The Time Roads

He made a cautious departure from the apartment. Madame Petrovic did not open her door, and none of the other tenants marked his descent down the stairs. Outside, he took up his post in the same alleyway across the street. From here, he had a good view of the windows into Valerija Delchev’s front parlor. A warm drizzle had begun to fall. He pulled his cap low over his eyes and settled in for a long wait.

* * *

The windows of her apartment remained lit another half hour, judging by the church bells—long enough for the rain to die off and the newly risen half-moon to emerge from behind the clouds. Ó Deághaidh took out his knife and ran the edge lightly over his callused thumb, turning over his conversation with Valerija Delchev in his mind. D

elchev dead. His widow involved with murderers. And yet, he would wager his life she was no murderer herself. He remembered that calm assessing gaze.

But the question was not Valerija Delchev, it was her companions. Revolutionaries, most likely. He remembered the man in the cave, the way he stared so avidly at Ó Deághaidh. There had been patients in Aonach Sanitarium like that.

Shadows flitted past the windows several times as Madame Delchev paced around her parlor. Then, her lights blinked off. A few moments later, the apartment building’s front door opened. Ó Deághaidh tucked his knife into his belt, ready to follow.

Valerija Delchev paused on the steps, illuminated by the streetlamps. She wore a coat over her dress and had covered her head with a dark patterned scarf. No handbag, but he had to assume she carried the gun. From this distance, he could not make out her expression, but he could easily read the tension in her stance, the quick movement of her hand as she brushed away a strand of hair from her cheek. She scanned the streets in both directions, her gaze skipping over Ó Deághaidh’s hiding spot. Then she hurried down the steps and toward the left.

Ó Deághaidh counted to ten before he followed. By now true night had fallen. The streets were empty, gleaming wet from the fallen rain. He skirted the puddles and kept clear of the streetlamps. He almost didn’t need to. Valerija Delchev hurried along without a single glance behind her, heading straight toward the river. Soon she led Ó Deághaidh into a run-down district, where she entered a low rambling structure along the waterfront.

He waited a few moments, then eased the door open.

A solitary lamp hung from the ceiling in the entryway, casting its light in a dim circle. Ahead, a narrow hallway lined with doors stretched out in a straight line, to disappear into shadow. There was no sign of his quarry. Ó Deághaidh glided inside and closed the door softly.

It was a typical boardinghouse for those who could afford little. Its halls smelled of boiled cabbage and grease and tallow. Its rooms had thin walls and even thinner doors, and as he passed by he could hear a couple arguing in one room, the scratchy cries of a baby, and, farther on, the distinct sounds of lovemaking. At the far end of the building, a more substantial door opened onto a bare yard with a chicken coop. A fence with a gate enclosed the yard. Not far off, he heard the sound of water slapping against wood, and smelled the rank muddy scent of the river. There were footprints in the yard, but none of them looked fresh. She had not come this way.

Back inside, he followed the hallway as it wound through the building. By the third turn, he was convinced she had somehow escaped him, when a door to his right burst open and Valerija Delchev ran against him. By instinct, he caught hold of her.

She struggled, then stared in wild-eyed recognition. “You did it. You.”

“Did what? What is wrong?”

She wrenched free and ran. Ó Deághaidh hesitated only a moment, then cursing, he pushed the door open. No reaction from anyone inside. He hefted his knife in his hand and entered.

It was difficult to see much—the windows were papered over, dampening the moonlight, and there were no streetlamps visible from this direction. Even in the dimness, however, he could sense something wrong. As his sight adjusted, he made out a wooden chair overturned, glittering specks on the carpet, and the pale white of scattered papers. Moving cautiously, he took another few steps in. His foot encountered a soft, immovable mass.

Ó Deághaidh knelt and felt around carefully. A man lay on the bare floor. No pulse, and he’d been dead long enough that his skin had turned cold, but not long enough for the body to stiffen. Dried blood matted the hair on one side of the man’s head, and Ó Deághaidh felt where the skull had been crushed.

My poor friend, Ó Deághaidh thought. I was nearly with you, a few days ago.

His sympathy mixed with rising excitement. Even a dead man would have clues to offer.

He lit a candle from a coal in the fireplace and scanned the room. A cot had been shoved in one corner, next to a table with a washbasin and stacks of dirty cups and saucers. The rest of the room was given over to a laboratory of sorts, with desk and workbench and bookshelves. Someone—the murderer? a later intruder?—had swept all those shelves clean, forced open the desk, and flung its drawers onto the mess. Kneeling on the floor, he found two or three textbooks among the heaps of broken glass and twisted wires. He lifted them up, avoiding the glass, to discover a broken frame and a certificate of degree from Awveline University. Yes, he thought. Yes, of course. Here were the links he sought. More swiftly and certainly now, he sorted through the few remaining papers, all of them written in Éireann, all soaked in bitter-smelling fluid.

“Stand up. Do not move too suddenly.”

Valerija Delchev stood in the doorway, her gun pointed at him.

Ó Deághaidh slowly rose to his feet. He noted with abstract interest that she handled the gun easily. “One of your colleagues,” he said, indicating the body. “I see he studied abroad, at Awveline’s University—”

“Shut up,” she hissed. “We are going to the police.”

“Are you certain that’s wise? They might want to question you about all the accidents your friends have caused.”

That produced a slight waver of the gun. “You know nothing of what we do.”

“But I do know your friend is the link between Éire and Montenegro. And whether you expected me or not, you have been accustomed to messages from Éire. Why?”

Valerija Delchev made no answer. Keeping her gun on Ó Deághaidh, she circled around the room, stopping once in a while to pick something from the trash. A short length of wire. Several fragments of circuit boards, their components stripped off. Once, a heavy metallic cylinder wrapped in paper. It was the paper that interested her more, apparently, because she smoothed it one-handedly and read through its contents before stuffing it into her jacket pocket.

Finally she straightened up with a sigh.

“You didn’t search before,” Ó Deághaidh said.