The Trail to Buddha's Mirror

by Don Winslow

  “Get going.”

  “I am very frightened.”

  “I’m scared to fucking death. Now go.”

  She squeezed his hand again and started to crawl backward, feeling for the edge of the stairs with her feet.

  Neal could just hear her make contact with the wooden steps. Now what? he thought. The opposition has a gun, and you’re armed only with your fine sense of irony. Of course, he’s missed once already. Maybe he’s a lousy shot.

  Then he heard the sound of footsteps running down the stairs to the river. She was making a real show of it, and that was just what he needed, because then he heard the shooter running along the path straight toward him.

  The fucker doesn’t know anyone’s here, Neal realized with relief. He’s running straight, hard, and fast toward the stairs, where he’ll have her pinned against the river. He’ll have all the shots he wants.

  Neal gathered his knees underneath him.

  Simms burst out of the fog, holding the pistol, barrel up, in his right hand, running hard. He was almost on top of Neal.

  Neal lowered his head and sprang. The top of his head smacked Simms on the bottom of the chin.

  Neal figured it worked better when you had a football helmet on, and his head spun with pain as he fell. But Simms was out, and this gave Neal a few seconds to recover. He found the pistol just a few feet from Simms’s hand and picked it up.

  Do it, Neal thought. You can pop him right now and toss him into the river. The currents will take care of the rest. Do it. He raised the pistol and lined the sights up on Simms’s forehead. Then he waited for Simms to come to. It didn’t take long. Simms sat up groggily and put his hand to his chin. He looked at the blood on his palm and shook his head.

  “That’s twice you’ve missed an easy shot,” Neal said.

  “Carey! It took you long enough to fuck her.”

  “It’s not too late for me to shoot you.”

  “You won’t. You’re not the type. If you were going to use it, you’d have done it when I had my eyes closed. In fact, give me back the gun before you hurt yourself. I think I need some stitches.”

  “Put your hands up where I can see them.”

  Simms didn’t move. “Did you hear that line on television? It won’t do you any good, Carey. As soon as the cobwebs clear, I can take you, pistol and all.”

  “So maybe I should shoot you right now.”

  “You won’t. You’re a pussy-whipped, sniveling little traitor, but you don’t have the balls to squeeze the trigger.”

  Which pretty much sums it up.

  “Get up,” Neal said.

  “Okey-dokey.”

  Simms wobbled to his feet. Blood dripped from his chin.

  “Walk over to the edge of the cliff.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  Neal’s shot whizzed well clear of Simms’s head, but made its point anyway.

  “Well, well,” Simms said. He started walking. “That was a pretty nifty block you threw on me. Did you play football in school?”

  “No, I saw it on television. How about you?”

  “I’m from basketball country. Used to be a white man’s game.”

  “Sit on the railing, facing me.”

  Simms looked at the spindly wooden railing that served as a shaky barrier between him and a three-hundred-foot sheer drop.

  “Uhhh, Carey … this doesn’t look like it was built by the Army Corps of Engineers.”

  “Gee, you might fall. Hippety-hop.”

  Simms eased himself onto the railing, gripping it tightly with both hands. Neal sat down on the ground and steadied the pistol on his knees. “Let’s talk.”

  “Can I smoke?”

  “No.”

  “You are a vindictive little bastard, Carey. You have got to stop taking these things so damn personally.”

  “Pendleton doesn’t make herbicides, never did.”

  “You just figured that out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a minor-leaguer, Carey. A good minor-leaguer, but you don’t have what it takes to make it in the bigs.”

  “So what’s the big deal? Why is he so important? Why not let him come over here and grow a little food?”

  Simms gave him that arrogant sneer that made Neal want to pull the trigger.

  “A little food?” Simms echoed. “A little food, Carey? Grow up.”

  “Age me.”

  “It’s all about food, boy. All about food. China has one quarter of the world’s population. One out of every four people filling his mouth on God’s good earth is a citizen of the People’s Republic of China. And that’s not to mention the countless Chinese in Hong Kong, Taiwan, Singapore, Vietnam, Malaysia, Indonesia—”

  “I think I get it.”

  “No, you don’t. Indonesia, Europe, and yes, America. Let’s talk about America for a second, Carey, as if you cared. How many Chinese did you ever see on welfare? Cashing in food stamps, in prison?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “These people work their asses off, Carey. They save their money, they study like hell, they break their balls to make it. And they do. You let them out of this enormous open-air prison here, and they make it. In fact, they kick our butts. Now, what do you think would happen if mainland China stopped being a prison? What would happen if the Chinese here could do what their expatriate relatives have done?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. What?”

  “We’d be finished, Carey. The good old U.S.A. couldn’t hack the competition. Not with our standard of living, our unions, our big cars, our little savings accounts … our small population, our lack of discipline. The Chinese are organized, Carey, or haven’t you noticed? Have you seen a dirty street here? Litter on the roadside? They organize brigades to sweep and clean. In three years, during the Great Leap Forward, they reorganized their entire population into teams and brigades. Why, you let these people finally get their act together, and we couldn’t sell so much as a dress shirt on the world market. It would start with textiles, then it would be electronics, then steel and iron, automobiles, airplanes … then banking and real estate, and you can kiss us good-bye. One quarter of the world’s population, Carey? Unchained? Shit, look at what the Japs have done to us in thirty stinking years. China has ten times the population, and one hundred times the resources.”

  Neal’s head hurt like crazy. He glanced sideways at Buddha’s head, and wondered about the organization and discipline it had taken to build the gigantic statue. One thousand years ago.

  “Thanks for the geography lesson,” he said, “but what does this have to do with Pendleton?”

  Simms started to raise his hand for emphasis, but grabbed the railing again when it shook.

  “Food,” he said. “There are two things that are holding the Chinese back. The first is food, and the second is Mao.”

  “Mao’s dead. It was in all the papers.”

  “Exactly. Mao’s dead and Maoism is on the rocks. There’s a battle going on here between the democratic reformers and the hardline Maoists, and the major weapon is food. It’s China’s age-old issue: What system will provide the most food? Some boys down here in Sichuan have figured out that privately owned land is more productive than state-owned land. You get it? You take an acre and give it to a family. You take the next acre and have the government run it, and guess what? The family acre kicks significant butt. No contest.”

  “How’s your backflip, Simms? Pretty good?”

  “Don’t get itchy, I’m getting to Doctor Bob, I am.”

  “Hurry up.”

  “The boys down here are quietly converting the whole province to privately owned land. The only way they can get away with it is by being so successful that no one will dare to purge them. Old Deng Xiaoping knows that his road to Beijing runs right through the farmland of Sichuan, and he’s started his own little Sichuan Mafia down here. It’s going to surface if and when the agricultural experiment becomes an undeniable success. Then he’ll use tha
t success to rout the Maoists and launch democratic capitalist reforms over the whole country.”

  Neal’s head was whirling.

  He asked, “Wouldn’t we want to get behind that? The democratization of the largest country in the world?”

  “On the surface, sure. But think about it, Carey. Even you can think this through. Think about a China that looks like Japan. All those people, all those international connections, all that organization and discipline. You modernize that, you shrug off the Maoist yoke—I’m telling you Carey, when these people can feed themselves, it’s all over for the white man in the good old U.S. of A.”

  Neal’s wrist started to ache. The pistol was heavier than it looked, a lot heavier than it looked on TV.

  “Are you telling me,” Neal asked, “that we’re supporting the Maoists in this battle?”

  “We’re supporting the legitimate government of the People’s Republic of China. Yes, it happens to be hard-line Maoist at this time.”

  “And we want it to stay that way.”

  “I believe I’ve explained the doleful alternatives.”

  “It’s a long fall and I’m getting impatient.”

  Simms smirked. “That’s just like you, Carey. I’m talking about the lives of a few hundred million people, and you’re bitching about your delicate emotional condition. My head’s getting clear, Carey. I can take you with one rush before you squeeze off a shot.” Come on.

  “When I’m ready.”

  “I’m ready to hear about Pendleton.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you? Pendleton was on the verge of developing Supershit, Mighty Manure. It maximizes the nitrogen content of the soil, accelerates the growing process.”

  “So?”

  “So it would give these agrarian reformers down here a third crop. Get it, Carey? They get two harvests of rice a year now. With Doc Pendleton’s Homegrown Formula they could get three. That’s a thirty-three percent gain. You add thirty-three percent to what they’re already doing, and … well, it’s a lot of rice. More than enough rice to make Deng the top chink, more than enough rice to turn this fucked-up shithole into a modern country. We can’t let that happen, Carey.”

  “Maybe you can’t.”

  Neal watched Simms’s eyes. They were getting clearer and his breathing was slowing down. If Simms was going to make a rush, it could come anytime. Neal tightened his finger on the trigger.

  “Well, it ain’t just me, Carey boy. It’s the Chinese government. They don’t want Pendleton here, either.”

  “Why don’t they throw him out, then?”

  “Boy, you are just dumber than mud, aren’t you? That slant must have balled your brains out! The Beijing boys didn’t bring Pendleton in. They don’t know where he is, and they can’t even prove he’s here. They have their suspicions, but suspicions aren’t enough anymore. Things are a bit delicate around here lately. Do you know how hard it is to hit somebody with a pistol shot, even from this range? Have you ever shot anybody?”

  “Want to find out?”

  “It was a rhetorical question, Carey. Anyway, it’s a renegade group running this Pendleton operation. Hard to say how high up it goes. Hard to say if Deng even knows about it. But I’ll tell you this, the Beijing boys and I are of one mind about this. I have free rein to find your friends and dispose of them as I see fit.”

  “How did you find us?”

  Neal saw Simms’s hands loosen their grip. He had found his balance and was getting set.

  “You helped, in your debriefing. You told me all about the scrumptious dinner old Li Lan made for you. She could only come from around here, boy. Then I got hold of one of her brochures. She cooks Sichuan, she paints Sichuan … hell, I figured she’s from Sichuan.”

  Bullshit. Good bullshit, but bullshit. Recipes and paintings couldn’t tell you my exact schedule and location, but what could? The Sichuan Mafia has a mole, a double, an informer. I wonder who?

  “So how do you and Peng get along?” Neal asked. “Okay?”

  The reaction was infinitesimal, but it was there. You’re good, Neal thought, very good, but I’m better. I’ve been watching people blink all my life, and that was a blink.

  “Who’s Peng?” Simms asked.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “You picked a hell of time to stop being stupid,” Simms said. “I was going to let you walk.”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “North Carolina.”

  “They have a diving team? Were you on it? How did you do in the three-hundred-foot freestyle?”

  “You’re just not a killer, boy. You’re a disaster. The big mistake the girl made was coming to see you. We didn’t have a line on her until now. And now it’s just a matter of time. You fucked her good, all right.”

  Time, Neal thought. Time is the issue right now. Simms had missed with his shot intentionally. He didn’t want to kill Lan, he wanted to make her run. Just as he’d done every step of the way. What we need here is a little time, a little lead.

  He stood up and raised the pistol.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Down the stairs.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m a funny boy. Come on.”

  Simms eased himself off the railing and stepped onto the landing beside Buddha’s head. Neal gave him plenty of room and left four steps between them as he followed Simms down the steps. They walked down past Buddha’s chin, then his chest, paused at a landing by his belly, and finally made it down to his big toe. The brown river swirled just beneath them.

  “Sit down,” Neal said.

  Simms hesitated. He was thinking about taking his chance, but Neal stayed on the steps, out of reach but within pistol range. Simms sat down.

  “Take off your shoes,” Neal said.

  Simms untied his leather saddle shoes.

  “Wallet and watch,” Neal said.

  “What is this, a mugging?”

  “You might want to take off your jacket.”

  Simms got it just then.

  “Carey, you don’t think I’m going to jump in the river, do you?”

  “Now jump in the river.”

  “I can’t swim.” “Float.” “Shoot me.”

  Neal raised the pistol.

  It was no good. He wasn’t going to shoot. He knew it and Simms knew it. Even Buddha knew it.

  Neal stepped off the landing onto Buddha’s foot. Simms smiled and started to circle. He did a good job, maneuvering Neal between himself and the river. Neal kept the gun pointed at Simms’s chest, an easier target than his head.

  “I can’t miss from here,” he said.

  “Then shoot.”

  Neal tightened his finger on the trigger. It was just enough to make Simms move. He jolted forward like he was on springs. He came in low, fast and hard, with his head down and his arms forward, straight at Neal’s chest.

  Neal’s chest wasn’t there. Neal had dropped to the ground a half-second after bluffing with the trigger. All Simms hit was air, and then the water.

  Neal watched the current carry Simms away.

  Neal scurried back up the stairs, through the garden, and into the monastery. He went to his room and packed a few things into his bag. Then he went to Wu’s room and tapped on the door.

  A groggy Wu came to the door, and Neal pushed him back inside the room.

  “Are you drunk?” Wu asked.

  “Where’s the Silkworm’s Eyebrow?”

  “What?”

  “Where’s the Silkworm’s Eyebrow?”

  “On the silkworm?”

  “No, it’s a mountain. In Chinese, what’s the Silkworm’s Eyebrow?”

  Wu came awake. “Oh! Mount Emei. ‘Emei’ means Silkwo—”

  “How far is it?”

  “Not far. Perhaps ten or twenty li.”

  “I want to go there, right now.”

  “Not possible at any time. Absolutely not.”

  “I have to go there.”
/>
  “I cannot take you. I would get in big trouble.”

  “Tell them I forced you.”

  Wu chuckled. “How are you going to force me?”

  Neal pulled the gun from his jacket and pointed it at Wu’s nose. Wu doesn’t know what a wimp I am with guns, he thought.

  “You are crazy,” said Wu.

  “This is a good thing for you to keep in mind. Now let’s go wake up the driver and go to Mount Emei.”

  Wu flapped his hands in frustration. “Why do you want to do this?”

  “Because I’m crazy. You have one minute to get dressed. Go.”

  Wu got dressed and led Neal to the driver’s room. Neal greeted the driver with the pistol and held it on him while Wu explained the situation. The driver smiled calmly at Neal and shrugged.

  “Emei?” he asked.

  “Emei.”

  The driver pulled his shoes on. Five minutes later they were in the car. Neal sat in the backseat and kept the pistol pressed to Wu’s head.

  They were at the base of Mount Emei just as the sun came up.

  19

  The car climbed dirt switchbacks up the foothills of the mountain until the road ended on a broad knoll. A few thatch-roofed huts huddled on the edge of the treeless hill. The Sichuan basin stretched out below to the north. To the south and west, the heavily forested slopes of Mount Emei dominated the skyline, and to the far west the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayan foothills loomed like a promise and a threat.

  The village had the tattered, dirty look of rural poverty. Acrid smoke poured from holes in the roofs of shacks. A scraggly garden plot fought for survival in a sea of wild grass. A few skinny sheep and goats bleated indignant protests at the arrival of the strange motorcar.

  “This is as far as he can go,” Wu said as the driver pulled to a stop.

  Neal could sense rather than see the eyes of the villagers observing the government car. No one came out to greet them. He pointed to a trodden dirt path that scarred the grass.

  “Is that the only way up the mountain?”

  Wu spoke to the driver.

  “It’s the only way up,” Wu translated. “You go down on the other side.”

  “What about airstrips? Helicopter pads?”

  Another exchange.

  “The only thing you can fly to that mountain is a dragon.”