But the Miata was history now. Using the Kenworth and a mooring chain, they’d dragged it to shore that morning, leaving a slug-like trail the whole way. Its short stay on the river bottom left the little car coated in mud, and silty water still dripped beneath the doorframe. All that remained of the rear tire was a frayed shred on a rim; she’d driven hard even after it had blown out. But what really concerned her father were the four bullet holes in the rear quarter panel.
Looming protectively over the Miata, the ancient red Kenworth baked in the sun like a dozing dragon. Dull blue flames encircled the front end. The cloudy Lucite wind deflector on the hood read “HAZEL,” the painted lettering faded from two decades of highway miles.
Over the years an assortment of creatures had perished beneath the Kenworth’s tires; unfortunately, swerving and abruptly braking a loaded semi could result in more fatalities than just the animal in its path. Even considering this distressing need to stay the course, such an inordinate number of poor creatures had shown a fatal affinity for the truck that it had acquired the unsavory nickname “RoadKill,” along with iron grates to protect the headlights and grill. Like kills on a WWII fighter, rows of silhouettes covered the door representing numerous deer, squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, possum, skunks, and one Honda Civic.
Even if the Miata hadn’t been totaled, Hazel would’ve preferred RoadKill for the task ahead. After twenty years of looking across the hood’s expanse, the semi offered a reassuring sense of control and invulnerability. Granted, the door didn’t lock, the ignition switch came out with the key, and the heater fan only worked when you didn’t need it. Hazel saw this as character; her father argued the Kenworth was overdue for the glue factory.
The windows were already open, but the temperature in the cab still bordered on lethal. Hazel switched on the oscillating fan and pushed the perpetually drooping sun visor up, then adjusted the threadbare seat until she could press the clutch to the floor. She turned the key and pushed the starter, amused when nothing happened. No cranking, no clicking. Like she wouldn’t notice her father had disconnected the ignition ground. In less than a minute, Bivalve was swallowed by the dust cloud in her rearview mirror.
Dodging potholes along the rutted dirt road that cut through the marsh, Hazel tried to ignore one detail: she had no idea what she was doing. She only knew she had to do something. But where to start? What would Travis McGee do? He’d track down Micah’s friends, acquaintances and co-workers, anyone who might have seen him in the last few days. He’d ask questions, watch reactions, shake trees, and see what fell out.
Hazel leaned forward and lifted the hair off her back, but the hot air blasting into the cab offered little relief. RoadKill rattled and hopped; she glanced at the speedometer and eased back. With no load over the fifth wheel, the drive wheels tended to bounce, and airborne wheels didn’t brake very well. Driving 450 horses of diesel with limited stopping power required a degree of care. She had to focus.
Just past the Maurice River Bridge, a dark shape plodded across the baking asphalt. Hazel switched on the engine brake and backed off the throttle; RoadKill clattered loudly, the diesel’s compression strokes slowing the truck. Hazard lights flashing, she blocked the lane so passing sand quarry trucks would have to swing around her, then set the parking brakes with a loud hiss.
The mud turtle eyed her with suspicion as she climbed down, then retracted its head and feet. Hazel scooped it up from the double yellow lines, stepping back against RoadKill as a Mack rumbled past.
“You realize this is one reason you guys are endangered.” She tilted the turtle, studying its markings and wondering where it was headed with such determination. It blinked out at her as she checked for traffic and trotted across the road.
“Flat pavement equals flat turtle.” She placed it in the weeds on the riverbank. “Stay out of the road.”
With luck it would forever associate asphalt with bad experiences, avoiding roads in the future. Back in the truck, she flipped on the radio as she double-clutched through the gears, cranking up Shooter Jennings’ “4th of July” so loud she couldn’t hear herself think or sing, which was just as well on both counts.
First stop was Micah’s job: Nelson’s Appliance & Electronics in Millville. Hazel had checked there two days back when Micah’s absence still fell into the “typical behavior” category, but his friend Keith was on the road and the girls in the office had no useful information to offer.
Millville was a bustling hub of highways, strip malls, fast food franchises, car dealerships, and discount stores twenty minutes north of Bivalve and a half century ahead in time. Of the three Nelson’s Appliance stores, the Millville location was the oldest and most neglected. The Trenton site was larger and flashier, and, according to Micah, the new superstore up north in Paramus was the grandest yet.
Hazel swung RoadKill through the lot and spotted two vehicles in the employee spaces: a silver Jeep Cherokee with a surf fishing rig mounted to the front bumper and a gleaming navy F350 pickup with a chrome boat propeller hitch cover. Micah’s old green Reliant was visibly absent, but her heart jumped when she spotted the white International 4200 delivery truck he usually drove backed to the loading dock, the “SER” peeling, leaving “VICE BUILDS SALES” painted below the Nelson logo. Micah’s “HORN BROKE, WATCH FOR FINGER” bumper sticker had been partially covered by one reading: “JOHN 3:16.”
Keith Riley stepped around the International as she pulled alongside. Sweat trickled down his neck and molded his T-shirt to his broad, muscular frame. He glanced toward the showroom then strode over, concern in his soft green eyes, a chewed toothpick in the corner of his mouth. Hazel set the brakes, killed the engine, and climbed down.
“Where’ve you been?” Keith said. “I called last night but you didn’t answer. I drove by but I didn’t see your car and Witch was out. I didn’t know what to do.”
Keith’s calls and visits weren’t unusual. They’d dated briefly, and he was having trouble accepting it was over. But he was Micah’s friend, so she’d planned to talk to him in the hope he might offer some leads.
She pulled her sticky shirt away from her skin. “You could have left a message.” Most times he did: long, rambling ones pleading for her to take him back. Her dad and Joe played them for laughs if she didn’t delete them first.
“Not this time.” Keith straightened the silver crucifix hanging around his neck. “It’s about Micah. Have you seen him?”
“He hasn’t called and he doesn’t answer his cell.” She decided against mentioning Tuition’s disappearance, her being shot at and run off the road, or how some sadist had come hunting for Micah last night. “I’m worried he’s in trouble.”
“So am I.” He moved closer and lowered his voice. “But I’m more worried about you. Thank God you’re all right.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Her neck prickled. “Do you know what’s going on with Micah?”
“I’d rather talk to your father.”
“Keith, if you have something to say, say it.”
“It’s about Atkins.” Disgust crossed his face, as though the words alone tasted foul.
Hazel didn’t know much about Wayne Atkins, another of the Nelson Appliance drivers; what little she did she’d learned secondhand. He’d never bothered her, seemed to keep to himself. It was no secret he liked to drink and had served time years back for assault. He had an unsettling blood-red streak through one eye, thin, stringy hair, and a noticeable lack of personal or dental hygiene. He reminded Hazel of something left on the side of the road too long, but Micah insisted he wasn’t a bad guy once you got to know him. Then again, Micah would say that about Attila the Hun. Micah could see good in the worst people and brought out the best in everyone—except her father.
“What about Atkins?” Hazel asked.
“I warned Micah to stay clear of him, but you know Micah, he’ll trust anyone. I told Micah I’d heard Atkins was moving cocaine. I tried to tell Micah he was putting himself in danger, and now
he’s gone and put you in danger too.”
Was this about drugs? It couldn’t be; Micah had more sense than that. At least she wanted to believe he did. “Who told you this?”
Keith shifted the toothpick and scanned the lot. “People talk, word gets around. Atkins and Kessler were doing business on the side and something went sour.”
The pit of Hazel’s stomach turned to lead, and she tried not to show it. “Who’s Kessler?” After last night she knew the name only too well.
“Some buddy of Nelson’s,” he said. Nelson was Tom Nelson, Keith’s boss. “I’ve only seen Kessler once or twice. He and Atkins got into it, but I couldn’t hear what they said. It was obvious they were both really pissed, looked ready to kill.”
Hazel had to fight to keep her voice steady. “What’s that got to do with Micah?”
Again Keith checked no one was nearby. “Right after he had that go-around with Kessler, Atkins cornered Micah in the warehouse. He didn’t know I was there, and he pushed Micah against the wall, yelling for him to stay out of it, saying if he didn’t, he’d see just how fucked up things would get. Those were Atkins’s words, not mine. He said, ‘Don’t make me come after you,’ and if Micah didn’t listen, Atkins swore he’d break both his legs. When I asked Micah what was going on, he told me to mind my own business.”
“What the hell?” Hazel knew Micah liked Atkins, but he also trusted Keith. “When was this?”
“Last Saturday; the last time I saw Micah…and come to think of it, the same day Atkins quit. Then Atkins called me last night, he said he’d heard ‘that little dark-haired Moran girl’ dumped me and he wanted your phone number. He sounded drunk and he said with Micah gone now and you all alone, you could probably use some company, and he planned on paying you a visit.” Keith’s powerful hands curled to fists. “He said he had something special he wanted to show you. I called but you didn’t answer, and I tried to find you but you weren’t around.” His voice wavered the way it did whenever he was fighting to stay calm. “Haze, I know you’ve been avoiding me, but I’m worried about you. There’s more going on than you realize. You shouldn’t be alone, not now.”
“I’m not alone. I’ve got Dad and Joe.”
“I’m just saying…I was hoping we could try again.”
Was he seriously trying to use Micah’s disappearance to get back together with her? She’d think he was joking, but Keith didn’t joke.
“We could start over,” he insisted. “Things could be different. I realize I wanted too much too fast and you weren’t ready yet. I didn’t mean to pressure you. If you need more time I’ll wait. I don’t mind.”
Hazel almost laughed. With anyone else, that probably would have meant exactly what it sounded like. Not Keith. In fact, it was his chivalrous approach to dating that won her over to begin with. He was polite, respectful, and didn’t even try to touch her. No, it turned out Keith set his goals for her far higher, and it wasn’t until she got to know the real Keith Riley that she’d learned the truth. He was more obsessed with her eternal soul than the body housing it. His sermons on sin and damnation, pressuring her to abandon her godless ways and accept Christ as her savior, quickly grew relentless and scary. She ended it as gently as possible, stopped seeing him, and avoided his calls. Still, Keith refused to accept defeat, and if there was one thing she’d give him, he was determined.
He took her hand. “Listen. If you need me, I’ll help you any way I can, no expectations, no strings. Okay?”
Before she could answer, Keith stepped back and glared as Tom Nelson Jr. strode out of the air-conditioned showroom. Gym-toned, with a flawless smile, salon hair, and matching tan, Nelson looked younger than his midforties and dripped with concentrated charm, much of it directed toward getting into the pants of women other than his wife. Micah said Nelson never wasted time on anything over thirty or under a D cup, though, which so far had kept Hazel, with her moderate endowment and intentionally awful fashion sense, happily below his libido radar. Still, he had a habit of standing too close and touching her arm when he talked. Deliberate or otherwise, it made her skin crawl.
Nelson glared at Keith. “Isn’t there something else you should be doing?”
Keith stiffened and spit the toothpick stub to the side. His opinion of his boss was about as secret as Nelson’s extramarital pursuits. Keith turned to Hazel. “I’ll pray for you. And for Micah.”
Nelson chuckled. “Yeah, you do that.”
Ignoring Nelson, Hazel offered Keith a grateful smile. She might not share his religious zeal, but she appreciated his concern.
Keith headed back to the loading dock and Nelson stepped closer, gracing Hazel with his finest showroom smile. “I saw the truck and thought it was Micah. But that’s not the case, is it?” he said, moving in for the usual “friendly” caress.
Hazel shifted back, leaving his outstretched hand hovering between them. “You haven’t seen him?”
“I wish. First Atkins, then Micah.” Nelson’s smile faded and suddenly he looked his age. “I’m down to one lousy driver, the slowest goddamned one. Keith left the radio on in the cab again last night and killed another truck battery. And today he actually managed to get lost on the Turnpike.” Sweat trickled down the side of Nelson’s face, darkening his shirt collar. “You see Micah, you tell him he better get the hell back here.” He spun on his heel and stalked back to the cool refuge of the showroom.
Before Hazel could get back to RoadKill, Keith intercepted her and steered her out of view by her arm. “Haze, I’m serious. I’m really worried.”
She pulled her arm free. “So am I—about Micah. Do you know where Atkins lives?”
“You actually think I’d tell you?” Keith studied her, his lips hardening into a thin, whitening line. She knew that face too well: he was growing frustrated with her. “What are you doing out alone anyways? Micah’s missing, Atkins threatened him, and now he’s looking for you. You’re too stubborn to see you need protection. If you won’t take it from me, then at least have the sense to stay with your dad!”
Hazel climbed into the cab and started RoadKill. “That’s where I’m headed,” she assured him. “Back to the boatyard, I mean. I was just grabbing soda and hoagies for my dad and Joe.” And making one other stop, but she saw no reason to mention that.
I DON’T WANT TO GO THERE
Hammon’s pulse rose as they approached the library, and a headache had begun to build. Libraries were public places. Public places meant the public and the public meant strangers. Hammon’s well-structured life and mental well-being, both fragile at best, revolved around avoiding face-to-face contact with strangers. But Annabel adored reading, and the library provided Hammon somewhere to leave her safely occupied for a few hours.
“Please behave,” he said.
“Who? Me?” Annabel grinned. “I always behave. Unless someone else starts first.”
Yeah, this headache was going to be a screamer. He took a deep breath, counting to ten.
“Please, just promise,” he said, trying not to sound like he was pleading, which he was.
She offered a saccharine smile. “When do I not?”
He didn’t reply. There was no point. Maybe this time he could drop her off without incident. The entrance looked empty. He started in, but Annabel paused in the foyer, dripping on the carpet, scanning the shelves of donated and retired books while Hammon paced. Why did she always do that? She knew he hated standing there, so exposed.
Annabel read off a few titles, pointing out novels by Hiassen and Westlake, which he picked up for her.
Someone was approaching along the sidewalk, head down, umbrella up, dodging puddles.
“Can we go now?” Hammon said, shuffling.
The woman, a stylish thirty-something, stepped in, shaking her umbrella and making a disgusted face at the weather. Then she turned and her eyes stopped on Hammon.
She looked straight at him.
Stared.
His skin prickled. Hammon hunched down and bow
ed his head, wet hair falling forward, covering his face. Pulling his hat down and collar up, he fumbled with the books, which dropped to the floor. “Let’s just go,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
In the corner of his eye, Annabel squared her shoulders, tucked her hair back, and Hammon cringed.
“No…” he mumbled. “Please…no…”
“HEY, you!” An nabel locked eyes with the woman. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, you evil primate! Get a good look? Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare?”
“No…no…no…” Hammon moaned, face burning, head pounding. “Stop it! Everyone’s looking at me.”
Stammering, the woman backed into the closed doors, feeling around behind her for the handle. People inside turned to see the commotion as she scurried into the rain.
Triumphant, Annabel said, “See? Confront inconsideration and voila, the cowards flee. You don’t need to be afraid of them.”
“No, you make a scene and whala, instant chaos. This is why I can’t take you to Gary’s.”
“No, you won’t take me to Gary’s because he can’t deal with me and you can’t deal with that.”
The librarian, a petite woman with tidy gray hair, rushed over and helped Hammon collect his books from the floor. She politely avoided looking straight at him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hammon. Dropping Annabel off again?”
Hat down, Hammon nodded to his sneakers. “Is that okay?” he asked the carpet. “She’s not a problem when I’m gone, is she?”
“If you’re so worried, dear, you could take me to Gary’s.”
The librarian said, “Oh, Annabel is never a problem. She doesn’t bother a soul, just keeps to herself and reads. If only all our patrons were as pleasant.”
Annabel smirked. “I told him I’m good when he’s not around, but he won’t believe me.”
The librarian smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Hammon, she’ll be fine. We’re always delighted to have Annabel visit.”
Last Exit in New Jersey Page 4