“You’re not.”
“So the guy at the front desk last night? The one who set all this up? The one Athene and Mercy were trying to stop from doing something before they were derailed by the paintings?”
“Zeus.”
King of the gods himself.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Thirty-four
We have worked out a potential theory. We even have worked out who seems to be behind it. Yes, there are some signs it wasn’t Zeus—like the texts where he seemed to not know ancient Greek—but those would be red herrings to throw us off the trail. It was him. We’re almost certain of that. All the remains is to tell Athene and Mercy so they can get back on track and stop their father from whatever the hell he’s up to now.
That would be much more easily done if we weren’t in the middle of nowhere, without cell phones or a car. We check the motel office. The phone is actually dead, which makes far more sense given the state of the building. I’m shocked he got the power going.
We check the pumps. Definitely no gas coming out, even if we could find something to carry it in, and presuming Connolly’s car is still there and functional, which I doubt.
Once more, we are pawns in this game. Zeus’s game. Strand us in the middle of nowhere, which not only removes us from the board but will get Mercy and Athene looking for us. He’ll make sure they realize we’re missing. Just another wrench thrown in the works.
Is it ridiculously elaborate for what it accomplished? Yep, but from what I saw last night, Zeus is having a blast shuffling us around his game board. Oh, sure, the goal is to distract Athene and Mercy, but he’s not going to turn down a bit of fun while he’s at it.
We need to get to a phone. Connolly has his wallet with his credit card, cash and ID. That will get us what we need. Call Athene and Mercy, and then we can figure out how the hell to get home.
We set out in the direction we’d been heading rather than turning back toward the car. There has to be a house or a real gas station nearby. We’re barely outside Boston. Or that’s what we thought, but whatever kind of illusion magic Zeus spun, it’s is serious stuff, because we are not where we thought we were.
First, the road we’d been walking down is closed. Permanently closed. I don’t even want to know what makes a state shut down a road. Radiation leak? I’m joking . . . I hope.
What I know is that there are no cars on it and no houses either. Just trees hemming in a dirt road. Unless that’s an illusion, too, and we’re actually walking down a regional highway with cars honking and swerving to avoid us. At this point, I do not trust anything I see.
We talk as we walk. What do we know about Zeus? Well, his greatest achievement may be that he makes Cullan Connolly look like minor-league villain, the sort who’d die in the movie’s opening sequence.
For me, Zeus has always been the sterling example of my least favorite literary trope—the middle-aged guy who gets away with everything because he’s powerful and charming. The eternal man-boy who’s never been expected to grow up or take on an ounce of real responsibility, and certainly not to give a damn about anyone else. The world—especially the women in it— exist to amuse and serve him.
I once went to a lecture where the speaker talked about Zeus’s affairs, using Leda as an example, and I got up and walked out. That wasn’t seduction. It was rape.
The mythological Zeus used his charm and his power of illusion to trick, coerce and force women to have sex with him. From what I’ve heard, that goes for the real Zeus, too.
In myth, Hera is the evil one, the jealous harpy who punishes the women Zeus seduces and assaults. As I’ve heard from Vanessa and Marius, the real Hera was very different. She raised Zeus’s offspring by other women. She helped the women he wronged. She was a mother figure in every way, goddess of hearth and home.
I think her children would have rather she stuck a knife between her monstrous husband’s ribs, but every abused woman deals with the situation in her own way. Also, Zeus is immortal, so that knife-thing probably wouldn’t have done any good.
Hera’s children loved her. I use the past tense there, because she’s been gone for decades now. Her children loved her and did their best not to judge her, and so I won’t either. The one who deserves all the judging is Zeus.
We walk about two miles before we reach an intersection and find a gas station that is definitely not an illusion. Connolly gives the teenage attendant a hundred bucks to borrow his cell for five minutes.
Connolly doesn’t call Mercy. We can’t without my phone, which has her number. He must call someone else. Then we wait. We stake out a place on the opposite corner, where there’s a little pull-off, complete with picnic tables. Connolly bought candy bars—and two fresh coffees—at the gas station. We’re eating those and talking, while Connolly discreetly checks his watch, monitoring the time while acting as if he’s not the least bit worried that the person he called won’t show up.
Nearly an hour passes. Enough time for my own gut to begin twisting in worry. We can get another ride home easily enough. That call was more. So much more. It was Connolly—a guy who doesn’t take risks—taking a huge one. Giving an ultimatum that relies on something he’s not sure he can rely on. His mother’s love.
When the car appears, he’s on his feet. I’m sitting on the table edge, and I stay where I am as he walks toward the oncoming vehicle, his entire body rigid until he can tell there’s only his mother in the car. Even then, he only relaxes a little.
Marion gets out. She doesn’t slam the door, but she closes it with a decisive click. She strides to Connolly and wordlessly slaps both cell phones into his hand. Then her gaze fixes on me.
“I suppose this was your idea?” she calls over.
“Because I’m not capable of demanding something on my own?” Connolly says. “No one pulls my puppet strings, Mother, and it’s an insult to imply it. Kennedy isn’t your enemy.”
“She—”
“I did not pay her insurance claim. It was initially denied, but later approved, as they will confirm. Nor am I funneling money to her from my trust fund. You can follow that paper trail yourself. Or you can refuse to dig deeper in either instance because your delusion is a convenient one.” He pauses for a beat. “Convenient for both you and for my father. Do with that what you will.”
“If you’re implying your father—”
“Do with that what you will,” he repeats, enunciating each word. “I think you knew it would always come down to this. Choosing your husband or your sons. I have little doubt you’ll continue making the choice you’ve always made.”
“I have never—”
“You know what choices you’ve made. It’s up to you to decide how far down that road you plan to travel. I only know that I’m not taking another step down it with you. The marriage contract has nothing to do with me or what’s best for me. It’s about control. You took advantage of my youth, and you let Dad steer me into making poor choices that only pushed me deeper into your debt.”
At this, she flinches. The rest, no, but when he accuses her of being unfair, that hits home.
“The contract wasn’t my idea,” she says, her voice low. “You know that.”