That’s when Hudson woke up.
What a pile of crap for a dream! his thoughts squalled. The recollections disgusted him. He dragged himself up, showered, then nearly howled when he looked at the clock.
Six P.M.
I slept the whole day away!
He searched the cupboards for something to eat but found nothing—just a bottle of Vigo olive oil. Great . . . Then he stared at the kitchen table, noticing the envelope full of money and the handwritten notice that he’d won the “Senary.” At least that part wasn’t a dream.
But what would he do with the cash? Save it? Or: I’ll put half in the bank and give the rest to the church or a homeless shelter.
Would that make him a better person in God’s eyes? He wondered. Don’t be a crummy person, the evangelist’s words kept sideswiping him. But when he looked at the envelope again . . .
Maybe it’s time to see what this Senary business is all about . . .
Two winos shared the bus shelter with him, sleeping or passed out. A third man, who looked normal, must’ve been possessed by some syndrome like Tourette’s. He peered right at Hudson and spouted, “Fuck luck suck druck muck cluck nuck tuck BLUCK!”
And a good day to you, too, Hudson thought. He dressed normally, in faded jeans and a T-shirt, sneakers. The shelter’s plastic windows shuddered when the bus pulled up.
Hudson took the first seat, while the winos neglected to get on. Maybe they’re . . . dead, he considered, looking out the window at them. They remained sidled over in the shelter, drooling. The Tourette’s man went all the way to the back; then the bus jerked away.
The Senary, Hudson contemplated. What the hell is it? He looked at the announcement, with the address and instructions.
. . . CARRY ON TO THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS AFTER SUNDOWN WITHIN THE NEXT SIX DAYS . . .
It had only been one day, and a glance to the horizon showed him he still had several hours before sundown. A copy of the Tampa Bay Times sat on his seat; Hudson picked it up, began to thumb through. One article enthused over the governor’s bid to build a “biomass” electric plant; the plant ran on natural gas derived from elephant grass and dog feces. Then Hudson spotted this:
FEMALE PASTOR DISAPPEARS
The article went on to disclose that Andrea Wilson, forty, a well-regarded deaconess at the Grace Unitarian Church of St. Petersburg, seemingly disappeared from her post several days ago. She gave no notice of resignation, nor notice of taking leave.
It’s her, Hudson thought when he looked at the accompanying picture, the blonde hair conservatively pulled back, the strongly angled but attractive face, and the Roman collar.
“She’s such a wonderful person,” quoted a woman who regularly attended the church. “She’s so inspiring, so full of faith. And she’s simply not the type of person to leave and not tell anyone where she went.”
I know where she went yesterday, came Hudson’s dreadful thought. My apartment, to tell me I’ve won a contest called the Senary, and then strip nude and rub herself down with my olive oil . . .
He wondered if he should call the police and tell them that he’d seen the missing woman, but . . . No. What on earth could I say?
He squinted at the next, shorter article, which reported that a grave had been vandalized late last night at Carver Forest Memorial Cemetery, and the very instant Hudson read the information, he glanced out the window to discover that the bus was cruising by a long, overgrown cemetery. The sign at a fenced entrance read CARVER FOREST. Uncanny, he thought. The spotty article went on to reveal that the grave vandalized had been that of a four-month-old infant who’d been murdered last spring.
Lord. What a world . . .
Hudson closed the paper when he saw his stop nearing. Had he turned the page he would’ve seen a grimmer article about the discovery of a dead newborn baby found in a recycle bin last night. Hudson pulled the cord. “Thank you, driver,” he said, and the driver, in turn, frowned. The Tourette’s man railed from the back of the bus just as Hudson stepped off: “Fuck suck schmuck gruck huck puck duck buck zuck wuck six.” Then the doors flapped closed.
Hudson turned as the bus pulled away. Did he say six? He squinted after the disappearing vehicle and saw the Tourette’s man give him the finger through the back window.
He walked down Central, shirking at loud cars and motorcycles. He’d already memorized the street address (24651) because he didn’t want to be consulting his wallet in this neck of the woods. The area was mostly ghetto, small saltbox houses in various states of disrepair. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, he considered when he noticed stragglers obviously selling drugs only blocks deeper off the road. Burned-up yards fronted most of the little houses; piles of junk sat like tepees amid trashed cars. So much for urban renewal . . .
He sensed more than saw a figure behind him.
“Yo!” came a girl’s voice.
Hudson turned, not quite at ease. A black girl in tight knee jeans and a zebra-striped tube top boldly approached him. Her dark skin gleamed over robust curves.
“How’s, uh, how’s it going?” Hudson bumbled.
“Why’n’cha lemme put some sizzle in your swizzle, man, like I’ll lay some bigtown xtralicious super gobble game on you for, like, twenty-five bucks,” she said.
“No, really, I—”
“Bullshit, man.” She stood haughtily, hand on a cocked hip. “I knows a john when I see one, and you a john. Come on, pussy or mouth, I got both. You wanna fuck, I kin tell.”
“No, really—”
“Yeah, you white guys’re all cheap motherfuckers. Awright, twenty bucks for a blow.”
Only now did Hudson fully realize how out of place he was. “I’m . . . not interested. I’m just trying to find an address.”
The gleam of her white teeth matched that of her skin. “Shee-it. You lookin’ for the Larken House, I know. Lotta folks always lookin’ for it. 24651, right?”
Hudson was astonished. “Well, yes.”
“Folks been walkin’ by it since it happened.”
“Since . . . what happened?”
“Don’t’choo watch the news?” She adjusted her tube top. “Couple, three months ago, a brother named Larken, work construction, he cut off his ole lady’s head when he found out the baby she had a couple months ’fore that were from a other dude. Cut her head off in the house, then walk right down this street and stick it on the antenna of the dude’s car ’cos, see, he hadda old car that had one’a them old-fashioned antennas on it. Then Larken come back the house and cut the baby’s head off, and he microwave it. Some say he fuck the headless wife on the kitchen table, too, but I dunno. Then he hang hisself. Said he had his cock out when he step off the chair.” She looked at him. “Fucked-up house, man.”
Hudson felt perplexed. “So that’s why people walk by it? Because it’s . . . infamous?”
“Yeah, man. ’Cos, sometime, they say, you kin see Larken in there, hangin’ by his neck. Sometimes you hear the baby cryin’.”