Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  “I thought you liked that shirt.”

  “That’s not the point. I get left behind, thanks to Gary’s issues, and spend the whole time worried sick. What do you think’ll happen to me if I lose you?”

  He wanted to say she’d be fine, but they both knew the truth even if they didn’t discuss it. Walking down the dock, she let out a long sigh. “You’re an adult. I can’t stop you.”

  But she could and he knew it. Hammon pulled in the stern line, and they climbed aboard Revenge. Annabel regarded the new freezer unhappily. “Is it me, or does that thing look like a coffin?”

  TIME, DATE, POSITION UNKNOWN

  Awareness drifted past in fragments. Distant, fading voices, like a bad radio signal, slipped through the blackness. Hazel tried to listen, but the signal was too weak. Or she was. All she could make out was the pitiful whimpering cry of an injured animal.

  She opened her eyes, gasping at a sharp pain in her side, and looked around in confusion at a distorted, unfocused world.

  “Relax,” the unfamiliar voice said.

  What was going on? She gazed around at the bewildering shadows and struggled futilely to sit up, her nails digging into smooth fabric.

  “Settle down.”

  There was a steady rocking and soothing rumble of throaty diesels. She smelled frying food and stale cigarette smoke. Exhausted from the dizzying blurs, she closed her eyes. Images flashed in her head. The sputtering flare, paralysis spreading, Kindling sinking beneath her—and Pierce.

  She bolted upright, backing away. The bunk tilted and she collapsed, crying out.

  “Calm down, would you? You’ve been drugged. It’ll wear off but if you fight it, you’ll only feel worse. Close your eyes and take some deep breaths.”

  That wasn’t Pierce. Who, then? A man, speaking calm and slow, commanding but not threatening. Her confusion distracted her momentarily from her fear, and she concentrated, trying to think.

  “That’s it. Try to relax. You’re looking a bit more alert. Are you feeling any better?”

  A steady voice, deep and firm. She’d heard it before, but where? How long had she been unconscious? Then he sat down beside her, still blurry but close enough for her to recognize the unsettling gold eyes, and she made the connection. She was aboard the black boat. Were they alone? Where was her father? She tried to stand, to back away, and fell helplessly on the bunk.

  “Jesus,” Stevenson said. “Calm down. You were given ketamine. It’s a strong tranquilizer; it’ll take time to wear off.”

  “Where’s my father?” Her throat was so dry the words came out a scratchy whisper.

  “He’s busy right now. You’ll see him soon enough.”

  Her stomach twisted and tears stung in her eyes. What happened to her father and Joe? She’d heard them on the radio, but then what? Everything had gone so horribly wrong, and it was all her fault.

  “Where are you taking me?” She coughed, her throat tight.

  “You’ll be staying with me for a bit.”

  Stevenson opened the cooler while Hazel scanned the sparse cabin, which contained the lone bunk she occupied and a porta-potty. The remaining space was empty, unfinished, or deliberately left bare. The only way out was past her captor.

  “Pardon the lack of amenities.” He uncapped a bottle, offering it to her. “This boat wasn’t designed for comfort.”

  She didn’t accept the water, and finally Stevenson put it aside. He picked up a small towel, lifting her chin to dry her face, studying her with the same eerie look as in her cemetery nightmare. Discreetly she slid her hand down to her pocket, relieved to find her knife still there. Eyes locked on Stevenson’s, she slipped her fingers through the loop of ribbon on the handle and eased the knife open, clasping it in her fist with the blade tucked flat against the underside of her wrist.

  “Please.” She swallowed, feeling her lip tremble, and she cautiously lowered her foot over the side of the bunk. “Let me go.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  She stood unsteadily, staggering toward the companionway. Stevenson moved to stop her, she turned her wrist and swept out at him with the exposed blade. Stevenson jumped back, his hand pressed against his shoulder as blood spread through the fabric of his shirt. In a surprisingly restrained voice he said, “Hazel, put the knife down.”

  This was bad. She’d panicked and lost the element of surprise. Her coordination was off, Stevenson was twice her size, and he had her cornered in the cabin.

  “Listen to me,” he said, keeping his distance. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  He was lying. “Who else is aboard? Where’s Pierce?”

  “Dead. It’s just us and the autopilot.” Palms up, Stevenson moved clear. “I know you’re scared. But you’re safe now. Understand? Your father asked me to watch you.”

  She took a shaky step, struggling to keep her balance. “Then where is he?”

  “Dropping Pierce in deeper water.” Stevenson backed into the cockpit, leaving her space. “They’re heading back now. See for yourself.”

  Warily she followed, spotting Rust in the distance, returning. She couldn’t tell who was aboard. Stevenson picked up the VHF mike.

  “Rust, you read me? Over.”

  “Right here,” her father said. “Any problems?”

  With a rush of relief, Hazel grabbed for the mike. Stevenson held it back, shaking his head. “Anyone might be listening.” He spoke into the mike again. “No, everything’s fine. How’s the fishing? Over.”

  “Nothing’s biting. We’re heading back empty. And you? Over.”

  Stevenson regarded Hazel. “Just one. Small, but gave me one hell of a fight. Over and out.” He hung up the mike. “Now, at least wait a few minutes before you add me to the day’s carnage.”

  Hazel braced herself against the companionway as the boat rolled while Stevenson stood clear, his hand pressed over the slash, inches from his throat. She looked around, noticing strange circles impacted into the windshield.

  “Armored glass,” Stevenson explained.

  Hazel said nothing. Rust slowed, drifting alongside. Scrapes covered the white hull: streaks of paint from Kindling and black gel-coat. Joe rafted the boats together as her father jumped across and hugged her. Hazel buried herself in his arms. He sat her down and gently opened her fingers around the knife, closing the blade but leaving it in her hand.

  Joe chuckled as he turned on the saltwater wash-down pump. “I gather our little Hazel wasn’t pleased when she woke,” he said. “Lucky for you she was loaded with kitty quaaludes.”

  “You might’ve warned me she was armed,” Stevenson said, pulling his shirt away and trying to see his wound. It was too close to his throat.

  Joe shrugged. “Never occurred to me.” He began hosing out Rust’s cockpit. Blood ran across the gray decks and through the scuppers.

  Hazel turned to her father, trembling. “Dad, what’s going on?”

  “Other than you being grounded till you’re thirty? You’re safe,” he said, giving her a little squeeze.

  “Pierce said if I didn’t tell them where Micah was, they’d go after you. I couldn’t let them…”

  Her father stroked her hair back from her forehead. “It’s all right.”

  But it wasn’t. Hazel crushed herself against him again, and he held her, saying nothing. Sniffling, she wiped her eyes and glanced toward Stevenson. Her father nodded. “He saw you leaving and figured something wasn’t right.”

  “I thought he was working with Pierce.”

  “We noticed.”

  She was sweating, shivering, and nauseous. She swallowed, taking deep breaths, focusing on the horizon.

  “You should eat something,” Stevenson suggested. “It’ll settle your stomach and clear your head.”

  “What happened to Pierce?” Hazel asked.

  Her father said nothing but Joe grinned. “You missed all the fun, kiddo. We dumped Stevenson’s boat back in the water, and damn can that thing move. You had to
see Pierce’s face when we overtook him. He starts firing at us, our friend here takes aim, all cool and calm. Second shot, he takes the side of Pierce’s head clean off.”

  Stevenson didn’t seem as pleased. “I wasn’t looking to kill him. Corpses don’t answer questions.”

  “They don’t ask ’em either,” Joe said.

  Stevenson gave her father a meaningful look. “We should get moving.”

  Joe unhitched the boats as her father rose, guiding her into the seat. “We’re going back to find Micah. Me and Joe, not you. You’re staying with Stevenson. Even if you were in any condition to help, which you’re not, I won’t risk you getting hurt.”

  “But…” Protests raced through her brain faster than she could voice them.

  “But nothing. I told you, I want you somewhere safe.”

  “No!” Hazel looked from her father to Stevenson in horror.

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “You can’t!”

  “You don’t know all the facts, and I don’t have time to explain. You’re going to listen, end of discussion.” He gave her a quick hug, then jumped back to Rust, pushing the boats apart.

  Hazel rushed to follow, panicking as they drifted farther away. “But…”

  “Just trust me.” Her father nodded to Joe, and Rust rose on plane, heading toward Bivalve.

  Hazel fought back tears of frustration as she watched the receding shape. Stevenson took the boat out of neutral and pushed the throttles forward, turning east, gaining speed with ease as the diesels rumbled smoothly.

  I’M NOT A STALKER

  Hammon leaned over the chart table and slipped on a fresh pair of latex gloves. With meticulous care he removed a sheet of letterhead from a folder. Using tweezers he proceeded to glue down random letters cut by a razor from magazines, spelling out:

  MY DEaRest BEloVed,

  you DoN’t kNOw Me, but I know you And i LOVE you from tHe depths oF my heart. When I sEe your eyes I know you ARE TRULY looking just at Me, and I aM lost. I wANt you to SPEND The rest of your LIFE at My side. I keEP writing, But you NEVER ANswer. That UPSETs Me. you NEED to know hoW much you Mean to Me. the thought of you With anyoNe else RIPS Me apart. I wilL not stop untiL you aRe mine Completely. I Will come for you. I WILL make yOU love me. I awAit the day I can SEE YOU and touCh your perFect skin and taste your tears. Then You WILL be Mine FOREVER.

  Hammon scanned the letter, pleased. With surgical precision he cut lips and eyes from magazine photos, gluing them down to create a garish border. Annabel wandered over, inspecting his work.

  “Disturbing.”

  “Really?” Hammon beamed. “But is it convincing?”

  “That wasn’t a compliment. And yes, very convincing. Some of those things you said to me.”

  “I know. It has to sound real.”

  “Yeah, well, out of context it just sounds sick. Don’t you think that’d be upsetting to read?”

  “You seriously think celebrities open their own mail? They’ve got people they pay to answer fans and track weirdos. I’m keeping someone employed.”

  “No one’d believe he’d use his own letterhead.”

  “Maybe. But they’ll still investigate.” Hammon folded the letter, tucked in a few strands of pale blond hair, eased it into one of Stevenson’s letterhead envelopes, and sealed it with glue. “I’ll drop this in the mail and we’ll get moving.”

  Annabel sat on the bunk, legs curled beneath her, and sighed. Times like that she seemed much older than him, and far wiser.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” he said.

  “I didn’t say a thing.” She yawned and stretched, getting maximum mileage from every inch of toned skin. She lounged invitingly, her shirt riding up to reveal a slender waist and smooth belly. “Not one thing.”

  “Uh-huh.” Hammon watched her in the corner of his eye as warmth rose in his face and a few other places. “Nice try.”

  “What?” she asked, the picture of innocence. Exquisite, depraved, tempting innocence.

  “Distract me and my letter mysteriously vanishes.”

  “It would be a worthy distraction, dearest, straight out of your most twisted fantasies.”

  He grinned. “You’ve got no idea how twisted my fantasies get.”

  Annabel laughed. “That’s what you think.”

  17:05 SATURDAY, JUNE 26

  38°59’11.36”N/74°40’32.09”W

  5.48 NM EAST OF WILDWOOD, NJ

  First she tried reasoning. When that failed, Hazel resorted to tears, pleading with Stevenson to turn the boat, skimming effortlessly at thirty knots over the smooth rollers, back to Bivalve. He refused, claiming she was in no condition to help her father, and even if she was, he promised he’d keep her safe.

  There was something he wasn’t telling her, no matter how much he denied it. Fine. He’d had his chance; she knew what she had to do. She sulked, head down, long hair swirling around in the wind as her fingers slid along the bulkhead, unclipping the fire extinguisher while Stevenson fiddled with electronics. The bracket released, and the five-pound metal cylinder settled into her hand.

  Still…he did rescue her. If not for him, she would have woken to Pierce’s leering face. She scrutinized Stevenson, uncertain. Was he truly helping or were things going from bad to worse?

  Stevenson glanced over. “Don’t do it, princess.”

  “Do what?” she said innocently.

  “Whatever you’re thinking of doing.”

  “I wasn’t going to do anything.”

  He stared ahead, a faint smirk curling in the corner of his mouth. Her grip on the extinguisher tightened.

  “Right. Well, I’d advise you to hold on with both hands.”

  He shoved the throttles forward. The boat responded with a thunderous roar, acceleration ripping the extinguisher from her hand and slamming Hazel back into the seat. At that velocity the smooth water felt solid and the hull pounded like a bobsled over lumpy ice. Stevenson turned, eyes narrowed in the wind, his expression challenging. Moving, either to attack or retreat, was impossible. Braced in the narrow seat, she watched the GPS, horrified as their speed climbed over seventy, and she couldn’t stop trembling as the world streaked past on fast-forward. Tears streamed from her eyes and whipped off her face. Speaking wasn’t an option; the buffeting wind and thundering engines would suck any words away before they were heard.

  At last Stevenson pulled the throttles back and shifted to neutral. He let the engines idle a minute, then shut them down. Hazel watched him uneasily as the boat settled into an uncomfortable snapping roll.

  “Why’d you stop?” she said finally.

  “I wanted to make sure you were all right. You looked terrified.”

  “Your demonstration of how well this boat runs didn’t scare me,” she said, her voice wavering. She glanced at the fire extinguisher, thumping across the cockpit deck as they rolled. “I want to go back.”

  “As I’m well aware. Now, will you be a good little hostage or do I have to tie you up?”

  “What did you tell my father to make him leave me with you?”

  Again, that unreadable look. He sighed. “I don’t blame you for not trusting me. You’ve been dumped with someone you know nothing about. You suspect I’m part of the present problem and your father’s trust is a serious mistake. I can appreciate that. I could try to convince you otherwise, but you’ll have to come to your own conclusions.”

  “What do you want?”

  Stevenson leaned back, pushing gingerly under his shirt at his wound, still bleeding but much slower now. “What do I want?” He gave a humorless laugh. “In truth, to let you get on with your life and for me to get on with mine.”

  For the rest of the trip Hazel didn’t speak. Stevenson set the boat to a more moderate speed, swinging well offshore to avoid the coastline storms. Hazel locked herself in the cabin and changed into some of Stevenson’s clean, dry clothes, which, predictably, left her looking like a shipwreck survivor. She searched for weapons, explosive
s, or poison, finding nothing. Reluctantly she returned to the cockpit.

  By dark they reached the Narrows, then headed up past Manhattan’s glittering lights, following the Hudson River north. They passed beneath the George Washington Bridge, lit with strings of white, and along the blackness of the Palisade cliffs towering over the Jersey side. The moon rose over Yonkers, huge and orange. Just past the Piermont pier, jutting a mile into the river, Stevenson slowed the boat, turning toward shore. Hazel straightened up and looked north to the Tappan Zee Bridge. At their low speed, the exhaust back-drafted over the stern with the enticing aroma of French fries—the same smell she’d noticed as she woke from the tranquilizer. “You’re running on biodiesel?”

  “I heard it’s better for the injectors.”

  Mechanically and environmentally, biodiesel offered many benefits, though the trade-off was a slight decrease in speed, which she would have figured would be a higher priority for someone like Stevenson.

  “This thing’s pretty quiet, relatively speaking, for all this power,” she said. “You realize muffling cuts performance.”

  “It also limits detection.”

  “What, for running drugs?”

  “Exactly.” He stretched, wincing as he moved his shoulder. “Until it was seized, at least. Friend of mine gave me a heads-up when it came up at auction. He claimed it was built to withstand gunfire, not that I thought I’d ever test that. Guess I owe him a drink.”

  Stevenson pulled on a black windbreaker that had been stowed beneath the console, covering his blood-stained shoulder. They idled past the seawall and up the fairway while he scanned the boats. Hazel stood back, not bothering to ready lines or assist as Stevenson maneuvered into the slip, docking skillfully while she made a point of looking unimpressed. Aboard a thirty-eight-foot Viking, a matched pair of leggy redheads emerged, waving enthusiastically.