A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [66]
Suddenly the lights in the stairwell snapped on. From above came agitated shouts, and the rumble of feet on the stairs.
For a few precious seconds David Wang was paralyzed, rooted and tremulous as the din escalated. Only when the first young cadre appeared at the top of the stairs did he act.
With a desperate jerk, David toppled the ladder. It fell in front of his pursuer. As David lunged for the door on the landing, the cadre hurdled the ladder easily. A hand clamped David by the shoulder. He spun around and breathlessly shoved—nearly threw—the tool chest into the cadre’s gut. The young man staggered backwards and doubled up. When his heels hit the ladder he tumbled down the stairs in a groaning somersault.
David Wang did not wait to see his enemy stop rolling. He was already anxiously exploring the second floor of the museum. It was a large room, dominated by rows of display cases, dimly perceived, their contents a mystery. If only there were someplace to hide, and if only he could see it. Across the gallery was another doorway. David Wang did not particularly care where it would take him. He ran for it. His gait was the huffing half-waddle of an old man, no match for the athletic cadres who streamed behind him.
David was but halfway to the door when he realized that he would not make it. He meant to stop, to gather himself and surrender with dignity. Instead, he lost his balance and skidded into a display case housing a collection of seventh century bronzes. David Wang and the exhibit went down together with an ear-splitting crash.
When his wits returned, a circle of young men was standing over him. He expected that they would scream at him, perhaps jeer, or even beat him. But they did not. Rather, the cadres simply led David back to his attic cell with the impatience of peasants who have frustrated the ungainly escape of a commune mule.
Later, the keepers even brought the old scholar tea and dumplings to replace the dinner he had fled. This time the spoon was plastic.
IN ANOTHER CELL, hundreds of miles away, Tom Stratton shakily faced a contrived tribunal. The jailer returned to the chair on Zhou’s left. Zhou himself sat down next, his back straight, his face unreadable. Kangmei wordlessly took the chair on Zhou’s right. Her long hair had been braided in pigtails, and her Western clothes had been replaced with standard Mao blue. Stratton searched her eyes for a clue, but Kangmei looked away.
“Nice room, huh?” Stratton said. “This is what I get for taking the American plan.”
“You are to remain silent,” Zhou warned, “until these accusations are read. Then you will be permitted to state your confession and sign it. Then sentence will be declared. Wang Kangmei?”
“Yes, Comrade Zhou.”
“Do you see the man named Thomas Stratton in this room?”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“Describe him,” Zhou commanded.
Kangmei studied the half-naked Stratton for several moments, up and down, and this time it was he who looked away.
“He is an American. He is tall and light-haired. With a mustache.”
“And what is he doing now?”
“Kneeling, Comrade Zhou.”
“And what is he wearing, Wang Kangmei?”
“A shirt, a torn shirt.”
“Filthy? Unclean?”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“And what else? What else is he wearing?”
“A bandage. A filthy bandage.” Kangmei glared scornfully down at Stratton. “And that is all, Comrade Zhou. He has no other clothes on.”
“And do you find him … attractive?”
“No! He is disgusting. He is a pig. A pig and a liar.”
“Liar!” shouted the jailer. He propped one of his shoes on Stratton’s bruised shoulder. “Liar! Liar!” Stratton pushed the foot away.
“Kangmei, what crimes did Mr. Stratton commit against you?”
“He asked me to come to his hotel room in Xian. He said he wanted to give me something that belonged to my uncle, David Wang, who had died in Peking. He said it was something of great sentimental value.”
Zhou said, “Did you believe the lying pig Thomas Stratton?