Carl Hiaasen - A Death in China

"But how could my uncle be alive?" Kangmei asked.

"Because your father is planning something, and he needs his brother-at least for a while," Stratton conjectured. "When he's done, I think Wang Bin will kill David. We don't have much time. Kangmei, it's important that we get out of China so I can contact the State Department. Hong Kong would be the best."

"An overnight train from where we are going," she said. "But you have no papers.

How will you leave China?"

"Can we go tomorrow?"

Kangmei did not answer right away.

"If I return to Peking, your father will have me arrested," Stratton said.

"There is nowhere I can go but out. There's nothing I can do here for David."

"The place I'm taking you is very safe, Thom-as."

"For me, maybe. Think of your uncle. If the U.S. Embassy only knew he was alive.

Kangmei, we could call them in the morning-"

She shook her head glumly. "Where we are going, there are no telephones."

"Do you believe what I'm telling you, that David is alive?"

Kangmei said, "I don't know. It is hard to accept." In the darkness, Stratton could not see the tension on her face, but he could sense it.

The boundaries of the mountain road became indistinct as it snaked through acres of tall pines. When the truck rattled past a plywood sign erected at the foot of a hill, Kangmei sat up and grabbed Stratton's elbow.

"Slow down, Thom-as. The sign says there is a police stop ahead. One half a kilometer."

Stratton quickly downshifted, pulled off the road and dimmed the lights. "We'll never slip through with me at the wheel," he said, turning to Kangmei. "How'd you like a driving lesson?"

Her eyes surveyed the simple dashboard instruments with trepidation. "I don't think so," she said.

"You've got to. Come here, sit closer and I'll show you." Stratton kept his foot on the clutch and ran through the gears one time. "Hell," he said, "my father drove one of these tanks for thirty years. How hard can it be?"

Kangmei practiced with the truck idling.

"That's good," Stratton encouraged. "Remember to watch the speedometer needle.

When it gets to here, shift into second. And here, third. When we get to the checkpoint, press the clutch pedal with your left foot, and put your right foot on the brake. You'll have to use most of your weight because the drums on this truck are nearly shot. The important thing is to slow down smoothly so we don't attract attention."

"There is no one else on the road at this time of night," Kangmei remarked. "The police certainly will ask questions."

"I'll be hiding in the back. There's a bundle of wood and some old vegetable crates back there-"

"Thom-as, I don't have my identification papers. They might arrest me."

Stratton got out of the cab. Kangmei moved into the driver's seat.

"Make up a story," Stratton said, scouting the foggy highway. In both directions it was quiet, deserted. "Tell them you're on the way to get medicine for the commune. The regular driver is sick."

Kangmei's hands explored the steering wheel. "What if they don't believe me?"

"How many policemen will there be?"

"One, perhaps two at the most. It is so late… "

Stratton was thinking. He removed the dusty driver's cap and placed it on Kangmei's head. Gently he tucked her silken pigtails underneath it. "There! You look like a teenaged boy."

She glanced down at her chest.

"Well, almost," Stratton said. He climbed into the flatbed and concealed himself in the rummage and lumber. "Okay," he called from the back. "Let's go."

The truck lunged forward, then coughed into a stall. Kangmei tried again with the same results. The third time the clutch engaged perfectly and the truck found the pavement. Stratton smiled to himself.

Kangmei drove slowly, eternally grateful that the stretch of road was straight so she could devote all concentration to mastering the transmission.

As the truck crested a small hill, Kangmei noticed a swatch of yellow light below. Half in panic, she mashed both feet on the clutch and let the truck coast. Gradually the details of the small police station became clear: a white booth, with a Chinese flag posted on the tin roof. Three bulbs hung from a slender wire; one lit the building and the other two a zebra-striped gate that blocked the road. Inside the booth stood a man in a blue-and-white uniform. He seemed not to notice how the truck stuttered downhill, Kangmei fighting for the brakes.

She brought it to a stop with a brief screech of the tires. The policeman, who had been dozing on his feet, glanced up sharply and peered out the window of the booth.

As he approached, Kangmei shook her hair out from under the cap.

"Ni nar?" the policeman demanded-the universal inquiry of Marxist China.

Kangmei gave the name of a commune not far from her own birthplace. She told the policeman she was a barefoot doctor there.

"Are you a driver too?" The policeman eyed her. He did not have a flashlight so he stood very close, sticking his head through the window of the cab. In the flatbed, Tom Stratton held his breath.

"No, Comrade, I am not a driver. This truck is assigned to the commune." Kangmei made up a common name. "Children are sick, and so is the regular driver," she went on. "We have run out of medicine and I am going to get some more at the clinic in Chungzho." She fumbled in her blues for an imaginary piece of paper.

The policeman shrugged and waved her on.

"Xie xie, ni," Kangmei called in the earnest tones of a heroic worker. She pressed the accelerator, lifted her foot off the clutch-and promptly stalled the truck. Heart pounding, she wrestled with the stick shift. First gear. She could not find first gear. Again she tried to move the truck and again the engine died. Don't flood it, Stratton prayed from beneath the lumber and crates.

The policeman laughed and ambled back to the truck. "I hope you are a better doctor than you are a driver," he said. "Let me try."

"No, Comrade, I can do this," Kangmei said defiantly. "I must do this myself-for my commune." She turned the key, and from under the hood came a dying whine.

"Too much fuel in the carburetor," the policeman diagnosed. "Wait a few minutes and it will be fine." He opened the door to the cab. "Would you care to come in for a drink of tea?"

Kangmei reached for the door and slammed it. "No," she said sternly. "I must hurry, Comrade. I told you, the children are very sick."

Stratton had no idea what was being said. The slamming of the truck door alarmed him. Through the slats of the crate above his head, Stratton could see nothing but stars and wispy clouds. Gradually he levered himself up, turning his head slightly to gain a view of Kangmei. Suddenly the woodpile shifted and one of the vegetable crates fell, banging on the steel flatbed.

The policeman jumped at the noise. "What!" he said. "What was that?" He walked to the back of the truck and peered into the rubble of cargo. "Are you alone, driver?"

Kangmei twisted the key and jerked on the stick shift with all her strength.

This time the engine responded, and the truck surged forward.

"There, I did it!" she exclaimed.

The flustered policeman dashed ahead of the truck to lift the zebra-striped gate before it could be demolished.

"Xie xie, ni," Kangmei sang out as she drove past.

Stratton waited several miles before sitting up in the flatbed. Then he tapped on the rear window of the cab and signalled for Kangmei to pull over. She surrendered the driver's seat with a sigh of relief.

"Your father must be a very skilled man, to drive a truck like this," she said.

"I am sure it is a most important job."

"Well, it doesn't exactly put you at the top of the social ladder in America,"

Stratton said. "I'm not sure what you told that cop, but you must be a wonderful actress. And your driving isn't bad for a beginnner. My old man would approve."