“The riddle?” Hostene asked.
Shan lifted the last rock onto the reconstructed cairn, “After three murders already this summer, why would someone fake another one?” He did not give voice to the new question that had begun to trouble him-why had the gold hidden in this cairn survived when miners had been dismantling cairns for years? “How long had you been camped here?” he asked Hostene instead.
“A week. Abigail was photographing the old rock writings, so they could be translated back home.”
“Old writings?”
Hostene led them up the grassy slope to another outcropping, a short distance above the camp. Behind it he pointed out a natural wind-carved formation that extended above a small ledge. It had a curving, tapering shape, with a vaguely spherical top like a head, an oval center, and two folds of rock at the base that could, with a little imagination, be seen as crossed legs. Lokesh uttered a cry of delight. It was what the Tibetans called a self-actuating deity, a natural formation that approximated the appearance of a sacred figure. The belly of the figure and the slab below it had been adorned with sacred emblems and several lines of a mantra. Dim outlines of painted lotus buds ran in a line below, as they might on an altar. Strands of yak hair, some sections encased in lichen, were wrapped around the neck-all that was left of what many years before had been a necklace.
“The Tara goddess,” Hostene said. “Abigail said the words were a prayer to Tara in her green form. She found several old paintings of the Green Tara on the slopes.”
Lokesh reverently placed some of the small flowers that grew nearby on the goddess’s shoulders, then ran his fingers over the words. They had, until recently, been covered with lichen.
“You cleared away the lichen?” he asked Hostene.
The Navajo nodded. “With toothpicks. And dental probes.”
Shan studied the scene. The dry, dusty earth below the rock showed the indentations where a tripod had stood. “What other equipment did she use?” he asked Hostene.
“A still camera, a video camera, a laptop computer with a solar recharger.” As he spoke, Hostene’s expression grew excited, as if he had just remembered something. He took a step toward the upper slope
“Was the equipment all in your camp that night?” Shan called to his back.
Hostene’s only reply was a quick gesture to follow. In less than a minute they were at the mouth of a shallow cave. “She worried about storms,” the Navajo explained. “She wanted to be sure everything was kept dry, since it couldn’t be replaced out here.”
The equipment he had described lay there, exactly as the small party had left it the night before the murders. A silver video camera lay seemingly undisturbed on a flat rock. Each camera was enclosed inside a clear plastic bag. The computer was in a blue nylon carrying case, and a blue nylon backpack stood on the cave floor. Their value would have been far greater than the camp equipment stolen below.
Shan glanced back at Lokesh, who had lingered at the cave entrance to study the self-actuated Tara. He stepped into the shadows as Hostene opened a pack to check its contents, lifting out a plastic bag of toiletries, then a small blue folder, then a pair of denim trousers. “Clean clothes,” he declared. He extracted and donned a soft hat with a wide brim. As he bent to loop the backpack strap over his shoulder Yangke interceded, taking the pack on his own back. Hostene seemed about to protest but then he scanned the ground behind the young Tibetan.
“Abby’s pack!” he exclaimed. “It’s gone. And her digital camera.”
The Navajo darted to the entrance as if he might catch a glimpse of his niece. When Shan reached them Lokesh had his head cocked, listening to what sounded like a clap of thunder. Yet the sky overhead was clear. The thunder turned into a low, rolling rumble.
Shan stepped outside and glanced at the slope above uncertainly. His heart lurched into his throat. “Avalanche!” he shouted, and grabbed Hostene’s arm. If they did not outrun the tons of rock hurtling toward them it would mean certain death.
Shan pushed the Navajo toward a small ravine a hundred feet away and darted toward Lokesh as Yangke ran past them. Small rocks were already hurtling through the air around them. Shan reached Lokesh, seized his shirt with one hand, and half dragged his friend toward the ravine.
They had nearly reached the shelter of the gully when Shan fell and lost his grip on Lokesh. He half crawled, half rolled into the gully, realizing they had escaped death by a split second.
But Lokesh had stopped a few feet from the shelter and was standing, extending an arm toward the old Tara, as if to beckon her to safety. A moment later a rock smashed the head of the goddess. A stone slammed into Lokesh’s open hand, another struck his arm, and an instant later one the size of a melon hit his shoulder, knocking him off his feet. Rocks exploded against other rocks, propelling sharp shards into the air about them. Shan launched himself toward Lokesh. A small boulder glanced off his thigh, knocking him back. The last thing he saw was his old friend, unconscious, being buried alive.
Chapter Five
The nightmare came in glimpses, bringing terror such as he had not felt since his early days in the gulag. Lokesh’s belly was awash with blood. A familiar hand, spotted with age, lay lifeless twenty feet from Shan, a splinter of rock piercing its palm. One arm was twisted and thrown backward in an impossible position for the living. Blood-specked stones occupied the space where his legs should be.
Shan’s world was turning red. This was the way the universe looked to the dying, draped in a veil of blood.
“No!” Something flashed inside Shan and with a stab of pain he pushed himself up. “Lokesh!” he cried, wiping his temple on his sleeve, realizing the veil of blood was dripping off his own forehead.
Yangke and Hostene were already trying to clear the rocks away, uncovering Lokesh’s head, bending over him, pulling the stones off him. They carried him inside their shelter.
The old Tibetan coughed. His eyes flickered open but he did not seem to see. “The Tara!” Lokesh’s plea came in a hoarse croak. “Save the goddess!”
Hostene began rummaging in his pack as Yangke placed a rock under Lokesh’s head to elevate it. The Navajo produced a shirt that he began ripping up for bandages. Then he extracted a small metal flask.
Shan took Lokesh’s injured hand, opening the bent fingers, cradling it in his own before, with one swift motion, Yangke extracted the shard of stone. Hostene quickly poured some of the flask’s contents on the wound and they sat for a long, agonizing moment, letting the blood ooze onto the palm before Yangke began wrapping it with the makeshift bandages.
Shan had seen Lokesh pummeled by guards in prison and by hail in the mountains, seen him with the skin flayed from his leg after he’d fallen down a steep scree but had never seen the desperate agony that now radiated from his eyes. As he cradled his friend’s wounded hand he felt numb. It was the same paralysis he had felt forty years earlier holding the hand of his dying father, who had been fatally beaten by the Red Guard. The hard words they had exchanged in the stable echoed in his head.
He was vaguely aware of movement around him, of Hostene examining Lokesh, then gesturing to Yangke, asking him to brace the old Tibetan, of the Navajo removing his belt and wrapping it around Lokesh’s other wrist. There was a sudden jerk, a whimper of pain from the gentle old Tibetan, then Lokesh’s head rolled toward Shan, fixing him with a small forced grin. “The goddess,” he groaned again before he passed out. But the goddess was dead.
Shan became aware that Hostene was trying to pry away his fingers from Lokesh’s arm. “He’s going to be all right, Shan,” the Navajo declared. “No broken bones. Just bad bruises and that hand. His eyes are clear, no serious concussion. His shoulder was dislocated, that’s what hurt him so much. I put it back. An old trick from my horse-riding days.”