn’t need to see his captor’s pockmarked face to know that Bill Webb, esteemed chairman of the Columbia Classics Department, held him in his grasp.

On the other side of the stage, the stocky mystes started to move toward Gabriela’s prostrate form. A lock of red hair peeked out from the edge of his mask. Nate Balinski, Theo realized. But why is he doing this? He struggled in vain against Webb’s grip, wondering how a man with cancer could restrain him so easily. Then he nearly gagged as the smell of rotten fruit wafted toward him on Webb’s panting breath. They’re too drugged with kykeon to feel any pain. Jesus, they’ve been drinking it all week, he realized, remembering the glasses of “scotch” Fritz Mossburg, Nate Balinski, and Martin Andersen had toted through the office.

Police sirens pierced the air as the sound of splitting wood echoed from the lobby. Everyone froze.

“Leave the woman,” ordered the hierophant. Theo knew that voice. It no longer rasped like it had the night of the Pompe. But its rich, melodious timbre filled him with dread.

The hierophant stepped toward Theo and gripped him on the shoulder. A familiar, overlong, manly clasp. Then he pushed back his purple hood, revealing an elegant tumble of black curls, and removed his mask.

Everett Halloran’s dark eyes glinted in the firelight.

“We’ve got the sacrifice we need right here.”