The Time Roads

“It was such a shock, finding Stefan dead. I thought—” She made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind what I thought.”

“You thought I was murdering all your friends. What is missing?”

“Nothing.” She pointed toward the door with her gun. “We must go now.”

“What about your friends? Have you decided to betray them then?”

“You are a stupid man. Drop the knife and—no, do not approach me. Push it toward me. Gently. Yes, just so. Now, move very slowly toward the door. Do not think to call out. I do know how to shoot a man.”

Her voice was low, edged with desperation. Ó Deághaidh dropped his knife onto the floor, and nudged it toward her with his foot. When she signaled, he preceded her out the door. She was learning caution, he thought, as he watched her latch the door with a key he had not noticed before. Valerija pocketed the key. “Go. Slowly now. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

He was careful not to give any cause for alarm, but as they retraced their steps through the corridor, Ó Deághaidh reviewed all his options. She had to suspect him of murdering that man. Who was it? A friend or lover? He could not hope to talk her into letting him go. And making a disturbance was unthinkable. It would call the police upon him and his work in Montenegro. The woman had to guess that as well. He would have to escape at the first chance.

They were approaching the back door again. Ó Deághaidh stumbled and flung out his hands, grabbing the latch. As the door swung open, he let himself fall through. Almost at once, he regained his footing and spun around to grab the woman’s gun. She sidestepped him and slammed the gun’s butt down onto his shoulder. He gasped and fell to his knees in the mud.

“Stand up. Do not try that again,” she whispered.

Ó Deághaidh lurched to his feet. He flexed his hand. Cautiously lifted his arm and winced. “I’m going to be sick,” he whispered. It was not far from the truth. He retched noisily. Again, as he sensed Valerija circling around him. He might overpower her, even now, if she ventured too close. He tensed, ready to grapple her, when she made a sharp gesture.

“Stand over there,” she whispered. “Quiet.”

She softly drew the door to and pressed her ear against it, listening.

Ó Deághaidh held his breath. He counted several voices, all of them men. Someone coming because of the noise? No, these were men calmly discussing a matter amongst themselves in what sounded like Štokavian. Then, the murmur resolved into words.

“I saw her go back inside.”

“Do you think she found Kos?”

“Must have. Ilja didn’t have time to deal with the mess himself. Lazar, you and Petar search the outside. Andreas and I will take care of the room. Remember, Ilja wants us all gone before midnight.”

Valerija took Ó Deághaidh’s hand and led him toward the gate. Her face had gone pale and drawn. And her hands, so steady before, were trembling. “Can you run?” she whispered.

“If I must.”

“Then do so.”

They glided silently out the gate and into the alley, then took off in a loping run. Ignoring the dirt path down to the river, Valerija Delchev led the way into a gap between two sections of the house. They had just turned into a covered passageway when Ó Deághaidh heard shouts and a door slammed. He and Valerija dodged around the corner, into a wider lane. The sound of swift, heavy footsteps sent them pelting down its pitch-dark length. It was so dark, Ó Deághaidh nearly ran headfirst into the wooden fence at the far end. He swore and spun around.

“Stop.” Valerija dragged at Ó Deághaidh’s arm. “There is a gate.”

She ran her hands over the slats and fumbled for the gate’s latch. “Damn,” she whispered. “They’ve locked it. They never did before.”

Ó Deághaidh glanced over his shoulder. The lane was empty still. They had a few moments, no more. He leaned his good shoulder against the gate and shoved, gritting his teeth against the ache in his collarbone. The gate did not budge and he collapsed against it, shuddering. The first rush of excitement had deserted him, and he felt sick and weary.

“Can we climb over?” Valerija said.

“I might have lifted you over, but—”

“But I made that difficult when I injured you. Yes, I see. I’m sorry.”

It would not do to give up yet. He examined the fence by feel once more. It was old but sturdy, built from thick planks and braced at top and bottom. One plank was missing, but the opening wa

s too narrow for them to squeeze through. He blew out a breath. One gun and one knife against three or four men, with who knew what weapons.

Meanwhile, Valerija had made a circuit of the area. “Here,” she said softly. “We can hide over here.”

She drew him toward the building to their left. The fence had left a narrow gap where the chimney jutted out. They squeezed into the space—just in time, because the clatter of boots echoed down the lane. Ó Deághaidh leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Keep your gun ready. Do not shoot unless you must.”