For the most part, Hazel’s father treated them equally, though he tended to push Micah a bit harder, expecting more from him. And he blamed Micah whenever Hazel got into trouble, whether justified or not; either way, Micah always accepted it with a smile. Unfortunately this earned him a reputation as a troublemaker, no matter how loudly Hazel proclaimed his innocence. In the end her father and Joe simply assumed that if something went wrong, Micah was at fault. This was a perfect example.
“Maybe he’s just away with some girl.” Hazel said, pulling threads from the hole in the knee of her jeans. “Or lost his cell phone. Or both.” She wished it was that simple—and that she believed it herself. Joe’s skeptical look was reply enough.
“It’s happened before,” she said defensively. While her father suffered from terminal seriousness, Micah was a Labrador puppy in human form: carefree, oblivious, and prone to straying after some enticing scent. More than once she’d received a postcard or call from Ft. Lauderdale or New Orleans, where he’d wound up with a group of girls on spring break.
“Yeah,” Joe said, “but those times, Tuition didn’t vanish with him.”
There was that. Their gleaming new Freightliner, Tuition, represented far more than merely Hazel’s entire college fund. For twenty years her father had supported them by driving RoadKill, living frugally, and homeschooling Hazel, keeping her by his side even as he worked and saved for that rainy day when he’d ship her off to the very place he’d left in his rearview mirror when she was born. It wasn’t easy convincing him her heart wasn’t set on college and they should instead use those funds for a new truck. A childhood spent riding shotgun in the cab and under sail, while solitary and unconventional, was something she wouldn’t trade for four walls, a yard, and every sitcom she’d never watched. She was happiest behind the wheel. It suited her far better than Micah’s bustling college life. It took nearly a year to persuade her father that her mind was set; she was intent on continuing the family business, and they should buy the new truck they needed. Only now Tuition was gone, and so was Micah.
“Maybe it’s just coincidence.” Hazel turned away to examine the black-and-white photos on the walls she’d studied a thousand times before, frozen images from Bivalve’s prosperous days when the river teemed with schooners. She swore she could see Witch’s stern in one.
Joe said, “I don’t believe in coincidence.”
Hazel could feel his eyes on her as she contemplated the beam of sunlight scattered into rainbows by the facetted stone in her ring. The air-conditioner whined, the radio blared, and tension hung in the stuffy air. She tried to distract herself by organizing the trophies from Joe’s more interesting repairs. Bent props, mangled pistons, twisted valves, and the shattered remains of a crankshaft. She tried to calculate the number of screws in the unfinished sheetrock walls, then poked at hardened formations of over-expanded spray foam insulation spilling from the seams. She inventoried a cardboard box by the door packed with fireworks. Mortars, fountains, Roman candles, firecrackers, M80s, whistling rockets, Saturn missiles.
“Gonna be a hell’va Fourth,” Joe said, his voice tight.
Was she actually making him uncomfortable? She didn’t think anything made Joe nervous.
Hazel closed the box and turned to him. “Joe? Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
Joe stiffened slightly but continued to spray down the carb. “Wrong how?”
“I don’t know. It’s…” She closed her eyes, searching for the right words. “Like when we go hunting, and I have to…”
She didn’t have to explain. He knew. She’d learned to hunt beside her father and Joe and was quite skilled, yet she detested the actual killing and would have stopped long ago if not for the fact that her kills were consistently cleaner and more humane than either of theirs. How anyone could consider hunting a sport, though, eluded her. It was an unpleasant task, necessary for filling the freezer with venison. She wasn’t squeamish: she could efficiently field dress, skin, and butcher her kill, but the process left her somber for days.
“But last night…” She couldn’t say it. Saying it would be admitting it, and that—that she didn’t even want to consider.
“There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just in shock.”
“I didn’t think. I just reacted.”
“You had to or God knows what would have happened.” He slammed the gang box drawer closed. “This is the Pierce thing all over again, isn’t it? Don’t listen to what anyone says; just because you defended yourself doesn’t mean you’re some kind of sociopath.”
She understood what he was saying, but there was a difference between last night and the time Dave Pierce tried to rape her. She had been fourteen then. He followed her until she was alone, then cornered her and held her down, fumbling with his jeans as she screamed and struggled to escape. She’d been crying for him to stop, to let her go—and suddenly he did. Then it was Pierce who was screaming. He fell off her and she stumbled to her feet, backed away, and stared down at her knife clasped in her blood-slick hand. And as he lay shrieking, his gut sliced open, she stood and considered for a fleeting moment whether to cut his throat as well. Instead she ran.
“I didn’t kill Pierce.”
Joe rubbed the back of his neck, pressing on knotted muscles. “And last night you did what you had to. You’re okay and that’s what’s important. Don’t forget that.”
She didn’t think she ever would. She could still see Kessler’s sadistic face every time she closed her eyes. Hazel stared down at the cracked linoleum tiles. “I don’t feel okay.”
“You’re in shock.”
He didn’t get it. After she stabbed Kessler, she probably could have escaped. He was already dying—just not fast enough.
“It was so…” she started, her voice trailing off. So what? Easy? Satisfying? Why was it she felt more remorse killing a deer than another human? What did that say about her?
Joe carried the carburetor to the parts bath and began spraying it with Clean-R-Carb. No. He wasn’t cleaning the carb. Hazel peeked over his shoulder, and saw Witch’s axe soaking in a bath of carb-cleaner. Joe turned to her. “It’s over. Let it go. It never happened.”
But it did and she had a bad feeling it was anything but over. She stared at Joe and he stared back. Sweat beaded across his forehead, and his scalp glistened beneath the shadow of stubble. Hazel rose, checking the thermostat. It was eighty-two degrees in the shop. “Too hot,” she said.
“Gonna be another scorcher,” Joe agreed, visibly relieved by the change of subject. “We could use a good storm, break this heat.”
Hazel glanced at the barometer on the wall. The air pressure was dropping. “It’s coming.”
If she’d ever needed Micah, it was now, and he probably needed her even more. She had to get out of there; she had to find him. She knew what her father said about staying put but she didn’t care. Clearly the building wasn’t on fire and an imminent nuclear attack on Bivalve seemed unlikely, which left one option. She turned up the air-conditioner, cranked the radio to match, then paused and looked around.
“Did this place just shake?”
Joe shrugged. “This dump’s built on sand and mud. Ninety years, the foundation’s still settling. I’m amazed it hasn’t collapsed yet.”
It might’ve been settling, or maybe the ground trembled, even to the slightest degree. That would qualify as an earthquake.
“But it wasn’t my imagination. You felt it too.”
Joe kept working but he nodded, “Yeah, maybe, I guess.”
He was just humoring her, but that wasn’t the point. She had confirmation; that was good enough. “I’m going to wash up and grab a soda,” she said. “You want one?”
“Yeah, kiddo. That’d be nice.”
“Be right back.” She walked out of the shop, heading toward the refrigerator. And past, to the lot. She hadn’t specified where she’d get the soda. With the radio cranked and the air-conditioner maxed, Joe wouldn’t hear
a bomb go off. He’d be so absorbed in his work it’d be some time before he realized she left.
Seriously, he should have known better.
I’M HEADING OUT
Time to go. Step outside, shut door, lock up, walk.
Simple on the surface, but wasn’t that the case with so many things?
No. First Hammon had to check every system aboard from bow to stern. Check the stove, make sure it was off, not that he’d used it in years or even had propane tanks aboard. Double-check each knob anyway, confirm they were off. Everything unplugged. Every circuit breaker off. Every hatch locked. Step into the pelting rain, lock the cabin. Yeah. Definitely locked. Hammon slid his fingers along where frame met door, verifying there was no gap. He pushed a bucket up against the door. That meant it was closed and locked. He wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t closed. Check again, just in case. Try to open the door, jiggle the handle.
“The boat is locked,” Annabel said. He checked again, and again Annabel reassured him. Of course it was locked. The bucket was there. He wouldn’t walk away if it wasn’t.
Climbing off, he checked each dock line. Exposed to a stiff chop, the boats on either side churned and fought their lines while Revenge rode out the weather with steady dignity.
Externally, Revenge didn’t look like much. Just another generic sport-fishing boat indigenous to the East Coast. At thirty-six feet she was average in size. Her lines were vaguely classic, but that was subtle, and most people wouldn’t notice subtle details. Unlike the surrounding boats, no shiny tags or distinctive style indicated any specific builder. On closer scrutiny, it became evident she lacked anything shiny. Railings were unpolished, the hull a drab off-white, and gray canvas covered all glass surfaces. She seemed to blend into the stormy sky. Backed to the dock, her transom was blank; only faded New Jersey registration numbers on the bow provided any identification, however inaccurate, and only because missing registration numbers could draw unwanted attention.
Hammon looked everything over again. Exposure to daylight was bad enough, but separating from his personal sanctuary was worse. Concealed within his trench coat, he forced himself to walk away even as his stomach twisted in protest. Annabel, on the other hand, proceeded without a care in the world and dressed accordingly. She grinned as fat raindrops soaked her cutoffs and tank top in the most appealing way.
Though it was daytime, there was one reason Hammon was able to venture out. The downpour had driven away the summer crowds; they had fled the beaches, docks, and streets and sought refuge indoors, quite literally leaving the coast clear for him to roam. And the satellites peppering the sky, the ones scrutinizing the planet’s surface in minute detail, couldn’t see through clouds. Rain made Hammon almost as invisible as darkness. He reached into his pocket, switching on the MP3 player tucked in a ziplock bag.
“What aren’t you listening to today?” asked Annabel.
Rain streaked his glasses, and he wiped them with his fingers, smearing the lenses. “The usual electromagnetic noise. The Ramones, I think.”
The music wasn’t important, thus no headphones. Listening wasn’t the point. The MP3 player emitted just enough electromagnetic interference to confuse the satellites sorting through the electronic racket rising from the ground, effectively shielding him from detection. He glared up at the sky. “Can you hear me now?”
Not all satellites were evil. Some transmitted benign TV, radio, and Internet signals; some provided GPS coordinates. But then there were the Watchers, the Listeners, and worse yet, the Trackers. Trackers didn’t care about clouds or rain or even the Ramones; if they had your digital scent, they could find you no matter what. It was only aboard Revenge he truly felt concealed. Hidden beneath the boat’s joinery and insulation, every inch of her interior was lined with continuously grounded fine copper mesh, painted over with high-frequency-shielding conductive copper paint. Essentially, he’d created a floating Faraday cage, impenetrable to electromagnetic waves, cell phone signals, CB, TV, AM, FM signals, radio-frequency radiation, and microwaves.
But outside the cabin, his only protection came in the form of his baseball cap and an oversized trench coat, both lined with ultrathin silver/copper-core-thread fabric. It was better than nothing and less conspicuous than aluminum foil. When people see someone dressed like a baked potato, they tend to make negative assumptions.
“Would you relax already?” Annabel stomped her flip-flops in puddles with childlike enthusiasm. “They can’t find us.”
Maybe they couldn’t, but an unsettling feeling rose in Hammon’s gut. He’d forgotten something. That wasn’t unusual; he forgot things all the time. What now? He rubbed the side of his skull. He couldn’t think straight, not with that damned mercury buried deep inside his brain, shorting circuits between neurons.
Think, damnit. What was it?
Then panic hit. Did he lock the boat?
Revenge was already out of view. He remembered leaving the cabin, and he remembered checking the lines but drew a blank on the time in between. He slowed, straining to quell the building dread.
He’d never not locked the boat; all the same, if he couldn’t remember, it was possible he’d left his refuge exposed to the world. If there was one area in which Hammon’s brain excelled, it was in visualizing disaster. He’d had enough experience to draw on. He froze, sweat trickling down his back.
Annabel paused her puddle-stomping. “What now?”
He blinked. “I can’t remember…”
“Go on,” she said patiently.
“Did I lock Revenge?”
She smiled. “Yes. The boat is locked. I told you.”
“You did?” Relief displaced anxiety. If Annabel said the boat was locked, it was. They continued onward. His Converse high-tops were soaked, but the rain was warm, and wet feet only bothered him somewhat. When Annabel wasn’t looking, Hammon fished out his wallet and thumbed through the contents. He studied his driver’s license as though the plastic card belonged to someone else.
According to the state of New Jersey, he was John O. Hammon, sex: M, hgt: 5-06, eyes: GRY, currently twenty-one years of age and residing in Manasquan, New Jersey. He stared at the miniature photo of his face with aversion. He wasn’t so much pale as devoid of color. His skin, what little he revealed, had the unhealthy, washed-out tone of one who avoided daylight and fresh vegetables. The digital fuzziness downplayed his scars. His hair was a dull mousy brown, and his most vibrant feature, his battleship-gray eyes, seemed to absorb rather than reflect surrounding color. His wardrobe of faded black completed the effect. If not for the blue background, the photo could just as well be monochrome. Frowning, he shoved the license back in his pocket.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Annabel said, skipping past him on the sidewalk. Hammon glanced around. No one but them.
“Just lost in thought,” he said as her soaked shirt redirected his brain. She was drenched, her tank top plastered to her well-defined curves. The words “1.6 liters is a soft drink, not an engine” rose and dipped and rose again over her chest. He loved the rain.
“Should I send a search party?” Amusement flickered in her dark eyes. “Or are you still thinking about your dirty pictures?”
His face grew warm. “What pictures?”
“It’s cool; you don’t have to hide them from me.” Annabel grinned and tucked her wet hair behind her ear. “I like them too.”
Her playfulness fascinated Hammon. In all the years they’d been together, so much of Annabel remained a mystery, delightful and perplexing. He didn’t even know her age; his best guess currently put her somewhere around nineteen. Yet another of her secrets, along with her true name and her past. He’d learned long ago not to ask. If he pried too deep, she’d get upset and go silent for days, and that was hell on earth. Discussion of their lives before they met was off-limits, which worked just fine for him. His brain was like a trailer park after a tornado: some memories lay in twisted, unrecognizable piles, others vanished without a trace. Better to acce
pt things as they were and just go on. It was hard to imagine, but whatever brought Annabel to the ICU was worse than what he’d survived. While his scars were visible, hers lay hidden beneath an unmarred exterior.
Gary swore there was something very wrong with her. Hammon didn’t care what Gary said. True, Annabel was far from perfect; Hammon was the first to admit it. She was sarcastic and critical. Without explanation she could turn moody and withdrawn. And she could be ruthless. She knew him better than anyone; she knew his every fear, his every weakness. Lying to her was impossible. He was a lousy liar, and she saw right through him. But in the end, he and Annabel were both survivors, however damaged. Annabel accepted him as he was and he accepted her, no questions asked. It was that shared, unspoken understanding that bonded them.
13:57 SATURDAY, JUNE 26
39°14’00.46”N/75°01’59.27”W
BIVALVE, NJ
Outside the shop everything had the glaring, washed-out dullness of an overexposed photo, and Hazel squinted as her eyes adjusted. Her potted tomato plants, watered at dawn, were already wilting, and even the more heat-tolerant peppers were showing the strain. The air was thick with a blend of marsh and decaying shellfish, but the sunbaked boatyard hummed with life, none of it human. Terns darted and wheeled, chattering as they picked off flies. A muskrat shuffled into the rushes, and high above an osprey circled, scanning the river for lunch. Hazel crossed the lot and watched as the bird dove, plunging feet first into the water, then rose skyward with an eel struggling in its talons.
Keys out, Hazel stopped beside her Miata. It was a base model older than her, with an odometer that had flipped more than once and a duct-taped convertible roof that leaked so badly it was pointless to close. Still, it had run well, and with white Shelby stripes over the faded blue paint, it almost resembled a 427 Cobra. Almost, especially if she closed her eyes, which wasn’t exactly the best way to drive.
Last Exit in New Jersey Page 3