Sitting naked on the bed, Monsieur Hexie rubbed aromatic oil all over himself. The aroma was sweet and cloying, with a hint of rotten leaves. He knew from experience that johns couldn’t resist burying their noses in it, so he made sure that there was plenty on his chest and lower abdomen.
Monsieur Hexie glanced at the clock in the shape of New Orleans. He had timed things perfectly. The chime from the street door rang out. He told people it was the repeated clang of the single-note bell that sounded at the beginning of the voodoo service to raise the zombie king. The electrician had been instructed to set the device to keep ringing while visitors climbed the narrow stair to the apartment. The snake skeletons and goat skulls on the walls of the stairway were all part of the trip; they also made sure that the advantage was Monsieur Hexie’s, a state of affairs he did everything to sustain. More than once, Monsieur Hexie had been confronted by trembling men who had lost their nerve.
He slipped on an almost transparent silk robe over his sequined briefs and put on his high priest’s headdress: three black ostrich feathers attached to a snake skin that circled his head twice. Then he went to the spy hole in the door. It had been a long time since anyone had dared lay a rough hand on him, but he was too smart to take unnecessary risks. The white guy he peered out at looked normal enough. He was probably in his thirties and of average height, brown hair, possibly dyed, a face that was smooth and rather girlish. His leather jacket and the pale green shirt were smart enough, even if at odds with the john’s mild-mannered expression. If pressed, Monsieur Hexie would have said he was an office worker-an accountant or bank employee-trying to look cool in his free time.
He opened the door and extended a long leg. “Well, good evening, honey,” he said in his most come-hither tone. “Ready for the trip of your life?”
The john looked at his bare thigh with a show of interest. As he moved a hand toward it, Monsieur Hexie stepped back.
“What’s your name, darling?” he asked, smiling.
“Um…Pete,” came the unconvincing reply.
“Uh-huh,” Monsieur Hexie said. He grabbed his shirt-front and pulled him close. “And would you like a drink to warm you up on this chill evening, Pete?”
“Um…yeah.” The guy looked at him and then cast a glance around the room. He seemed less impressed than most johns by what he was wearing, and the crocodile heads didn’t make his eyes open wide, either. As for Satan, sitting on a cushion with his eyes half-closed, well…Pete was ignoring him completely. Monsieur Hexie wasn’t concerned. The liqueur he made from rum and herbs had never been known to fail. He handed the john a generous measure in a heavy crystal glass.
“To the powers of darkness,” he said, raising his glass.
The man stared at him like he was some kind of freak and eventually chinked glasses.
“Drink, child,” Monsieur Hexie said, licking his lips. “It’ll make you last all night.”
Pete lifted the glass to his thin lips and took a sip. “Nice,” he said, screwing his eyes up.
Cold fish, Monsieur Hexie thought. Sounds different to what he did on the telephone. Much less eager. He stepped close and started to unfasten the john’s shirt buttons. He then shivered terminally as two sharp points pierced the skin of his back and ran through each of his kidneys.
The last thing Monsieur Hexie heard was a loud hiss from Satan as he scurried under the bed.
Twelve
Inside the gloom of the hut, I could make out very little. I felt around for a light switch before realizing there wouldn’t be power lines in the middle of the forest. My head bumped into a metal object. I stretched up, feeling a stab of pain from the wound I’d made in my upper arm, and found a hurricane lamp. I shook it and heard the splash of liquid inside. Now all I needed was a match.
After I’d banged my shins against a heavy wooden chair, I thought about opening a shutter to let in the last of the daylight. I stopped myself before I got to the nearest window. I couldn’t risk attracting attention. So instead, I started running my hands over all the surfaces, eventually finding matches in a wall holder. Putting a flame to the lamp’s wick, I looked around the single room that composed the ground floor. There was a kitchen on the rear wall-gas stove, plate holders, no fridge. There was also a waist-high cupboard. I strode over and pulled it open. Bingo. The shelves were stacked with cans and packets. I reached a hand down.
The sudden crack made me jump backward, and I yelped at the sudden pain. I held my right hand under the lamp. The index finger was in a trap, the size of which suggested that rats rather than mice were the local pest. I pried the spring-loaded wires apart and examined the livid welt across the finger. It hurt even more when I bent it, but I didn’t think it was broken. Then I remembered what I’d thought about things not getting any worse.
My stomach clenched and I realized I had to eat before I did anything else. Then I saw the wooden ladder that led up to a platform in the back half of the cabin. I clambered up it, my finger throbbing. A mattress covered most of the surface, and it was piled with discolored pillows, quilts and blankets. I dragged two blankets over and let them drop to the floor below. Although there was a fireplace with a pile of chopped wood next to it, I couldn’t risk lighting a fire. The only way I was going to get warm was by wrapping up well.
I pulled off the outer layers of rain-soaked clothing and hung it across chairs, then wrapped one blanket around me and the other over my shoulders. Fortunately, the material was thick and the shivers that had plagued me since I’d stopped running gradually disappeared. I went back to the food cupboard and rummaged around: canned tuna, chili and several different kinds of beans. I found a can opener in a drawer and settled down to a cold feast. It was one of the best meals I’d ever eaten. After I’d finished, I looked for something to drink. There were cans of beer and a bottle of whiskey. They were no use to me as I couldn’t risk blurring my senses. Then I found some sodas. I got through a couple before it occurred to me to examine them.
I checked the cans and bottles. The whiskey was from somewhere called Lynchburg, Tennessee, the tuna had been canned in Fort Lauderdale, FL, and the beans were from Pittsburgh, PA. I looked at the whiskey again. It was Jack Daniel’s. The black label and name rang a bell deep in my memory. I opened the bottle and took a sniff. A subtle aroma flooded my nostrils and suddenly I retched. I remembered-I had got horribly drunk on Jack Daniel’s, and I knew where. In a bar with a view of a great storied building with colonnades and a high dome. The name of the city flashed into my mind. Washington. Washington, D.C. Capital of the United States of America.
I rocked back on my heels and tried to come up with more. I caught glimpses of a scene in a bar, people laughing and cheering. But I couldn’t think who they were, or what I had been doing there. The only thing I knew for sure was that the bar was in Washington, near the seat of government. Did that mean I was in the United States now? I looked at the cans I’d emptied. Fort Lauderdale, FL. I sounded the letters FL together and immediately thought of the name Florida. Pittsburgh, PA, didn’t register, but the letters on some other products I took from the cupboard prompted names-IL, Illinois. CA, California. It wasn’t overwhelming proof that I was in the U.S.A., but it certainly seemed likely.
I stood up, feeling twinges in my knee. I needed rest badly. As I was heading for the ladder, I caught sight of a newspaper under the table. I picked it up and looked at the front page. It was a tabloid-that word popped into my brain instantly to describe the small newsprint pages-called the Star Reporter. The paper was dated May 12, 2008. I wasn’t sure if that was recent, but I had a feeling it was. A photo took up most of the front page, showing an underdressed woman standing by a horse. The headline was Senator Bares All to Stallion. According to the story, the forty-nine-year-old politician had been seen riding naked on a ranch in New Mexico, an allegation she strongly denied. I flicked through the paper. It was full of what I suspected were either invented or hugely exaggerated scandals.