Don Winslow - The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror

She jumped out of the bed and grabbed her clothes, throwing them on as she spoke.

“You are the person who is sick and desperate,” she said. “You chase, chase, chase-then, when you are given what you chase, you do not accept. Answers… truth… me. I make this offer to make you happy

… to make me happy. Never mind. You have no choice. You do not know where Robert is, where I go. You cannot chase anymore.”

“Lan, I-”

“Go home! That is all! If you say what you know, I will die! Do what you want!”

She stormed out the door.

It took him a few seconds to get his shirt and pants on and follow her. It was still dark and foggy and he could just see her as she passed through the gate into the garden. He ran down the stairs and across the little bridge. When he got through the gate she was gone.

All he could see was fog and the eerie shapes of the garden statues: dragons, birds, and giant frogs. He could hear footsteps ahead of him and he followed the sound. The garden was a maze.

When in doubt, Neal thought, go to Buddha. The gigantic head was about the only thing he could make out in the fog. It glowed palely at the edge of the cliff. He ran for it.

Her black-clad form appeared in stark silhouette against the whiteness of the Buddha’s head, about twenty feet away. She was inching her way along, trying to feel for the railing that led down the stairs.

Neal realized that she was heading down to the river. She had a boat waiting. He couldn’t let her meet it. He broke into a sprint.

The bullet hit Buddha square in the ear. Li Lan dropped to the ground.

“Shit.”

Neal heard the voice. It was about fifty feet away, in a copse of trees to his right. He peered through the fog but couldn’t see anyone. He lay on his stomach, wishing his breathing didn’t make so much goddamn noise. Li Lan hadn’t gotten up, so she was either hurt or just being smart. Staying flat on his stomach, he crawled to where he had seen her fall.

His hand touched her elbow and she flinched. He grabbed her arm and pulled himself against her.

He heard cautious footsteps. The shooter was maneuvering for a better angle. If he was smart, he’d work his way back onto the path and come straight onto the landing. She heard it, too.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her. It was just the slightest whisper, but it sounded like a PA announcement to him.

She shook her head.

The footsteps stopped.

“You have a boat down there,” he said.

She nodded.

“You can back down the stairs without being seen.”

“There is not the time. He will shoot me on the stairs.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

The footsteps started again, slow and patient.

“Get going,” he said.

“Why would you do this?”

Good fucking question.

“Because you’re going to take me to Pendleton.”

If I live that long.

And you might as well tell the truth as long as you’re probably going to get killed anyway.

“And because I love you. Now crawl backwards onto the stairs. When you’re down to the next landing, get up and make all the noise you can going down. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Where can I meet you?”

She didn’t answer. The footsteps had stopped. The bastard was in position and just waiting for the right moment. As soon as his quarry flinched, he’d move in for the kill.

“Look,” Neal whispered. “I know where your mountain is. I know it from your paintings. I can track you down, and I won’t give up. It will never stop until you let me speak with Pendleton. Never. Now tell me where I can meet you, and get your ass in gear before we both get killed.”

She squeezed his hand. “At the elephant.”

“Where?”

“You can find it. I will be there.”

“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?”