He went to a dark, deep place within himself, not exactly meditating but not sleeping, visiting memories, remembering nightmares, unaware of time or place.

It damp inside the tool shed, and the burlap sacks they hung to block the light of their candle were stained with mildew, the scent sometimes mixing so strongly with that of the night soil in the rice paddies outside that he would become nauseous when he entered it. As usual, he sucked a pebble as a remedy for hunger as he waited, arranging and rearranging his shirt so his father would not see how his ribs poked out. Food was strictly rationed at the reeducation camp, and the inmates of the children’s dormitory only received what was left when the field workers were finished. Sawdust was sometimes mixed with the rice gruel, which usually cramped his nine-year-old stomach so severely he had to lie on his bunk, unable to walk.

He passed the time silently repeating the Taoist verses his father had taught him the night before, struggling not to cringe at the small sounds of the night. If he was caught outside he would be caned until the bamboo came away bloody.

There was a rush of movement and the door was flung open and closed. There was a rustling of clothes, the flare of a match lighting a candle, and all hardships disappeared. His father was there, embracing his son, his gentle smile marred by the missing front tooth that had been knocked out in a tamzing. Officially, at the reeducation camp, parents and children were separated. Officially, the punishment for Shan’s father, the professor, would be far worse than Shan’s if he was found to have broken the rules of curfew, the rules against having unapproved books, the rules against candles.

They worked for an hour in the little shed at the back of the rice paddies, reciting the Taoist verses, reviewing another segment of European history then, the best always last, looking over a page torn from the book of poetry from the Sung Dynasty that Shan’s father had secretly, illegally, brought from home. It was their favorite, Su Tung-po, the poet bureaucrat:

Grasses bury the riverbank, rain darkens the village.

The temple is lost in tall bamboo-I can’t find the gate.

Together they wrote the words in chalk on the plank wall of the shed, his father’s hand sometimes guiding him in the strokes of the complicated old-style ideograms. Then they spoke of how they had spent their days, Shan trying not to take notice when his father’s words were interrupted by long hacking coughs. His father let Shan lean on his shoulder as he spoke of older, happier times, so lost in their reverie that neither heard the sounds until too late. They were still sitting in the corner when the handlers burst in, lanterns in their faces, batons lashing out at his father. The last sight he had of his father for a month was of the professor stuffing the poem into his mouth. The next morning Shan had a bowl of real rice and vegetables, even shreds of chicken. Later that day, the political instructors praised his mother for having turned in his father for reactionary behavior. It took much longer for him to understand the bargain she had struck: she had done it in exchange for Shan’s single square meal.

Suddenly he noticed the gibbous moon high overhead. Hours had passed. Inside, the tower was still, lit only by dim bulbs along the stairwell. Hostene’s door, previously closed, was ajar. Shan pushed it open, confirming that the Navajo still slept soundly. But on top of one of his boots was a slip of paper.

Shan hesitated, then with a pang of guilt lifted the paper and took it to the stairwell, where he held it under one of the bulbs. He read it once, then again. He sat down, blinking at the words, confusion burning away his fatigue as he read them over and over:

In Beauty before me I walk

In Beauty all around me I walk

It is finished in Beauty.

It seemed to take a long time for him to cross the room toward Hostene’s bed. He paused, listening to his friend’s peaceful breathing, gazing at the objects he held in his hands. He had removed the large feather from inside his vest, the feather he had brought from home, found a short stick, and tied the feather to it with thread taken from the sheet, inserting several smaller colorful feathers around the base of the larger one. Clasped in his fingers at the base of the feather stick was the small leather pouch Shan had seen hidden inside his vest. Devout Navajos, Hostene had told him, carried with them a pouch of soil from the Navajo sacred mountains.

With another stab of guilt Shan retreated into the stairwell. But then he read the note again, went back inside, and shook his friend’s shoulder. Hostene shot upright, squinting at Shan in the dim light.

“Get dressed,” Shan said, handing him the verse. “Abigail has gone back to the kora, to the path of the murderer.”

Outside, the motion detectors had been pushed over so that they faced the ground. The granary door had been left open. The pack that had contained Abigail’s field equipment was gone. Several cartons of canned goods had been ripped open and some of their contents removed.

“She wouldn’t steal,” Hostene said in a worried voice.

“What do they mean,” Shan asked, “the words she wrote?”

“They are from a prayer used by my people, for summoning the holy ones,” Hostene replied.

They moved quietly, pausing at every outcropping that offered cover, aware that Gao had promised to put a guard at the passage, not knowing how far in front of them Abigail was, but knowing that she was not alone. Thomas’s bedroom had been empty as well.

They waited for a cloud to cover the moon before they ventured to the last outcropping before the summit, then watched, waiting. As the moon reappeared, Hostene uttered a hoarse gasp and pointed to a shape lying beneath the cartoonlike painting of the Buddha. Shan thought it could be a rock at first, then saw the glow of teeth near the ground.

Hostene rushed forward. “My God!” he moaned. “What have they done?”

Shan’s stomach almost turned as he saw the small fleshy kernels oozing out of the soldier’s hairline. But then he sniffed. As he took the man’s pulse he noticed two cylinders lying on the ground. “It’s not what you think,” he explained to Hostene. “Someone threw cans of corn at him. One hit the rocks and exploded. He probably bent to investigate and was hit on the head with the second. But his pulse is strong.”

Hostene helped Shan to clean the man’s head and prop him up. Shan took the rifle that lay beside the soldier, removed the clip of bullets from the weapon, pulled the spare clips from the man’s belt, and threw them all high overhead, out of sight. Hostene removed a small, high-power flashlight from the soldier’s belt and switched it on. Together they entered the shadowy passage.

They moved quickly, both men stumbling frequently on the loose gravel underfoot, Hostene pausing sometimes to shine the light behind them, certain he heard sounds of pursuit.

When they reached patches of soil, Shan took the flashlight and examined the ground. The first prints, of Abigail’s boots, were single sets. A second set appeared later, often superimposed on the first. But after a mile the tracks proceeded side by side. Thomas had followed, then caught up with Abigail.

“He’s running away from his uncle,” Hostene said.

“Not exactly,” Shan replied. “Running away is part of it. But he could have gone in any direction, all of which would have been safer than this one. He followed her to protect her. A brave thing, considering he has seen the killer’s work up close.” Shan paused. “What is it, Hostene?” he asked. “Why is it so urgent for Abigail to complete her work on the other side?”

But Hostene didn’t answer as he passed Shan and entered the darkness.