Shan recalled the first day he had encountered Lhakpa and the goat. She had worn a red yarn then too. “Tell me, old man, how many times have you sold her life?”

A low wheezing laugh came from his prisoner. “It makes people feel good. I never keep the money. Last time I bought some grain for her, gave some to the woman who maintains the shrines and the rest to that Tibetan circuit nurse who rides in the mountains, to buy medicines.”

Shan dipped his mug in salute, then sat in silence for several moments before rising to bring a candle from the office. He lit it then switched off the overhead lights, knowing the meditative Tibetan preferred the soft flame to the glare of the naked light bulbs.

“I watched the execution of a man today,” he confessed to Lhakpa, who was the closest thing to a real monk in the town.

“I’m sorry,” Lhakpa said, gesturing to the worn mala, his rosary, that lay on the stool. “Tell me his name and I will say a thousand beads for him tonight.”

“They made me an official witness,” Shan recounted. His heart felt like a cold stone as he explained what he had been forced to do. “It felt like I was pulling the trigger myself.”

Lhakpa silently stared into his steaming mug. “Then I will say a thousand beads for you as well, Constable.”

Shan sipped at his tea. “Did you work in the square at all today?” On days when the weather was fair Lhakpa usually helped maintain the public square, officially on work release. “Did you see the visitors?”

“Those Chinese? Most people fled the square when they appeared. Mrs. Lu stood in front of her house and waved a little Chinese flag at them. She seems lonely.”

“Deputy Choden says they ate lunch and left.”

“Not before shooting the mountains.”

“I’m sorry?”

“They took an instrument out of the truck and put it on a tripod, up on the old gate tower. Sort of like a telescope but not exactly. Sort of like a camera but not exactly. I think it was one of those devices that shoots laser beams for measurements.” Not for the first time, Shan wondered about Lhakpa’s background. Not many Tibetans, and certainly almost no snow monks, would know about such devices. “One man aimed it at each mountain surrounding the valley then read out numbers as another wrote them down on a clipboard. Then another man who did have a camera took photographs from the top of the gate tower, many photos, turning a little every few seconds until he completed a circle of the town. When he came down, he saw Tara and me watching and laughed, then took our photo too.”