Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  “Hi, Jake!” they sang in harmonized unison. A robust older fellow in Topsiders, shorts, and a Hawaiian print shirt followed them above, then strolled down the dock, martini in hand.

  “Evening, George,” Stevenson said. “Out with the twins today, I see.”

  George grinned. “The girls wanted to go swimming.” Drink halfway to his mouth, he paused, scrutinizing the black boat’s hull. “What the hell’d you do, play chicken with a tanker?”

  “DUI,” Stevenson replied. “Docking Under the Influence.”

  George poked at the windscreen. “Are those bullet holes?”

  “You watch too many police shows, George. I hit a seagull at seventy. Not pretty.”

  “Sounds like an eventful weekend, my friend.” George turned his attention to Hazel, appraising her. She glared across and George chuckled. “Nice specimen,” he said, ambling back to his boat. “But you know, when they’re that small, by law you gotta throw ’em back.”

  Stevenson adjusted the dock lines and began closing the boat up. Hazel took a deep breath, gathering her nerve. “Mr. Stevenson, wait.”

  “Mr. Stevenson? Please, call me Jake.”

  She nodded. “Look, Jake. I’m sorry. I know I’ve been kind of difficult, and I realize if not for your help, things might be far worse. I want to apologize for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

  He sat back and said nothing, but by the look in his eyes, she knew he wasn’t buying it.

  “I mean, you’ve already done more than you needed to; I do appreciate it even if it may not seem that way. I just figured rather than imposing on you any further, I’d stay here on the boat tonight.”

  “Fine by me. You want to sleep together, who am I to argue?”

  “Together?”

  “There’s only one bunk, princess, and I’m sure as hell not leaving you here alone. No, I’d rather wake tomorrow knowing you and my boat are still around.” He locked the cabin and stepped off, inspecting the lines. “Now, are you coming?”

  Grudgingly she climbed to the dock, marching like a condemned prisoner past rows of pricey boats. Near shore, things scaled down somewhat, ending with a row of daysailers, skiffs, and runabouts, though the parking lot was brimming with high-end cars. Stevenson unlocked a massive black Mercedes S600, opening the door for Hazel. The luxurious interior reeked of cigarette smoke, and the remains of the car radio hung from the dash by a bent bracket and wires.

  “Rough neighborhood?” she said.

  Stevenson seemed weirdly amused. “Doodle-dee-dah-dee-dah-doe-doe,” he chanted softly. “Doodle-dee-dah-dee-dah-doe.”

  It reminded Hazel of something Micah had on his computer, where animated hamsters danced to an amusingly irritating melody. She couldn’t imagine how that tied to the vandalized car and decided against asking. Instead, she stared out silently as Stevenson pulled out of the marina.

  Brick buildings converted to cafés and boutiques lined Piermont’s narrow main street, retaining their charm in a way that drew the stylish to shop and dine on the warm summer night. Antique sports cars and pricey sedans crowded every available parking space, and strolling couples wandered the sidewalks. Under better circumstances it might have been pleasant; at present it only underscored the feeling that she didn’t belong.

  A half mile beyond town, Stevenson turned up a winding hill, passed several Victorian houses, and stopped before a pair of massive, rusted iron gates. Bathed in the cool white of the high beams, they opened ominously. Low branches scraped like fingers along the windows as Stevenson guided the Mercedes up a narrow drive.

  Ahead, the unlit form of a Federal colonial, dark and forbidding, took shape in the moonlight. Vines snaked across the power lines and engulfed one corner of the house. In the beams of the headlights, weeds sprang from cracks in the drive and a dead tree stood to the side, bark peeling in chunks. Long strips of toilet paper hung from the branches, swaying in the damp breeze like ghostly Spanish moss. The lawn had grown so tall it collapsed on itself in places, and bushes obscured windows, yet even the neglected landscape couldn’t diminish the classic architecture.

  “You live here?” Hazel said.

  “Timeshares are still available if you’re interested.” He pulled into a carriage house, parking beside a black Viper roadster, a tired white Mustang convertible, and a gleaming yellow Chevelle. Hazel scanned the cars, assessing her best means for escape. Sooner or later Stevenson had to sleep, and when he did, she’d be out of there. It was just a matter of time.

  Driven by morbid curiosity, she followed him into the dark house, which looked as though it had been vacant for the last century. Moonlight slanted through the windows, stretching in pale rectangles across the entry foyer, and a broad staircase spiraled up three stories. Off the main hall, the surrounding rooms were filled with sheet-draped furniture like something from a gothic horror. Hazel paused before what might have been an ornately framed mirror, only the beveled glass was a void of blackness. Within the hall a cricket chirped softly, echoing through the open space.

  “You actually live here? For real?”

  Stevenson led her into an ancient but functional kitchen, the first room with any evidence of regular use. “Define live.” He switched on the light and dropped his keys and wallet on the counter.

  The light shut off. Flickered on. Off. On. Off.

  Stevenson grumbled, reaching up, tapping the unresponsive bulb. In darkness he located a fresh bulb from the closet and replaced the dead one. Illumination returned. Shaking the old bulb, he tossed it into the trash, where it landed with an implosive pop.

  The room went dark. Then light. Dark. Light. Dark. A cricket chirped.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He flipped the switch several times in a row, and finally the light remained on. Stevenson retrieved a half-empty bottle of scotch from the cabinet, poured himself a sizeable portion, and lit a cigarette. “Would you like something to eat?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she lied. “I’d like to sleep.” And get the hell out of there, not in that order.

  Stevenson leaned against the counter and downed the scotch. “Yeah, it’s been a long day.” He checked his cell phone. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason why your father hasn’t called.”

  Or a really bad one, Hazel decided.

  Stevenson guided Hazel up a narrow flight of stairs leading from the kitchen to the bedrooms, of which she had a choice. All were furnished with sheet-draped antiques, from the large, grand rooms to the smaller servant’s quarters, and all were unoccupied, save one.

  “My room.” Stevenson pointed to a door at the far end of the hall, just off the main staircase. “I’ll have the TV on. If it’s too loud, let me know. I can’t sleep when it’s quiet, but I’ll probably be out cold. You need me, just knock.”

  “No one else lives here?”

  “Just me and the crickets.”

  I’M HAVING FUN NOW

  “According to NOAA Weather,” Annabel said, “warm, unstable air over coastal waters will produce scattered thunderstorms and small craft advisories.”

  Hammon switched the VHF back to Channel 16. “Small craft suggestions.” He eased Revenge away from the dock. The boat was designed specifically to handle pounding waves and high winds, and Hammon found the conditions entertaining. Annabel manned the helm for the first hour, keeping them on an accurate, steady course. When things really began to kick up, Hammon took over, but Annabel stayed above with him and watched the towering anvil clouds off the west flash spectacularly.

  Hammon maintained a love/hate relationship with lightning. On the positive side, it thoroughly screwed up low-grade radio waves, disrupting their invisible messages. However, he knew firsthand that being on the receiving end of a direct hit wasn’t amusing, and he’d equipped Revenge with the best lightning protection money could buy. Annabel’s navigation steered them clear of the thunderheads as they moved north.

  01:15 SUNDAY, JUNE 27

  41°01’48.76”N/73°55’09.91”W
>
  PIERMONT, NY

  For twenty minutes Hazel waited in the darkness, anxiously following the luminous hands on her watch. Her father had twenty minutes to call and tell her Micah was safe and they were coming for her. That was all she would wait, not a minute longer. Twenty unbearable minutes that passed without a word.

  Enough was enough; it was time to move. Heart pounding, she slipped into the hall. Blue light flickered beneath Stevenson’s door, TV voices chattered happily, and a single cricket serenaded, but Hazel heard no human movement. Cautiously she turned the knob, easing the door open the slightest bit and peeking inside. Still dressed, Stevenson lay sprawled across the bed, breathing steady and slow. A cigarette burned down to a smoldering stub in the ashtray on the nightstand while a commercial touted exercise equipment.

  “Mr. Stevenson…?” Hazel held her breath, waiting. There was no response.

  Guided by slivers of moonlight, she padded down to the kitchen, grabbed a flashlight, all the keys, and cash from Stevenson’s wallet for fuel and emergencies. She made her way to the carriage house and inspected the cars. The Viper was a manual, but too conspicuous. The Mercedes and Chevelle were automatics. The faded Mustang convertible was the odd one out: a bottom-of-the-line six-cylinder base model, but with a manual transmission and the hill, she could roll halfway to town before she’d need to start the engine. She turned the ignition just enough to unlock the steering wheel, lower the roof, and power the gauges, which confirmed a full tank and charged battery. She yanked spark-plug wires from the other three, tossing them into the Mustang. In neutral, she released the brake and pushed the car outward, hopping in as it rolled. She glided into the moonlight with only the sound of the tires crunching over the driveway, building speed as she rounded the house, heading straight toward the iron gates.

  The closed iron gates.

  She stood on the brakes, skidding to a stop inches from impact.

  Stevenson stepped from the shadows. He leaned against the front fender.

  “I’m surprised. I figured you’d go for the Viper.”

  She eased the transmission into reverse, then turned the key. The starter grabbed, the Mustang jolted five feet backwards, and Stevenson fell between the nose and the gate. She slammed into first, revving the engine, creeping forward. Stevenson scrambled clear.

  “Cute.” He dusted himself off.

  “I’m leaving. Open the gate, or I’ll open it with this car.”

  “Like hell you will.” In three steps he was beside the door. He reached across, shutting the engine, then grabbed her arm, hauling her up and dragging her from the car, pinning her against the fender. Cursing, she struggled while he held her wrists.

  “You are determined,” he said coldly, “but not as capable as you want to believe.”

  “Let me go! You’re hurting me!”

  “Exactly my point.” He released her and she bolted clear of his reach. “You don’t trust me, and I can’t trust you. It’s going to be a long night.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Is that an offer? It would pass the time.”

  She wanted to hit him, but it would be pointless. She considered running, but that iron fence might enclose the entire property, and she didn’t want to give him an excuse to chase her down. How far could she get on foot anyways? She rubbed her wrists. “Go to hell.”

  Stevenson smiled. “I figured as much.”

  “What did you say to my father? Why’d he leave me with you? What aren’t you telling me?” she said, her voice breaking in frustration.

  “Amazing. You won’t accept that I’m just trying to help.” Stevenson lit a cigarette and leaned on the gate.

  “No. I want to know why.”

  That seemed to amuse him. “How about this. You tell me. Guess right, you win a prize. Actually, you win a prize, right or wrong.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He turned toward the sky and took a slow drag. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Hazel watched him, torn between the desire to pick up a rock and bludgeon him or curl up in a ball and cry. Maybe if she wasn’t so tired, she could think. She had to do something; she couldn’t just stand there in the damp grass all night. Tears slipped down her face, but Hazel didn’t move or make a sound as thick clouds covered the moon and blotted out the silvery light. Nearby, she heard a soft, determined buzzing, like a fly trapped in a spider’s web.

  Stevenson flipped his phone open. “Yeah.”

  Hazel moved closer, her throat tightening.

  Stevenson’s expression remained neutral. “Understood. We’ll proceed as discussed…Sounds good.” He glanced at Hazel. “No, not at all. She’s right here…Just fine. No problem whatsoever…Yeah, sure.” He offered her the phone.

  “Dad?” Her hands were shaking.

  “Hi, hon,” her father said wearily. “That man’s one helluva liar or he’s watching the wrong kid. We found your pal, safe and sound. I would’ve called sooner but my battery died. We just got back to the boat.”

  “We?”

  In the background Micah demanded the phone. Relief flooded through Hazel.

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “Not now. I’ve got a—”

  “Are you coming to get me?”

  “Not yet.”

  Turning her back to Stevenson, she lowered her voice. “Why’d you leave me with this guy? You don’t even know him, but—”

  “Are you all right?” he said, clearly unconcerned.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Then knock off the melodrama. I have my reasons. Just trust me. You’ll be fine. I’ve got things to take care of on this end, and I want you to sit tight. Do me a favor and stay out of trouble for twenty-four hours.”

  “In a row?”

  I WANT TO, REALLY, BUT…

  Hammon didn’t move. He didn’t want to wake Annabel. She looked so beautiful when she slept, so tranquil and pure. She lay on her side, one bare leg drawn up, covers kicked off. Tangled curls fringed her face and sleeping attire consisted of pink “kitty” print panties and a camisole reading: “Curiosity killed the cat, but for a while I was a suspect.”

  It was her moan that woke him, a soft and throaty sound. He switched on the dim light over the bunk to check on her.

  She was dreaming.

  He slipped on his glasses and watched, transfixed.

  Her lips parted and she gasped.

  He could only imagine what she was dreaming. By her reactions, something good. She bit her lip, moaning again.

  With any luck, she’d talk in her sleep. She did that sometimes.

  Her hand came up, rubbing her breast, and she made a small, kitten sound.

  It was almost unbearable. He desperately wanted to touch her…

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  …hold her…

  “Oh, God…”

  …feel her…

  “Otto,” she gasped.

  …but he couldn’t. He didn’t dare break the spell.

  Her hand dropped down, across her belly, down…

  That was it. Quietly he slipped from his bunk to the head, locking the door. Closing himself into the blackness. Closing his eyes. Losing himself in his own unspeakable dream…

  …which didn’t include knocking on the door.

  “Otto? You in there?”

  “N…no…”

  She laughed. “Nice try, dear. I heard you get up.”

  Up was the key word. He groaned.

  “…minute…door…locked,” he pleaded, invoking the “locked head” rule.

  “I know what you’re doing in there,” she sang.

  “Can’t…I get…some…privacy?”

  “On this boat? Keep dreaming.”

  That’s what he was trying to do. “You’re…not…helping…”

  She giggled. “I could talk dirty if you want.”

  08:23 SUNDAY, JUNE 27

  41°01’48.76”N/73°55’09.91”W

  PIERMONT, NY

  Stev
enson walked through the back door, cigarette in one hand, New York Times and a brown paper bag in the other. He looked drained but smiled as he spotted Hazel standing in the kitchen, freshly showered, long hair still damp, wearing one of his button-down shirts and baggy drawstring shorts.

  “You’re up.” He took a slow drag then crushed his cigarette into the sink and placed the bag on the counter. “I figured you needed your rest so I let you sleep. How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Like I want to leave.” She regarded the paper bag warily. “What’s that?”

  “Breakfast.”

  “You went out?”

  “Don’t worry, princess. You didn’t miss an opportunity for escape. It was delivered.”

  “Anything of concern in the papers?”

  He handed her the Times. “See for yourself.”

  Page by page she scanned the headlines, reading through the synopsis of society’s steady decline, relieved to see yesterday’s events were not yet known or newsworthy. There was no mention of bodies floating to shore or missing persons. She heard a soft electronic chirp and looked up to the flash of a digital camera. Stevenson inspected the shot on the screen.

  “Hostage with newspaper,” he explained. “More civilized than the ‘severed finger in the mail’ method. And less messy.”

  She wasn’t amused. “Here’s your finger,” she said, offering the appropriate gesture. He snapped another shot, reviewed it with satisfaction, and tucked the camera into his pocket.

  “I guess you can take the girl out of the truck stop, but you can’t take the truck stop out of the girl.” He struck a match and lit the massive stove, which appeared to be as old as the house. “That answers one question.”

  “What?”

  “Whether you had the capacity to be civil. How would you like your eggs?”