A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [71]
“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 signaled 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 beginner. My old man would approve.”
Kangmei shyly turned away. Stratton tenderly stroked the back of her neck; her skin was warm velvet.
“Are there more road checks?”
“I don’t think so,” she replied distractedly. “None that I remember.”
“Are you tired?”
“Just a little, Thom-as. You are the one who needs to sleep.”
Stratton cruised slowly through the hillsides until he found what he was looking for. He drove the truck off the asphalt and steered it down a washboard track until it was out of sight from the road. He parked and turned off the lights. Tall trees swallowed them into shadows.
“We can nap here for an hour, but no more. We must not be on the road after the sun comes up.”
“Yes, we must finish the journey tonight.” Kangmei took Stratum’s hand and led him through the trees until they found a clearing. They lay down together on a natural mat of pine needles, ivy and crisp cedar leaves. Stratton closed his eyes; his mind fell, spinning through the clouds toward sleep. He barely felt Kangmei’s hands, gently pulling his shirt off. He heard her soft footsteps fade into the forest.
He quivered out of sleep when the cold water drenched his thigh.
“Ssshh. Lie still, Thom-as.” She sponged his face with a rag and kissed him on the forehead.
“There is a brook nearby, with clean water.” Kangmei washed the bullet wound in Stratton’s leg. She had pulled his trousers off. In the grayness of deep night, he lay pale and limp.
“We will see a doctor tomorrow,” she whispered. “He will treat the leg properly.”
Stratton smiled and reached up to capture her hand. Tenderly he kissed it. She looked down at him for a long moment, a young woman of timeless wisdom.
“Yes,” Stratton said at last. “Please.”
In silence, Kangmei stripped. Suddenly she was astride him, a velvet presence. She moved gently at first, back and forth, until she found his lips, and then his neck. Stratton closed his eyes and held her fiercely as she sank down on him again and again.
LATER, WHEN THEY were in the truck again, Kangmei revealed her secret. It was as if she had saved it for Stratton, saved it for the end. “After they dragged me from your room in Xian, I was delivered to the police,” she began. “They were told I had been caught pilfering at a market. I was thrown into a cell with three other women. Each had been accused of stealing items from the Qin burial vaults.
They were not mere peasants, but trusted workers on the site. Petty thieves, my father called them. Their arrests were part of a new campaign—banners, leaflets, announcements on the loudspeakers—all arranged by my father to show the ministry that he was cracking down against pilfering. It was a charade, Thom-as.”
“But I saw a big article in the People’s Daily,” Stratton broke in.
Kangmei said, “Certainly there is a problem with stealing, but only a minor problem. The artifacts are worth a fortune by Chinese standards. One of the women in my cell admitted that she had stolen a bridle from one of the bronze horses. The bridle was made only of stone beads, not gold or silver. Still, she was able to sell it to a street peddler for a hundred yuan. The peddler probably sold it to a tourist for three or four times as much. Such things do happen.