Last Exit in New Jersey
Page 5
14:49 SATURDAY, JUNE 26
39°19’11.23”N/74°59’18.39”W
NJ ROUTE 47 SOUTH
Hazel locked RoadKill’s brakes when she spotted the galvanized-steel mailbox marking the narrow gravel drive trailing off the county road, and the massive truck shuddered, slowing enough for Hazel to turn in. The lawn had overgrown the edges, and old tracks of previous tires led back to a weathered gray shingle house. Cats lounged beneath the porch, and assorted food and water bowls dotted freshly painted steps. Several windows had new screens.
Waves of heat radiated off Micah’s rusty Reliant, parked beside a set of outside stairs that led to a second-floor entrance. An orange tabby crouched in the shadow of the trunk, below the chrome Darwin Fish and the bumper sticker: “Jesus is coming. Look busy.” Grass around the tires grew long and uncrushed.
Hazel shut the engine and climbed down from RoadKill. Micah’s landlady stepped outside, smiling with what Hazel thought was faint disappointment as she approached, her movements cautious from advanced arthritis. Hazel cut across the lawn, reaching her before she left the shade of the maple draping over the porch.
“Hi, Anita,” Hazel began. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m…”
Anita’s smile warmed. “Don’t be silly, dear.” She held her twisted hand out in greeting. “When I heard the truck, I thought Micah was finally back.”
“I guess he isn’t here. When did you see him last?”
“A week ago—after midnight, actually, so Sunday morning.” Anita leaned against the porch rail for support. “He was driving that new truck of yours. He worried he’d woke me, but I don’t sleep much these days, not with this weather. I turned on the driveway light for him and packed him some food.”
So Micah had taken Tuition. But why? Hazel knelt to pet the orange cat brushing her ankle. “How long did he say he’d be gone?”
“Two days, maybe three. He said he’d mow the grass when he came back.” She looked across the lawn wearily. “I used to take care of things after my husband passed on. But Micah’s always helping, fixing things without me even asking, fussing over me. And he gave me this silly thing before he left.” She chuckled, motioning to the white plastic pendant she wore. “He worried I might have some emergency while he wasn’t around, and he wanted to be sure I could get help.”
Hazel tried to force a smile but she felt queasy. “Was he driving bobtail, like that?” She motioned to RoadKill. “Or was there a trailer?”
“Just the truck.” Anita rubbed her swollen knuckles with crooked fingers. “He didn’t say where he was going. He seemed hurried and didn’t say much at all.”
“Are you always home?”
“Oh, almost always. My friend Bea takes me out shopping and to Sunday service.”
“Could I see his apartment?”
“Of course, dear.” Anita stepped back, holding the porch rail. “I haven’t been up there myself. I don’t chance those stairs.”
Escorted by two cats, Anita led the way across the porch. The cats stayed close but out from underfoot, as though they sensed their benefactor’s frailty and didn’t risk tripping her. Hazel darted around to hold the door, and they entered the slightly cooler stuffiness, where a small fan on the dining room table alternately stirred the curtains and the papers stacked on the mantle. The house was cluttered but tidy, a lifetime of traffic patterns worn into the hardwood floors and the fabric of the corduroy armchair. A faint but ripe odor lingered, and houseflies circled the ceiling.
“Pardon the smell.” Anita motioned toward the kitchen dismissively. “Micah usually takes out the trash each morning.” She opened the inner drawer of a secretary desk, producing a key.
“Take these inside stairs if you like.” Anita nodded to a steep flight at the end of the windowless hall.
Halfway up, Hazel was hit with sickening dread as the odor intensified. Even in the dim light she could see flies speckling the door. Why hadn’t she checked there sooner? Her hand was trembling, and she steadied herself, gripping the worn railing as she unlocked the sweltering apartment.
The smell of rotting flesh hit like a wall, and she struggled not to gag or panic. Closets and drawers were emptied into piles, mattresses and cushions slashed and furniture smashed. Hazel swatted flies away, covering her mouth and gagging as she stumbled through the obstacle course. She nearly cried out in relief as she discovered the source of the stench: the refrigerator stood out from the wall, unplugged, the back panel pried off, insulation torn out. The doors hung open, the contents congealed into writhing piles of maggots and mold. Choking back a wave of nausea, she closed the refrigerator and opened windows, gulping in fresh air.
Poor Anita. Who would clean up this mess? Hazel knew she couldn’t take the time. She searched through the debris for clues to Micah’s whereabouts, though she wondered if whoever was there before had been after more than that. Not one inch of the small apartment remained untouched. Judging by the level of destruction, the previous search must have degraded into a fit of rage. There were fist-sized holes in the walls, and Micah’s computer had been smashed to pieces.
Hazel dug under the upturned bed, finding last year’s college notebooks, a scattering of smut magazines, and the fossil shark’s-tooth necklace she’d given Micah for his seventh birthday. There was nothing to indicate where he’d gone, what he was up to, or who’d trashed the room. If it was Kessler…well, he wouldn’t be an issue anymore. But if it was Atkins, their problems were far from over.
A quick check of the phone book confirmed Wayne Atkins was, not surprisingly, unlisted. Hazel took a deep breath, instantly regretting it; she’d never get that smell out of her nose. Her throat tightened as she picked up the shark’s tooth, but she reminded herself she had no time to get emotional, she had to keep it together. She closed the door behind her and headed downstairs with the tooth in hand. Anita greeted her with a cold glass of water and a concerned expression.
Hazel slipped Micah’s necklace over her head, tucking it down her damp tank top. “Do you have any of his mail?”
“Right here.” Anita motioned to a small stack of junk mail on the counter. No bills, nothing of significance. Hazel carried the kitchen trash bags outside and returned to Anita on the porch.
“Call the police. Tell them someone broke in upstairs.” Hazel saw the alarm in Anita’s expression and tried to reassure her. “By the looks of things, I doubt they’ll be back. Still, is there anywhere you can go for a few days, a friend’s place?”
“Oh, I couldn’t leave my cats. I suppose if anyone cared to bother with me, they would have by now. And besides, I have this.” She motioned to the white plastic pendant hung around her neck. “I push this button, they send in the Marines. You be careful, and when you find Micah you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
I DIDN’T BREAK IT
“What’ve I told you about working on this boat?”
Gary jumped aboard Revenge as Hammon reached the dock. Rain drummed relentlessly on the metal boathouse. While Hammon ducked past him to finish tying up, Gary’s dogs raced down to the boat. Charger, a pit-bull/freight-train mix, skidded over to greet him with an exuberant show of high-velocity wagging. Hammon fended him off and scooped up Yodel, tucking the wiggling dachshund under his arm like a football and climbed back aboard.
Gary had opened the small cockpit freezer and was shaking his head in disgust at the melting bags of ice Hammon had packed inside in a desperate attempt to preserve his semithawed Popsicles. Freezer insulation had been torn out and compressor parts dissected beyond repair. Hammon knelt down, petting Charger while avoiding Gary’s glare. Aside from Annabel, Gary was the closest Hammon came to a friend and high on the short list of people he interacted with. As black as Hammon was pale, as normal as Hammon was weird, they made for an unlikely combination.
“I asked you a question,” Gary said.
“My Popsicles were melting. I just tried to fix it.”
“Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s rain.
I know you, Zap; you don’t fix, you break. Let’s try again. What were you really doing?”
“There were bugs in it,” Hammon mumbled, not looking up.
“In the freezer.”
Hammon scratched at his arm. “I thought there were.”
“Which means, as usual, there weren’t, and now we’re replacing the whole damned freezer. Seriously, why are we even having this discussion?” Gary sighed. “I told you, you think there’re bugs, you don’t tear the boat apart. You call me, I check it out. Understand? You DO NOT touch the boat. I do. Not that I’ve ever found a single one.”
“They’re not really bugs.” Hammon scratched under his sleeve.
“Yeah, I know. RFID trackers. Care to explain why anyone would want to track you?”
Hammon smiled sheepishly. “I could but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Riiiight. From now on, you think something’s bugged or whatever, you let me check.”
Hammon cringed as Gary opened the cabin and waded in. Yodel burrowed enthusiastically into a pile of laundry, and Charger snuffled his way through plastic bags.
“Christ, Zap.” Gary looked around. “You could’ve built two boats with what you spent restoring this barge, and then—No!” He grabbed Charger, prying a shriveled pizza crust from the dog’s mouth. He scanned the disaster area. “Look at this mess.” His eyes stopped on the game of Scrabble in progress and two PlayStation controllers. He took a deep breath. “Are you seeing Annabel again?”
“No. She’s gone.” Gone to the library. It wasn’t lying, really, just avoiding another of Gary’s lectures on him needing his head examined.
“So you’re just playing with yourself again.”
Hammon picked at a scab on his arm. “Yep.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Gary rubbed his temples.
“Headache?” Hammon said.
“You could put it that way. What’s with the scratching?”
Hammon shoved his hand in his pocket. “Bug bites.”
Gary’s eyes narrowed.
“Normal bugs. Mosquitoes, no-see-ums. Things that go squish.”
Gary studied him and shook his head. Hammon didn’t mind Gary’s scrutiny. He wasn’t looking at the scars but the idiot beneath them. Pete and Freddy climbed aboard, joking around in Spanish as they began removing the freezer. Hammon was cool with Gary’s Ecuadorian crew, too; he’d known them so long they were more like family and long past staring. At Gary’s shop and boathouse, he was safe. Strangers weren’t allowed inside Turner Speed. These were friends. Charger circled the cabin then started retching, and Gary got a queasy look. “You think that mutt’d learn.” He picked up a note taped to the console, stating: “FUEL THINGY BROKEN.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“Sometimes things just break on their own,” Hammon insisted.
Charger expelled some half-chewed Cheez-Its onto a dirty towel, and Gary looked ill. “You’re cleaning that up,” he said, turning away. “I’ll have the new fuel sender Wednesday. How’re you on fuel?”
Hammon collected up the barf-covered towel, shoving it into a plastic bag. “It still says full, no matter what.”
“No shit. I mean, how much have you got left?” Gary picked up Yodel and climbed off with Hammon and Charger close behind. “You should be getting low. Run it down a little more. The less I have to pump out, the better.”
Gary walked into the front office, depositing Yodel on the floor and nudging a calico cat off the desk. A large tabby sauntered through the doggie door connecting Gary’s apartment to the shop. Hammon lifted a black cat, scratching behind its snipped left ear, the fur soft beneath his fingers. He glanced at the PLEASE DON’T FEED THE STRAYS sign over the door. “This guy’s new.”
“That’s Sirius. I swear I don’t know how they find this place.”
Hammon placed the cat by the bowls of Friskies lining the counter. “You didn’t see the write-up in the cruising guide? Turner Speed, full-service facility. Engine repair, cat chow, litter boxes, Havahart traps, free spay and neuter.” Hammon looked at Charger, already settled on the couch, his head dangling over the edge, a one-eyed ginger tabby nested on his back and Yodel using his rump as a pillow. “You’d think the dogs would scare them off.”
“Didn’t work with you.”
“I’m just glad you didn’t drag me to the vet to get me snipped and microchipped.”
15:21 SATURDAY, JUNE 26
39°13’59.71”N/75°01’59.82”W
BIVALVE, NJ
The odds her absence went unnoticed were slim to none, so sneaking back was pointless. Even with the engine brake off, RoadKill moved with all the subtlety of an irritable T. rex. The exhaust stacks did little to muffle the downshifting diesel as Hazel rumbled into the boatyard, skidded sideways, and came to a rest in a cloud of dust. She gunned the engine, and crushed oyster shells shot out from beneath the tires, pelting everything for twenty feet as the truck rattled backwards and stopped precisely between her car and the Travelift with inches to spare. RoadKill idled as Hazel set the brakes with a loud hiss, then the collection of noise fell silent.
She climbed out with the boat-bag of alibis and peace offerings she’d picked up on the way back—deli sandwiches, cold sodas, chips—and scanned the lot. Joe’s Harley was where she last saw it, parked in the shade, and the storage shed remained closed. Her father had taken Joe’s old Buick wagon that morning, and it was nowhere to be seen. That was either very good or extremely bad, and lately bad was the rule.
Throughout the drive back, she’d mentally rehearsed what she planned to say. She could already hear her father ripping into her, but she had to tell him what she’d learned, though after the last few nights, she knew it wouldn’t go over well.
Hazel reached behind the Miata’s seat as she passed it, retrieving the bag containing her previous excuse for driving into town and the one thing her father wouldn’t question, argue, or volunteer to pick up: a box of tampons. After thirty-six hours beneath the river, the miniature drowning victims had burst free of their box, bloating into forty soggy bundles with blue string tails. Hazel regarded them, contemplating their premature demise, when the shed door behind her creaked. She jumped and spun around, dropping the tampons.
“Thought you beat me back, eh?”
Her father stepped from the shadows, and by the tightness of his features, she knew he was livid. Joe remained inside, standing between the blue Buick and the biodiesel still, looking uncomfortable with more than just the heat.
“Did I not make myself one hundred percent clear?” His voice carried across the empty yard. “Damnit, Haze, I’m not just saying this to hear myself talk. I didn’t want you going out, no less racing around in this rolling violation. I won’t even mention what it’d do to our insurance if you got a ticket.”
“Actually, you just did.” As per his usual rant, as if she’d ever received even a single ticket.
“What do I have to do? Pull the goddamned starter? I can’t believe you got this thing running. And you,” his wrath shifted to Joe, “didn’t even notice. Damnit. I said keep an eye on her while I was gone.”
Hazel fiddled with her ring as her father paced, fists clenched. Trapped in his disapproving glare, everything she’d planned to tell him evaporated.
“When I say something it’s for a reason,” he continued. “What the hell is your problem? Do you deliberately try to be difficult or do you just not think? I figured after last night you’d listen. Didn’t you see those bullet holes? That tire,” he slammed the side of his fist down on the Miata’s silty windshield and the glass crackled, sinking inward, “was shot out. RoadKill just makes a bigger target.” His eyes paused on the shark’s tooth around her neck. “You think I don’t know what’s going on.”
“You don’t! Micah’s missing. He’s not answering his phone, and I can’t find him anywhere. I think he’s in trouble.”
“And so are you, as usual, thanks to him.”
“Really? Figured that all by yourself? Nice work, Travis. I’m impressed. But you better consult your little detective guides. The word isn’t ‘took,’ it’s ‘stole.’ Now cut the crap and stop playing private investigator before you get hurt.”
Her cheeks burned and she stared down. He didn’t get it. He’d never even read those books. Travis wasn’t a detective. He was a ‘salvage consultant,’ which meant he’d recover anything of value from which the rightful owner had been wrongfully deprived and held no hope of recovering, usually for a fee of fifty percent. But Hazel didn’t want to be like Travis McGee, not in the literal sense. True, her fictional hero’s instincts were sharp, his reflexes sharper. Even when he made mistakes or miscalculations, he always managed to come out on top. But in nearly every story, odds were high someone Travis cared for would meet with a tragic, violent, untimely end, which was precisely what she wanted to avoid. “Someone had to do something, and I knew you wouldn’t.”
“Is that what you think? Just because I don’t tell you everything I’m up to doesn’t mean I wasn’t out looking for that little shit. Or maybe you hoped you’d find him before I did.”
He had her there, and they both knew it. “Well, I found out more about my visitor last night.” That stopped him. His voice ominously low, he said, “I’m listening.”
She swallowed and forged ahead, explaining all she’d learned regarding Kessler and Atkins. She didn’t think her father could get any more pissed than he already was, but apparently she was wrong. He looked like he wanted to rip the hood off the Miata.