Carl Hiaasen - A Death in China

Through throbbing eyes, he noticed a weak sliver of light at the base of the door, near his feet.

Stratton tried to move. His hands were free, but his legs were bound tightly at the ankles. Voices, male and female, seeped through the door. The conversation was singsongy Mandarin, and Stratton understood none of it. The male voices were cold and conspiratorial and the female voice was full of fear. Kangmei.

He struggled to his knees, grunting, using his hands to feel in the blackness.

If these thugs were so efficient, he wondered, why hadn't they tied his hands as well? Why leave him free to explore the darkness for a way out- And then one of Stratton's hands found what it was supposed to. It was as big around as a baseball bat, yet taut and rippling. It was smooth to the touch, not oily, and it made a hushing sound as it glided across the floor of the dark closet.

Stratton froze, and the amplified beat of his heart filled his ears. The creature had stopped moving; it was not bothered at all by the darkness.

Stratton cowered. He felt that the thing could actually sense his pulse, and feel the heat of his terror.

"You are stupid men. Leave me alone!" Kangmei clutched the cotton sheet to her neck. Her knees were drawn protectively to her chest.

"Your father sent us," Deng said from under his brim. "Not for you, Kangmei, but for your American friend. He is a dangerous man, an enemy of the state. He is trying to use you to obtain information that would harm the deputy minister."

"Lies!"

"We did not know you were with him," Liao said in a nervous whisper. "And you can be sure that we will not make a public matter of this… incident."

Kangmei's eyes flashed toward the closet, and the knot of hemp rope that secured the door.

"You know what would happen if this episode became known," Liao continued. "You would lose your place at the language school. There might even be punishment at a labor camp for rehabilitation."

"What do you want?"

Deng nodded toward the closet. "The foreigner is our only interest. If you need to know more, ask your father. We are here to do a job. I am sorry that you had to become involved in this, Comrade."

"Think of the shame and embarrassment for the deputy minister," Liao said.

"Thom-as was a friend of my uncle. He is an art teacher on tour," Kangmei said.

"That is all."

"We see what we see, Comrade," Liao said.

Kangmei flushed.

"Put on your clothes. You will come with us and say nothing of what happened here," Liao said.

"And what is happening?" she demanded.

"Very unfortunate," Deng said. "Mr. Stratton, the American tourist, purchased a rare poisonous snake from a street vendor. His plan was to smuggle it out of China to the United States. It was a king cobra, the most terrible snake in the world, Comrade. Zoos in America would pay handsomely for a specimen-and the one meiguoren wanted to smuggle was certainly large and healthy."

"Unfortunately," Liao broke in, "the American was careless. The snake bit him.

He fell forward, shattering his nose on the floor-see here." With a blue canvas shoe, Liao daubed at a blood smear on the wood.

"But the fall didn't matter," Deng said. "He probably was dead already. One drop of the king cobra's venom can kill a horse."

Kangmei stared at the empty sack in Deng's hand and began to whimper. She dressed with her back to the cadres.

"Come now, we will take you away," Deng said. "In the morning, we will notify the deputy minister. If you behave, my friend and I will leave the explanation of this up to you. It is not our place to tell the deputy minister that his daughter is a common whore."

"A traitorous whore!" Liao barked, pushing her toward the door.

"But Thom-as!" Kangmei cried.

"We will come back in a little while," Deng said, "to arrange things."

"Yes," Liao said with a satisfied smile. "The snake will require special attention."

Tom Stratton inched into a corner of the closet and balled up like some gangly, naked autistic child. He ached and he itched, but he dared not stretch or scratch. Every motion was a clue, and every tiny noise a magnet for the huge killing machine that shared his darkness.

He knew a little about cobras: that their vision was excellent, their sensory reflexes keen, all filtered through a magical flicking tongue that could find a rat or a lizard or a camouflaged toad in the blackest of Asian jungle nights.

Man was not prey; he was an enemy. The cobra, Stratton knew, would not attack unless cornered and threatened.

It was a small closet, but Stratton gladly surrendered most of it to the reptile. During the argument outside the door, it had moved back and forth, brushing silkily against his feet and legs. Occasionally, its shadow crossed the floor in such a way that it obliterated the crack of light beneath the door. In those moments of total darkness, Stratton would close his eyes, for he feared an unseen strike at his face, and strained to listen for the cobra's breathing. He could hear nothing. In and out, the tongue was reading him, measuring him, taking his temperature… all in silence.

It was a superb creature, a mystical creature.

When the door to the hotel room closed, and Kangmei and her captors were gone, the snake seemed to settle down in a corner of its own. In his mind's eye, Stratton could see its thick olive coils-and the hooded head, motionless and erect.

After an hour, Stratton decided that the snake was as relaxed as it was ever going to be. He edged on his buttocks across the dusty floor, inches at a time, pausing several moments between moves. From the corner where he imagined that the cobra slept there came no sound.

Stratton eased himself up to the door. His right hand spidered slowly across the wood until it found the knob. He twisted and pushed-but the door would not budge. Stratton tried again, this time with his shoulder as a buttress. The door held fast. The problem was breaking it down without arousing the cobra.

Stratton's knees cracked loudly as he struggled to his feet. The ankle ropes had been a cinch, even in the darkness. If he could just get out of the goddamn closet, he would be free.

He was careful not to move his legs; instead, he pivoted from the waist up, ramming the door with his upper body. Stratton could feel the hinges weaken. He rammed again, a bayonet-thrust without the sword. And once more with all of his hundred ninety pounds.

On Stratton's third try the snake struck. He heard the hiss and felt the passing breath. Stratton froze. The cobra struck again, biting air. Six inches to the left and the fangs would have pierced Stratton's groin.

The cobra was angry. The sweat, the heat of human exertion, the blood racing through Stratton's body as he pounded the door-all this had ignited the snake's primal reflex.

Instinctively, Stratton jumped to his left, crashing into a suit of clothes that hung from a dowel. The snake followed. Once, ssshhhhhh, in the air. Again, closer, a deadly sibilance two inches from Stratton's ear. And once more, higher and longer…

Stratton pressed his head against the wall; he held himself there to stay out of range. Now he heard a different sound. The cobra was struggling in front of him, thrashing wildly in the folds of clothing. Stratton knew instantly what had happened. Its fangs were hung in the fabric. The beast was stuck like a dart on cork.

He reached out and found the snake. He grabbed it like a rope, working upward, hand-over-hand toward the frantic lethal head. Stratton found the cobra's hood.

It seemed enormous, but it folded smoothly in his grip. Stratton kneaded his way to the head.

Both hands yanked the cobra down to the floor of the closet. Squeezing its neck with all of his strength, he threw his body on the writhing coils. The cobra took twelve and one-half minutes to die. Stratton knew. He counted every second.