Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  “The capacity, yes. The desire, no. And scrambled is fine…thank you very much.” Hazel looked around the kitchen. “Do you have any tea?”

  Stevenson started the eggs, then opened a pantry closet and pulled a tin off the shelf. “One day, princess, when all is said and done, you and I will have a long talk about life and irony. That is, if you even talk to me by then.”

  “When all of what is said and done?”

  “Nothing. Don’t mind me. I get cryptic when I’m overtired.”

  It was his own fault. She had heard him through the night, wandering the house. “I said I wouldn’t try to escape again.” It was pointless once he mentioned all the cars had GPS trackers.

  “And I believed you. Trust me; if I could’ve slept, I would have.” Stevenson placed a kettle in the sink and turned the faucet. Water shot from the spray nozzle and hit him square in the face. Cursing, he jumped back and shut the water, then inspected the sprayer, removing a broken piece of a Popsicle stick wedged behind the lever. He looked like he wanted to hit something, but then he turned to Hazel and his clenched fist relaxed.

  “Is that what it takes?” He wiped his face and filled the kettle. “You almost smiled, for a moment at least. I was starting to wonder if you knew how.” He opened the sugar bowl, dipped his finger in and tasted the contents, winced, and dumped them into the garbage. He took a bag of sugar from the cabinet, tasting it first as well, then refilled the sugar bowl. He sliced a bagel into halves and dropped them into the toaster.

  “Why am I here, really?”

  “Questions, questions.” He set plates and coffee cups on the table. “You were in trouble. I couldn’t stand back and do nothing.” He served the eggs then dropped the ham on the hot skillet. “Not when you’re key in my plot for world domination.”

  “Forget I asked.”

  Hazel stretched across to the counter, picking up a ten-inch chef’s knife. She sat back, spinning the knife around in her hand, tucking the blade flat against the back of her arm, then, with a twist of her wrist, pivoting it around, blade forward and exposed. She repeated the practiced, fluid motion while Stevenson watched, amused.

  “Did Joe teach you that?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He’s a strange one. He has a military background?”

  Hazel shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “But he served time in prison, right?”

  “So I’ve heard.” It was before her time, though from what she understood, he’d still be there if not for some issue over inadmissible evidence. “It’s not something he talks about.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “His past is his own business.”

  “Yet you trust him, even though you know there’s things he’s not telling you.”

  “He’s earned it.” She swept the knife through the space between them with graceful precision. “What’s your point?”

  “Nothing, really. Just an observation. Next question.”

  Hazel switched the knife to her left hand, repeating the fluid motion. Her eyes locked on his. “Why me?”

  Stevenson tilted the ham onto the plates as the toaster popped. “An excellent question.”

  “What’s the answer?”

  “I never said I’d answer.”

  “Which answers one of my questions. You live alone because you’re a jerk.” A small movement on the floor caught her eye. Placing the knife aside, she lunged under the table, then stood, proudly displaying a cricket, live and unharmed, which she released out the back door. “You’ve got a serious pest problem,” she said, returning to the table.

  Stevenson chuckled. “You could say that. Next question.”

  She considered for a moment. “Is this house haunted?”

  He seemed amused. “What do you mean?”

  “The lights, the water, and why’d you paint all the mirrors black? I think there’s a ghost here, and it wants you gone.”

  “You have no idea. Do the mirrors upset you?”

  “Appearances are overrated.”

  Stevenson beamed. “You and Annabel have a lot in common.”

  If he expected she’d ask who Annabel was, he had a long wait ahead. “She doesn’t like you either.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” He brought her tea to the table, his eyes pausing on the shadow between her breasts. Hazel glared up, tugging the shirt closed.

  “Why do you keep staring at me?”

  “A rhetorical question, considering you’ve already jumped to your own conclusion. Actually I was looking at that shark’s tooth you keep touching like some sacred amulet. And despite what you believe, I’ve no intention of getting into those little black panties, even if your father hadn’t threatened me with dismemberment. Don’t get me wrong, you have many delightful qualities. Just not for me.”

  “Is that it?” Hazel started eating. “You don’t like girls? That’s cool.”

  “No. I prefer women. Trust me, you’re appealing, but temperamental, immature, a little too skinny, and way too young. Next question?”

  Heat rose in her face. “Don’t you have someone your own age to play with?”

  “My own age?” He chuckled. “How old do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know. Older than my dad.”

  “Thanks a lot.” He turned back to the stove as the water started to boil. “Try thirty-two.”

  “So it’s true. Smoking makes you look older. Way older. Don’t you have somewhere else to be, like a job or something?”

  “First of all, it’s Sunday. And I set my own hours.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m a developer. Drug running’s just a hobby.”

  No wonder she disliked him. He was one of them. There was probably a fleet of bulldozers with his name on the sides. And that also explained the neglected house; he didn’t see the beauty beneath the disrepair; he’d likely bought it only to knock it down.

  Stevenson grinned the least bit. “I take it you don’t approve of property development.”

  “Knocking down perfectly good homes to stack starter mansions on top of each other? Endless beachfront condos and highways lined with bigger, shinier malls? No.”

  “You don’t think Bivalve could benefit from a nice condo complex and some strip malls? Look at all that unutilized waterfront.”

  Was he serious? “Paving the planet isn’t progress. Bivalve is being utilized just fine, but I guess there’s no profit in that.”

  “That’s an inspiring sentiment. Tell me more. I’ll get you a soapbox if you’d like.” He picked up his cigarettes and lighter. “I’d love to hear this.”

  “Never mind.” It was pointless. Greed-mongering land speculators like him didn’t care, and no amount of persuasion would change that. “This may be your house, but you light that thing, and one of us is going outside. Personally, I’d prefer it be you.”

  “You’re saying I can’t smoke in here?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Say please.”

  She glared at him as she rose, picking up her plate and mug.

  “Okay.” He grinned. “Sit down. You win.”

  He headed out to the yard, quietly laughing the whole way.

  I’M KEEPING THINGS IN BALANCE

  Hammon waited until Annabel was in the shower before he turned on the computer and pulled up the “Contact Us” page for Jehovah’s Witnesses. He was pleased to know that even in this troubled world, happiness, accurate Bible knowledge, and God and His Kingdom were mere keystrokes away. As he washed Ring Dings down with Mountain Dew, Hammon filled out the form requesting further information.

  Then he realized it was quiet. Too quiet. He didn’t hear water running. Annabel stood behind him, wrapped in a towel, reading the contact information he’d entered.

  “Otto, dear, we discussed this.”

  He blinked, frowning. “We did?”

  “Don’t even try the selective memory act with me. We talked and you know it. I thought you were going to stop.”
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  “I never said that. And besides, this is spiritual guidance. It’s something he could use.”

  “Oh, just like the popcorn on his car manifold. And calling his obituary in to the papers. I’m sure he needed his mail redirected to Wisconsin. Or supergluing all the buttons on his car stereo at full volume with the Hampsterdance song on repeat.”

  Hammon grinned. He’d used 3M 5200 marine adhesive, glued the car’s fuses as well, and disabled the hood release so Stevenson couldn’t disconnect the battery. He wished he’d seen that one. Or the time the police showed up to investigate the marijuana growing behind the carriage house that some “concerned” citizen reported. Or the annual IRS audits. Or the anonymous tip to airport security that Stevenson was traveling with a forged passport, carrying weapons and explosives stashed in hidden compartments of his luggage. Hammon made sure the bomb-sniffing dogs earned their kibble that day.

  Annabel sighed. “One day Stevenson’s going to get fed up and do something awful.”

  “He already did!” He took a deep breath, willing himself calm. It wasn’t Annabel he was mad at. “I’m keeping things in balance.”

  “Releasing three hundred crickets into his house?”

  “Reminders that I’m still here. It’s my job to make sure he never forgets what he did.”

  “Which was what, precisely?”

  Hammon blinked, tracing the scars running along his face. Like a fault line, the surface revealed only a fraction of the full damage. It ran deep within his brain, leaving gaps between cells and neurons. He could feel the mercury trapped in his gray matter like fruit inside Jell-O, imbedded so deep that any attempts to remove it would cause more harm than good.

  “This mess…” He held his skull like a specimen on display. “Stevenson did this, and he knows it.” He let his head go and rubbed his arm, digging at a tiny scar. “There’s something I know that he wants. I just can’t remember what.”

  19:14 SUNDAY, JUNE 27

  41°01’48.76”N/73°55’09.91”W

  PIERMONT, NY

  Hazel’s frustration grew as the day wore on and her position remained unchanged. Stevenson alternated between irritating her with pointless conversation and retreating behind closed doors for phone calls too hushed to overhear. Her father hadn’t called or showed, leaving her essentially a hostage, unable to escape. Under the premise of cricket hunting, she searched the house from basement to attic, finding several passages hidden between the walls, fourteen crickets, a few surprising details about her host, and more questions she knew he’d never answer. The crickets crawled around an empty Hellman’s jar with holes in the lid, and the questions retreated to the back of her mind, growing and multiplying. Bored and restless, she devised more creative ways to amuse herself.

  First, she determined Stevenson never went more than a half hour without checking on her and rarely made it past forty-five minutes without a nicotine fix. That provided sufficient time to set up. Then, with captive crickets as a centerpiece on the kitchen table, she sat down, put her feet up, and began reading the Times. Right on schedule, Stevenson strolled in. He paused, studying her.

  “Should I worry?”

  “About what?” she asked innocently.

  “You almost smiled when you saw me. You’re up to something. The question is: What?”

  Hazel shrugged. “Funny. Isn’t that what I asked you?” She gathered her hair, weaving it into a loose braid. “How about this? You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

  “Nice try.” Stevenson scanned the counter, spotting his cigarettes at the far end. He regarded Hazel’s legs, blocking passage like a tollgate.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked, not bothering to move.

  “Not at all.”

  “Smoking’s an awful habit and very bad for you.”

  “Your concern for my health is heartwarming.” He circled the table the long way.

  She shrugged. “Your funeral.”

  “Interesting choice of words.”

  As Stevenson stepped toward the cigarette box, his ankle snagged a length of hundred-pound test monofilament fish line, which tugged free a fork strategically wedged beneath the edge of the door frame to the basement stairs. From there the line descended to the basement and looped over a beam. Earlier Hazel had stacked several weights from a dusty weight bench on a table beneath that beam, secured the line to them, then carefully eased the table away, leaving them suspended. Stevenson knew none of this; he only felt the tension of the fish line for a split-second before it snapped tight, jerking him off his feet and landing him flat on his ass.

  “Yes!” Hazel laughed. “Ten points!”

  The equation was simple. Distance of drop equaled distance of pull, and it worked precisely as calculated. Stevenson sat up, inspecting the monofilament loop around his ankles.

  “Is there a point to this?”

  “It amused me. With the right wire, tension, and travel, a simple snare like that could be deadly.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.” He freed his legs. “Joe certainly taught you some fascinating tricks.”

  “Survival skills.” Which included animal snares; but when she and Micah were little, neither wanted to hurt innocent animals, so instead they stalked one another. The game was Safari and the rules were simple. One point if the quarry took the bait but escaped, five for snagging the prey, ten for getting them off their feet. “The key to successful fishing is location and bait. I told you cigarettes are bad for your health.”

  Stevenson stood, straightening his shirt. “No, princess. You’re bad for my health. So, are you getting hungry? I figured we’d go out for a while.”

  I HAVE MY REASONS

  It was approaching high tide when Revenge emerged from the fading twilight and idled up to the Piermont docks. Hammon smiled a sharp, dangerous smile. Darkness energized him. No one noticed his arrival, and Stevenson’s black boat sat abandoned. Perfect.

  Beside him, Annabel sighed loudly. “Tell me again, why are we here?”

  “I’ve got stuff to take care of.”

  She offered no assistance as he tied up, grumbling to herself how this was a mistake. Hammon returned to the bridge, shut the engine, and sat beside her.

  “Annabel, please. No headaches. We’ve been over this.”

  “What if Stevenson catches you? Then what?”

  “He hasn’t yet, he’s not gonna now.”

  “He’ll put you back in the hospital. If you end up there…you know they won’t let us stay together,” she insisted, an uncharacteristic trace of fear edging into her voice. “You know what they’ll do to me!”

  “I won’t let it happen, angel. I promise. You know I love you.”

  “How much?”

  Hammon grinned, all fangs. “This much.” He held his thumb and forefinger apart as far as the scars would allow.

  Annabel regarded the distance. “That’s not a lot.”

  He beamed. “No, look! It’s to scale.” He placed his hand along the chart index. “It’s over four nautical miles. Now, relax, everything’ll be fine.”

  Hammon performed his usual predeparture rituals and jiggled the knob to confirm it was indeed locked.

  “The boat is locked,” Annabel assured him.

  Hammon nodded, satisfied, and they headed toward the lot. Annabel paused beside Stevenson’s boat, studying the damage. “Damn!”

  Hammon continued past. “I didn’t do it.”

  “I know. Were those bullet holes?”

  “We can hope.” Hammon unlocked the padlocked shed he rented to store the Fairmont, shining his flashlight around and underneath the car, confirming it hadn’t been touched in his absence. While the 1978 Fairmont was somewhat conspicuous by virtue of advanced age, it retained a certain utilitarian blandness that rendered it otherwise unmemorable, especially at night. It looked stock, though Gary thoughtfully concealed an obscene amount of horsepower beneath the hood. Most important, it predated any automotive computers, electronics, or other digital r
efinements. For Hammon’s purposes it was essentially invisible.

  He unlocked the car and stepped back as he opened the door. Even with the forest of pine-tree fresheners dangling from the mirror, it was ripe inside. He rolled down the windows, and within a few minutes on the road, the stench began to subside. Annabel said nothing as he followed 9W south, crossing the state line into New Jersey, then weaving into the more isolated roads. After a mile of passing no traffic, he eased onto the shoulder and looked around.

  “We’re alone,” Annabel said. “Go ahead, I’ll keep watch.”

  She sat on the hood while Hammon trudged back, took a deep breath, and unlocked the trunk. The dim bulb reflected off the blue poly tarp from which an unspeakable odor rose, and Hammon fought not to gag. He pulled on stiff, blood-stained gloves, grabbed the shovel, then closed the trunk and headed down the slope, beyond view of the road.

  “Make sure you dig deep enough,” Annabel called.

  19:29 SUNDAY, JUNE 27

  41°05’22.21”N/73°54’54.83”W

  NYACK, NY

  Hazel scowled at the plate of soft-shell crabs, and she could almost hear her father. Knock off the drama, he’d say. Drop the hostage act. It wasn’t as though Stevenson was mistreating her or giving her the least reason to complain and she knew it. That in itself aggravated her even more, sitting there at a small table in the private courtyard of a quietly elegant but clearly expensive waterfront restaurant, wearing a pretty sundress Stevenson had had delivered to the house. It was wrong.

  “Couldn’t you have just ordered pizza? Isn’t that standard hostage-feeding procedure?”

  Stevenson smiled that insufferable smile of his. “Personally, I prefer the more civilized approach. Provide your hostage space, nice clothes, and the best soft-shell crab in town. And you didn’t seem to mind driving the Viper.”

  Stevenson insisted she drive, claiming he was too sore from his kitchen tumble. Now, that was melodrama. And she’d never admit it, but the car’s power was intoxicating, and she’d had to suppress a grin as she accelerated out of turns, pressed into the seat. The Viper was quick and responsive, ready to devour as much road as she’d give it. It demanded complete attention, and while she blurred through sunlight and shadows, eyes narrowed against the wind, every thought beyond the next curve evaporated. He directed her into a long loop of back roads and highways, smiling with satisfaction as she slipped between gaps in the traffic, watching patterns and judging distances and speed. She was having fun; she was showing off and she knew it but she didn’t care. It wasn’t every day she had the chance to drive a car like that.