“I’ll always love you.”

“I’ll always love Raj.”

“Stay with him, then, for as long as you can.”

“But-” She brushed away her hair and looked at him dubiously. “I’m too good to be second best. I deserve-”

Elliott said, “What use is pride? What does it do besides keep you away from the one you love? I never let it stop me.”

“I’d start to hate him.”

“I haven’t started to hate you.”

“You’re an idiot, that’s why. You should hate me.”

“Why are you so harsh to me, Silke? Why do you say things like that?”

Her face contorted. She reached over and put her arms around him. “Maybe you’re right… maybe if he stays with me… he won’t be able to go through with it,” she said into his shoulder. He held her tight and pretended she was crying over him.

Finally, when she let go and wiped her face with her sleeve, he said, “I’ll never get married.” Then he added shyly, “I managed to find a function that seems to predict the primes. It implies an easy way to factor large numbers, too.”

Silke became all business. “Are you sleeping?”

“Brother John, Brother John,” Elliott sang. “Not another breakdown, not another breakdown-”

“Ding dang dong. Stop singing. Tell me.”

“There are some flaws. But-”

She gave him a long look. She had sat down on the rock opposite, one knee pulled up in what Elliott remembered was called the Royal Pose in Asia. She looked like a small and perfect statue, her face immobile, a wet streak still evident on one cheek, like a stone goddess who has been left out in the rain. The windless air and shadows where they sat seemed to calm her.

“You found it through your work on the Riemann Hypothesis?” she said.

“No. I’m following up on some work by Connes and Berry in physics. I went back to the li line and started over, where Riemann started. Before he went down his blind alley. It’s a correction to the Prime Number Theorem.”

“You can prove it?”

“Not yet.”

“You confuse me,” Silke said. “Do you have a proof or not?”

“Not yet. But give me any number up to three hundred digits and I think I can tell you if it’s a prime in about fifteen minutes. If it’s a composite number up to about five hundred digits, I can factor it with my Mac G5 in about twenty minutes. The point is, it seems to work case by case. Now I need to figure out why.”

“That’s-those are huge numbers. Colossal.”

“I may be able to go bigger. It’s just that my computer doesn’t have the capability.”

“Let’s say I believe you. Show me.”

“I can’t. I’m not ready. Even for you.”

“I might find an error and save you some work.”

“I gave Professor Braun some of my results. He’ll review them.”

“Who else knows?”

“I told Carleen. She called on my cell phone to see how we were doing.”

“Idiot,” Silke said. The way she said it, it sounded like “idyote.” “Then the whole world knows. You know where Carleen works?”

“No.”

“For an encryption company in Web security.”

“I knew it was some kind of security software. So what?”

“They’ll want to buy it.”

“Why?”

“To suppress it. Public-key encryption is built around not being able to factor large numbers, Wakefield. The Web depends on this encryption. Banks, government, big corporations, they depend on it. Where have you been living?”

“In a zeta landscape,” Elliott said. “I wouldn’t let it be suppressed. It needs to be written up and published.”

Silke put her hand to her mouth and smiled, her eyes widening. “You’ll win the Clay prize! A million dollars! And they will call it the Wakefield Theorem! You will be immortal!”

“But first I have to finish the proof, and I have a long way to go. I probably need a couple more years.”

“You know, Wakefield, my darling, I think I believe you.” She looked at him with a sort of awe, which stirred him deeply. He had dreamed of receiving a look from her for so long, but this look wasn’t mixed with the desire for possession she felt for Raj.

It’s hopeless, he thought. But he knew that.

“Anyway. What are you going to do?” he asked her, and let her talk. Let her cry some more. Let her threaten Raj, then let her hold him and say what a good friend he was.

He had just offered her all he had, emptied out his life, his work, for her, but he could not awaken in her a desire for him. He would continue approaching her forever, never reaching her. It was another aspect of his destiny. He would be solitary. How odd to know such a thing at his age.

17

WISH CALLED ON SUNDAY MORNING. “ELLIOTT Wakefield,” he said. “I found him, Nina. He lives on an island about fifteen minutes by ferry from Seattle. He owns a home there.”

“Wonderful!” Nina said, yawning.

“His father just transferred title to him.”

“Are we sure it’s Elliott Wakefield the math guy?”

“The Vashon Island newspaper has a small article about his graduation with a B.S. in mathematics from MIT. I also finally located a paper he wrote while he was still enrolled there. I think it’s his senior thesis.”

“What’s the topic?”

“‘Conformal Mapping on Riemann Surfaces.’ ” The Riemann word again. “He’s ours,” Wish went on. “What do you want me to do?”

“Give me the home address.” She wrote it down. “Wish, can you drop off a copy of that thesis at the community college tomorrow? Professor Mick McGregor in the math department. I’ll call and tell him it’s coming.”

“Ten-four. I have Silke Kilmer’s resume, too. I’ll drop it off at the office.”

“How’d you get that?”

“She posted it on the Web. She’s looking for a position for next summer. She’s an expert on something called Hermitian matrices.”

“Ugh. I hope I don’t have to learn about this stuff,” Nina said. “But I really want to try to get to know these witnesses.”

“They sound like they’re from another planet.”

“I’ve heard that theory.”

“Do you like math, Nina?”

“No,” Nina said. “I have to say, one reason I went to law school was because I’d never have to see an equation again. That’s why this is so unfair. I have a book right here on prime numbers. Somehow this Riemann guy is mixed up with them.”

“Have fun. See you tomorrow.”

It was still morning out on the deck. Bob had bicycled over to Taylor ’s house. Nina had already devoured the Tahoe paper.

The prime-numbers book turned out to have medicinal properties. She was asleep in the pale sun within five minutes of opening it.

Even on a Sunday afternoon, the police are all business, including the naturally mellow ones, like Sergeant Cheney of the South Lake Tahoe Police Department. He came to the counter and escorted Nina down the claustrophobic hall to his office without much greeting.

Paul and Cheney had gotten along well. Perhaps that explained Cheney’s slightly unfriendly attitude. If so, he would have to get used to the new regime, Nina thought.

Or perhaps she was the one thinking about Paul, and that disturbed her, making her attribute emotions to Cheney that didn’t exist. She could try to psych out the large middle-aged African American police officer sitting across from her with his hands folded across his belly forever, or she could get down to it.

“I have something on the Sarah Hanna case,” she said without preamble.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re the officer assigned to the case?”

“I am.”

“You remember the three witnesses?”

“I sure do.”

“I found two of them.” She ran it down concisely for him. The sergeant’s eyes never left hers.

“Let’s have the tape you made,” he said when she had finished. She pulled it out of her briefcase and he took it, handling it gingerly, as though it were a bird’s nest, or a forged check.

“Now we’ll tape you on a separate tape, and this time I’ll ask questions,” he said. She nodded and they started again. When she had repeated what she knew about Raj Das and Silke Kilmer, he switched it off.