A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [49]
The phone rang once. The station chief spoke briefly and hung up. “So what are you saying, Linda? That this was a private matter between Wang and Stratton? An informal abduction?”
“Something’s going on, and it’s damn sure not just a matter of honor. My guess is that Wang Bin sent those two clowns to grab Stratton, not to kill him. But when it looked as if he would get away, they panicked and tried to run him down.”
“Now one is dead and the other’s a cabbage. Jesus!” The station chief grunted as he flipped through his copy of the file. “And our Mr. Stratton is missing in action. What a fiasco!”
Linda Greer said nothing. The possibilities were too depressing.
The station chief looked up and asked, “Think they caught up with him at Xian?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too. Think he’s dead?”
“Probably. We had someone interview some of the other Americans on that tour. They saw Stratton at the hotel yesterday morning, but he didn’t stay with the group.”
“Naturally.”
“He left with two Chinese, a young woman and a man.”
“And?”
Linda took off her glasses and folded them. “This morning, when one of the Americans went to Stratton’s hotel room, he was gone. Gone without a trace. The woman who discovered him missing is the same one who gave us the story about the snake.”
The station chief smiled slightly, remembering the bland entry in the file, rated “very reliable.”
“Ah, that would be the busybody Mrs. Dempsey. She also found the Chinese in Stratton’s room. Just tidying up, I suppose. What kind of snake?”
“She didn’t know,” Linda said. “By the time our people got there, the room was clean. There was a little blood on the floor, though. Most of it had been scrubbed away—”
“Was there enough to—”
“Yes. O positive. Same as Tom’s.” Linda Greer felt very tired. She wanted to go back to her apartment and soak in the bathtub. She wanted to cry.
“Oh dear,” the station chief muttered. He gazed out the window; the setting sun painted the tiled roofs of Peking a burned yellow and turned the haze into a pale lemon curtain.
“I took the liberty of filing formal inquiries with China Travel, the tourism bureau, and the others. … I don’t expect to hear anything, but at least we’re on the record as far as procedure goes.”
“Yes,” the station chief said. “Good thinking. Let’s meet again tomorrow. Noonish. In the meantime, say nothing to Powell. I’m sure he’s picked up whispers about that insane goddamn bicycle chase, so just tell him we’re checking it out.”
Linda Greer collected her purse and briefcase, and headed for the door.
The station chief cleared his throat. “Linda,” he called in a softer voice. “I’m sorry about Stratton.”
“Thanks.”
“What do you suppose he was after?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she replied truthfully.
FOR THREE DAYS the freight train creaked south through plains and farmland, skirting the rugged mountain ranges that rule China’s interior. The trip was hot, the train old and plodding, led by a spanking new steam locomotive.
Tom Stratton lay in a boxcar that smelled of ammonia and cow manure. His arms and legs were trussed, and a burlap sack had been tied loosely over his head and upper torso. A dirty wad of gauze had been tightly taped over the nearly circular wound in his thigh. Deng’s aim had been perfect; the small-caliber bullet had missed Stratton’s hip bone and passed harmlessly through the fat of his upper leg. The blow on the head that had come with the fall had been a bonus for Deng and his partner; it had then been a simple matter to explain the unconscious American tourist being carried off the train in Xian. He had fallen in the compartment and badly cut his leg. He needed medical attention immediately.
Tom Stratton woke hours later to the clanging of rails, the lurching of the boxcar, and the tickle of a small animal scampering across the sack that cloaked his head. It was night. His thigh ached painfully. Stratton guessed that his bunkmate was probably a rat, and he rolled over to frighten it away. His head twirled and his ears rang as he