A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [121]
“Do you know,” Stratton had countered, “what he’s already done?”
But she had been determined, and Stratton had underestimated her.
Now she was dead, and Wang Bin was dust in the wind, a clever phantom. Stratton was sure he’d already grabbed the money, and with the money came boundless freedom—comfort, respectability, anonymity. That’s the way it worked in America. That’s what the deputy minister had counted on. In his mind’s eye, Stratton pictured the cagey old fellow in his new life—where? San Francisco, maybe, or even New York; an investor, perhaps, or the owner of a small neighborhood business. Maybe something more ambitious: his own museum.
Stratton was desolate in his failure. Without clues, without even a scent of the trail, he had nowhere to go.
Nowhere but home, back to doing what he should have been doing all along. And before that, a detour. A couple of hours was all he needed, a moment really. A chance to say goodbye to the man who had meant so much to him, and whose murder he had been unable to prevent. A taste of better times, something enduring and warm for a lifetime of cold dreams.
Stratton got an early start and reached Pittsville by noon. The moment he passed the city limit sign he pulled his foot from the accelerator, a vestigial reflex from his days as a student. Speed trap or not, the town was still gorgeous.
It was green and cool and hilly, a sleepy old friend. Stratton wished he had never left.
He stopped for lunch at the village sundry, not far from St. Edward’s campus. The counter lady, a grand old bird with snowy hair and antique glasses, remembered him instantly and lectured him on his lousy eating habits. Stratton cheered up.
The campus had changed little, and why should it have? The enrollment stayed constant, the endowments generous but not extravagant. Ivy still climbed the red-brick bell tower, and the bells still rang off key. The narrow roads were as pocked as ever, and the college gymnasium—now called an Amphidome—still looked like a B-52 hangar.
Stratton discovered he was in no hurry. He was home. He allowed himself to be led by sights and sounds. On the steps of the cafeteria, a shaggy folksinger strummed a twelve-string and sang—Stratton couldn’t believe it—Dylan. Stratton dropped a dollar into the kid’s guitar case and strolled to the post office to read the campus bulletin board. It was anther St. Edward’s tradition.
“Roommate wanted: Any sex, any size. Must have money.”
“Need Melville term paper within ten days. Will pay big bucks, plus bonus for bibliography. Reply confidential.”
“I want my Yamaha handlebars back. $200 firm. No questions.”
Stratton shook his head. Nothing had changed.
“You lookin’ for work, young man?” came a gruff voice from behind. “’Cause we sure don’t need any more liberal agitators on this campus!”
Stratton immediately recognized the voice. “Jeff!”
“Mr. Crocker, to you.” Crocker beamed and threw an arm around Stratton’s shoulders. “How are you, Tom? You look like hell.”
“You too.”
“Editors are supposed to look like hell. It’s in their contract.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been driving all day and I’m beat.”
They walked the campus, making small talk. Crocker had been a reporter for the local newspaper when Stratton had been a student at St. Edward’s. Now he was executive editor.
“They even let me teach a journalism class out here.”
“God help us,” Stratton said with a ghost of a smile. “The National Star comes to Pittsville.”
They gravitated to the beer cellar in the basement of the cafeteria. It was five o’clock, still early for the campus drinkers, so Stratton and Crocker had no trouble finding a quiet booth.
Halfway through his first beer Crocker said, “I kind of expected to see you at the funeral.”
“I couldn’t come, Jeff. I was in China.”
“With David? When it happened?”
Stratton told him what he could.
“It