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And that’s why Lan warned me off. She knew that if I opened my mouth I’d be here forever. Well, thank you, Li Lan.

Thank you Li Lan?! What the fuck are you talking about?! She’s the one who dumped you in the shit in the first place, and now you’re eaten up with gratitude because she’s rescued you?! And what’s her story? What had Olivia Kendall said about Lan’s paintings? Some artsy-fartsy babble about “the duality of the mirror images reflecting both conflict and harmony”?No shit. The woman is a schiz, that’s all. No wonder Pendleton is so pussy-whipped—he has himself a one-woman harem.

Well, he can have her. I’m getting out of here.

But first, the monastery.

He followed his guide-guards around the back of Buddha’s head, where the cliff flattened out to a wooded plateau. An enormous temple, made entirely of dark wood, blended into the forest like a shadow. On the other side of the temple was a large garden with twisting paths, and Neal could only orient himself by looking over his shoulder at the back of Buddha’s head. Bamboo, ferns, and creeping vines competed for space under a canopy of fir trees, and the garden was dark even at midday. The path eventually led past two smaller temples and another wooden building that looked like a barracks. There were a bunch of brown-robed monks doing chores around these buildings, so Neal quickly put it together that this was the monastery. The path ended at a circular gateway.

Neal expected something grim, but the monastery’s guesthouse was actually cheerful. He stood in a square, open courtyard defined by four three-story wooden buildings. Every floor had a balcony running the length of the building and was sheltered beneath a sharply pitched black tile roof. There were about eight rooms on each floor.

A pond dominated the center of the courtyard. Stepping-stones and arched bridges wended through tall ferns and stone statues of frogs and dragons. Golden carp hid under the bridges or swirled lazily underneath huge lily pads.

Small pavilions, resembling neat caves, interspersed the ground-floor rooms. Tall covered jars served as stools around circular tables, and Neal figured that these shelters were built for alfresco tea parties during what had to be frequent rains.

The whole effect was lush, hospitable, mystical, and decadent.

Neal’s room was on the top floor. It was small, but clean and comfortable. A mosquito net covered the kang. For washing, there was a basin, with pitchers of hot and cold water. A thermos of hot water, a lidded teacup, and a jar of green tea had been set on a side table. There was a single chair and a small desk. One window looked out on the courtyard. Another, on the other side of the room, gave a view of the forest and the roofs of the temple. The room had no bathroom, but a lavatory was four doors down. It had a room of toilets and another room with large cedar tubs.

Neal washed up and then joined Wu and Peng for a quick lunch of fish, rice, and vegetables. After lunch they worked their way back through the garden maze to Buddha’s head, and then followed a cliffside path along the river. They were headed for another large monastery, about three miles up the river. Neal could see its tiled roof, shining golden in the sun, peeping through trees on a knoll ahead.

I wonder what they want me to see up there, Neal asked himself. Maybe Mao is alive and living as a monk, and they want to see if I’ll keep my mouth shut again.

Mao wasn’t there. Or if he was, Neal didn’t see him. Neal did get a tremendous view of the Min River Valley from a pavilion on top of the knoll, and the temple housed the usual array of Buddhist saints, but none of them was Mao, and Neal was impatient to get going.

He posed for the cliché tourist photos: at the pavilion, at the temple, on the trail back to the Buddha, standing on Buddha’s toenail, standing by Buddha’s head. He perfected the wooden tourist smile, the self-conscious “Here I Am at—” stance, and the classic Staring Off into the Distant Horizon profile. It felt strange to him.