Carl Hiaasen - A Death in China

"Then what?"

"He ripped my clothing off… and raped me."

"Several times?"

"Yes, Comrade Zhou. Several times… and once in a terrible way."

Stratton grimaced. A horsefly landed on one cheek, beneath his left eye. Even as it bit him, Stratton made no move to brush it away. His arms hung like butcher's meat.

"Finally I was rescued when two comrades came to the hotel room. They must have heard me righting back. Stratton escaped, but at least my ordeal was over."

Stratton gazed sadly at Kangmei, and shook his head back and forth with determination. Her eyes never softened.

Zhou said, "Kangmei, do you now see the folly of your actions? Do you understand why the government discourages contact with foreigners, especially decadent Americans? They are a menace to the state, a threat to everything we are working for. They are not to be trusted, and never to be believed. Stratton is a model of this-a murderer… "

"Murderer!" Kangmei agreed.

"A thief, a corrupter… "

"A thief!" she yelled in a suddenly shrill voice that startled Stratton.

"A rapist," Zhou concluded.

"Rapist!" Kangmei cried. "A murderer and rapist!"

"You were deceived," Zhou said.

"Yes, Comrade, and I am truly sorry. He seemed sincere and I believed him. I was blind, like a man who suddenly loses his sight and becomes confused."

Stratton wasn't looking when she said it, but he heard Kangmei's voice crack.

"Blind, Comrade Zhou," she repeated. "Nearsighted. Clumsy. Foolish."

Stratton stiffened. He tested the muscles in his arms and legs with invisible isometrics. He hurt everywhere, but he willed himself to be ready.

"Blind," Kangmei said softly. "Blind, blind, blind!" And with that, she plucked the bottle-bottom glasses from Zhou's eyes and tossed them across Stratton's cell. They landed in the worst corner. Insects scattered.

Zhou was utterly bewildered. The jailer shouted a question in Mandarin. Stratton did not wait for the answer. He rammed a fist into the side of Zhou's head, spilling the inquisitor off the chair into a writhing heap.

Stratton grunted to his feet and stood rubber-legged, facing the jailer. The man dove for Stratton's waist and brought him down. They rolled together in the fetid slop; the jailer, clawing for Stratton's throat and eyes; Stratton, weak and nauseous, using his long arms and his weight to entangle his wiry attacker.

Kangmei stood to the side, crying nervously.

"In the corner," Stratton yelled. "Dig! By the window."

The jailer hung on Stratton's back, arms clenched around his neck in a fierce choke-hold. Stratton held his breath and rolled over.

Kangmei dug feverishly. Her hands uncovered the crude three-foot spear Stratton had fashioned from the leg of the chair. In another corner, Comrade Zhou groped pathetically for his eyeglasses in the excrement.

In the middle of the small cell, only Thomas Stratton was breathing normally.

The jailer, pinned beneath him, was slowly suffocating in the muck. Stratton reeled to his feet and snatched the weapon from Kangmei.

Somehow Zhou had found his precious glasses and now he was at the door, pounding loudly. His black hair was matted, his clothes stained and sodden.

"Comrade. Tongzhil" he cried.

Stratton's handmade bayonet tore through the inquisitor's chest. He collapsed making noises like a leaky bicycle tire, a death wheeze.

"Thom-as, I am sorry. I am so sorry." She was sobbing. "He made me do it."

Stratton put a finger to his lips. For several moments, he listened at the door.

"We must hurry," he whispered. Kangmei dabbed at her eyes. Self-consciously she turned away as Stratton slipped into Zhou's trousers. When she turned back, Stratton held her by the shoulders and said, "Your uncle is alive."

"Oh, Thom-as!"

Stratton tested the door of the cell. It was unlocked. The corridor was empty.

Kangmei took his hand and together they ran.

"Idiots! My orders are to be followed. When I say that a man must be guarded, I speak for the state and for the Party. I must be obeyed. You listen to stupid rumors like old women, and you behave as donkeys. I am still the deputy minister, and I still command here."

Wang Bin burst into the attic cell. In a pregnant moment, much was said between the two brothers, but no words were spoken. David Wang looked up at his brother quizzically.

"It is not what it seems," Wang Bin said finally. "I will explain later… and apologize. Now we must go quickly. Here, put on these, there is a chill."

The deputy minister handed his brother a well-cut gray Mao suit with a mourner's band pinned to the sleeve of the jacket, and a pair of vigorously polished black shoes, one-half size too small.

"Please, hurry, David. We must go."

Befuddled, unspeaking, David Wang dressed and followed his younger brother into the night. Wang Bin walked briskly. He had but thirteen hours left.

"What do you mean you can't drive?"

"I was never permitted to learn… it was not my job," Kangmei stammered. "In this country, we have drivers-"

"Get in," Stratton said.

The truck was a bad Chinese imitation of a bad Russian flatbed, but it was the only vehicle in the museum's parking lot with keys in the ignition. Stratton's original plan had been to hide under some lumber in the truck and let Kangmei navigate the escape, but now he had no choice. Night was on his side, but not much else. Any half-blind idiot would see that the driver of this truck was not Chinese. Stratton turned the key and urged the transmission into first gear. The clutch yelped like a dog on fire.

"This is terrific," Stratton muttered as they trundled down the two-lane blacktop.

Kangmei gave him a puzzled stare. Stratton laughed and reached out for her hand.

"Never mind," he said. "Where to?"

"A very safe place," she answered, "but a long, long way, Thom-as. Eighty kilometers."

Stratton flicked the headlights on and tried to hunch down as low as he would go in the driver's seat. Kangmei found a dirty canvas cap under the seat, dusted it off and stuck it on Stratton's head.

"I'm worried about you," he said after a few minutes. "If we get stopped, I'm running. You tell them I kidnapped you and stole the truck. Tell them you never saw me before. I want you to promise."

"No," Kangmei said quietly. "I will not lie again. My father made me say those things at the struggle session. I am very sorry. He told me you were a spy."

"Did you believe him?"

"No." She looked at him pridefully. "It wouldn't matter if you were."

The sluggish truck picked up speed alarmingly on a long downhill stretch. A quarter-mile ahead, Stratton could make out a group of commune workers, trudging home down the middle of the road. He pressed on the horn and they parted slowly.

Their ox, however, was disinclined to yield the right of way. Stratton honked again and pumped the brakes slowly.

Incredibly, the barn-shouldered animal turned to face the noisy intruder.

"Oh, shit," Stratton said. As the truck bore down on the ox, Stratton leaned hard on the horn. At the last second, he cut the wheel and steered onto the shoulder, around the ox and its peasant entourage. In the rearview mirror, he saw several men shake their fists at the truck. Kangmei trembled next to him.

"Sorry," Stratton said sheepishly. "They acted like they own the road."

"They do," Kangmei said evenly.

The unlit road was newly paved in some sections, pocked and dangerous in others.

The hill countryside was lush with citrus stands, cane fields and banana groves.

Here and there the night was broken by a commune's lights or the pinprick headlights of a distant truck, but mostly Kangmei and Tom Stratton were alone.

Stratton recounted his confrontation with Wang Bin in the museum cell.