A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [45]
“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