The Skull Mantra by Eliot Pattison

doing?”
    Yeshe shrugged. “They’re still working on the supply records. They had trouble with the computers.”
    â€œThe lost supplies you mentioned?”
    Yeshe nodded.
    Shan considered the notes and looked up absently. “What kind of lost supplies?”
    â€œA truck of clothing. Another of food. Some construction materials. Probably just some bad paperwork. Somebody counted too many trucks when they left the depot in Lhasa.”
    Shan paused to make a note in his book.
    â€œBut it’s nothing to do with this,” Yeshe protested.
    â€œDo you know that?” Shan asked. “Most of my career in Beijing I spent on corruption cases. When it involved the army, I always went to the central supply accounts first, because they were so reliable. When they counted trucks, or missiles, or beans, they didn’t do it with one man. They assigned ten, each counting the same thing.”
    Yeshe shrugged. “Now they use computers. I came for my next assignment.”
    Shan considered Yeshe. He wasn’t much older than his own son, and, like his son, was so smart, and so wasted. “We need to reconstruct Jao’s activities. At least the last few hours.”
    â€œYou mean talk to his family?”
    â€œDidn’t have any. What I mean is, we need to visit the Mongolian restaurant in town where he had dinner that night. His house. His office, if they let us.”
    Yeshe had his own notepad now. He feverishly took notes as Shan spoke, then spun about like a soldier on drill and departed.
    Shan worked another hour, studying the lists of names, writing questions and possible answers in his pad, each seeming more elusive than the last. Where was Jao’s car? Who wanted the prosecutor dead? Why, he considered with a shudder, did Choje seem so perfectly assured that the demon existed? How is it that the prosecutor of Lhadrung County had appeared to be a tourist? Because he was preparing to travel? No. Because he had American dollars in his pocket, and an American business card. What kind of rage did this killer possess, to carefully lure his victim so far just to decapitate him? Not an instantaneous animal rage. Or was it? Could it have been a meeting turned sour, escalating to a fight? Jao was knocked unconscious and in a panic his assailant picked up—what, a shovel?—to finish the job and destroy Jao’s identity in a single grisly act. But to then carry the head five miles to the skull shrine? Wearing a costume? That was not animal rage. That was a zealot, someone who burned with a cause. But what cause? Political? Or was it passion? Or had it been an act of homage, to lay Prosecutor Jao in such a holy place? An act of rage. An act of homage. Shan threw his pencil down in frustration and moved to the door. “I have to go back. To my hut,” he told Sergeant Feng.
    â€œLike hell,” Feng shot back.
    â€œSo you and I, Sergeant, we are going to spend the night here?”
    â€œNo one said anything. We don’t go to Jade Spring until tomorrow.”
    â€œNo one said anything because I am a prisoner who sleeps in his hut and you are a guard who sleeps in his barracks.”
    Feng shifted uneasily from foot to foot. His round face seemed to squeeze together as he gazed toward the row ofwindows on the far wall, as though hoping to catch an officer walking by.
    â€œI can sleep here, on the floor,” Shan said. “But you. Are you going to stay awake all night? That’s what you would need orders for. Without orders the routine must stand.”
    Shan produced one of the
momos
he had saved and extended it to Feng.
    â€œYou can’t bribe me with food,” the sergeant grunted, eyeing the
momo
with obvious interest.
    â€œNot a bribe. We’re a team. I want you in a good mood tomorrow. And well nourished. We’re going for a ride in the mountains.”
    Feng accepted the dumpling and began to consume it in small, tentative