A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [90]
“…regrets that the comrades in Peking had not informed him of the arrival of such a distinguished guest or he would have come personally to Bright Star to welcome you,” Kangmei translated. “Don’t worry about that, Thom-as. After tonight no one will ever ask for your papers and he will be afraid to ask Peking why they did not tell him.”
The saucer-faced man’s smile had vanished. He rocked back and forth on his cane. He shuffled to the left and right to measure Stratton from different angles. Stratton’s eyes never left him.
“…will offer a banquet of welcome and thanksgiving within the next few days and pledges full cooperation of all of the commune work brigades and production teams in your work. You have only to ask—”
“Kuei!” The word can mean either ghost or devil. In this case, it was doubly apt.
Screaming, the old man lunged with the cane, jabbing with it as more than a decade before he had jabbed Stratton with his truncheon.
Time had not been kind to the old man. Stratton easily parried the blow. He wrenched away from the cane, sent it spinning to the far corner of the room, and tried to look aggrieved.
The old man’s voice cracked with fury. His eyes bulged. The muscles in his neck corded. He threw himself on Stratton, splintering the chair. They rolled to the floor, the old man striking repeatedly with the only fist Stratton had left him.
Stratton covered up protectively. He did not fight back. It would not last long. It didn’t. The peasants pulled the old man off and built a human fence between him and Stratton. Stratton didn’t even bother getting to his feet. Instead, he scrambled over to the wall and leaned against it, waiting for what he knew must come.
Quivering, weeping, the old man shouted in a high, reedy voice. Within seconds a hush had fallen over the dispensary waiting room.
Kangmei translated. She needn’t have bothered.
“The old man was the head of the Public Security Bureau in Man-ling for many years—the top policeman. He knows you. He says you are an American spy who came to spy and to kill. Everybody will remember the night, he says. The night of the heroic people’s victory. The old man says he saw you then. He talked to you. You killed cadres. You shot him twice, once in the leg, once in the arm.” Kangmei’s voice jumped an octave, almost falsetto. “He says—”
Stratton had heard enough. He dug his nails into Kangmei’s arm.
“That’s enough, Kangmei. Tell the comrade that I understand his distress, but that he is mistaken. I have never been in China before this month. I have never been in Man-ling before. I have never been in a war. I am a rice expert. Say it calmly. Make it sound true.”
When she had finished, the old policeman began again, but the president of the commune silenced him. The president’s apparent perplexity mirrored expressions around the room. Whom to believe? What to do? The Zhuang, Stratton sensed, were with him. The Han cadres would probably side with the policeman. They were vastly outnumbered, but they had what counted most: authority.
The commune president ran a hand across his brow and seemed on the verge of speaking when a tall man appeared wiping his hands on a towel—the doctor who had bandaged Stratton. The doctor spoke quietly to one of the Zhuang near the door. The man’s face lit up, and he began chattering loudly. In an instant, the entire room was abuzz. Stratton watched the one-armed policeman say something to a slender young man who nodded and hurriedly left the room.
A new crop of smiles blossomed among the peasants, and fresh tears. One woman fainted. In the hubbub, Stratton had to yell to make himself heard.
“What is going on?”
Kangmei squeezed his hand. She was smiling and crying.
“It’s the little girl. They thought they had lost her, but now she is breathing well and seems to be out of danger.”
“Thank God.” For the nameless little girl, and for Thomas Stratton.
One of the peasants who had ridden on the truck with Stratton addressed the commune president.
“He says your goodwill and good intentions are