Free The Time Roads by Beth Bernobich Page A

to measure and quantify, but we also use them to express theories completely divorced from the physical realm. I believe we might take that concept one more step—that they have a spiritual quality as well.”
    “Some might call that numerology.”
    Ó Deághaidh spoke softly, almost indifferently, but Síomón’s face flushed. “You are hardly a mathematician, Commander Ó Deághaidh. How would you know?”
    “Because I studied the subject myself. I never completed my degree, which I sometimes regret. However, I read the journals still.”
    Síomón exhaled softly. So and so. The commander was a failed mathematician. That would explain much. “My apologies,” he said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. “I’ve had many arguments about my thesis. I’ve become somewhat sensitive on the topic.”
    “Sure and we all have our prickly moments, Mr. Madóc. No need to apologize. But speaking of mathematics, I understand your sister also intended to study at Awveline University. I spoke with your adviser, Professor Ó Dónaill, this morning, and he mentioned her name. He said she had begun work on prime numbers before.”
    Síomón stopped and wheeled about. “What does that have to do with your investigation, Commander? Or do you like to distress everyone you question, the guilty and innocent alike?”
    He had spoken out loud, hardly caring who overheard them. Ó Deághaidh regarded him without any expression on that lean brown face.
    “Once more I apologize,” he said. “I was merely expressing my sympathy, however clumsily.”
    They had exited the tunnel of trees. Here a set of granite steps led up the bank to Mac Iomaire Avenue, which now crossed the river into the city’s financial district. Síomón was vaguely aware of foot traffic on the pavement above, but no one paid any attention to them. It was just as Ó Deághaidh had suggested back in Aonach Sanitarium, though now Síomón suspected the privacy was for Ó Deághaidh’s benefit, not his.
    “Have you any more questions, Commander?” he asked.
    Ó Deághaidh tilted his head and studied Síomón a moment before answering. “None for today, Mr. Madóc. The official investigation begins tomorrow after Doctor Ó Néill makes his announcement. I’ll send someone by your quarters to take your formal statement.” He smiled, and this time it seemed genuine. “I thank you, Mr. Madóc, for your company and your patience.”
    He held out his hand. Síomón shook it, noting the strength in his grip. “Good day then, Commander.”
    “Good day to you, Mr. Madóc.”
    Ó Deághaidh climbed the stairs and turned onto the bridge, where he soon blended into the crowd of clerks and messengers. Síomón lingered a moment longer by the riverbanks, taking in for the first time the fragile sunlight upon the autumn leaves, shimmering like so many raindrops. His gaze returned to the river and he shuddered. Paul Keller’s body had been discovered not far from this bridge, his throat slashed and his face hacked into a purpled bloody mass.
    Before the university had recovered, other murders had followed. Li Cheng. Úna Toíbín. Nicolás Ó Cionnaith. All of them graduate students—three in the mathematics department. The newspapers had focused immediately on that fact. They dwelt in loving detail upon university politics, the youth of the victims, and any irregularities in their pasts. That the murderer had mutilated his victims with a knife only heightened the titillation.
    A madman, said the newspapers.
    Surely not one of us, said the provost, thinking first of his reputation, so entwined with the university’s.
    The Garda had made no public statements, preferring to ask their questions in private. In the end they had run out of questions, and the cases remained on hold.
    Until now.
    Síomón glanced up. Above the city, the skies arced, empty of balloons for the moment. Then he glimpsed a swiftly moving speck—the red balloon from earlier, rising higher and