Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  “We could’ve driven to a White Castle. I’m not even hungry. And these clothes weren’t necessary. Mine were dry, I could have worn them.”

  “Then I’ll be returning you in better condition than I found you. Just humor me. You do clean up nicely, though.”

  “Bite me.”

  “Well, visually at least. Out of curiosity, on the Parkway, you looked upset when we reached the state border. Why was that?”

  So he did notice when she slowed at mile 171, passing the large yellow sign on the grassy shoulder that stated simply: “LAST EXIT IN NEW JERSEY.”

  “Anyone ever mention you pry too much?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s none of your business. How’s that for an answer?”

  “Not very civilized.”

  “You think I care? I’ll elaborate. I don’t want to talk about it, AND it’s none of your business.”

  “I’m not sure whether to be insulted or impressed by your determination to distrust me. Then again, you don’t trust many people, do you?” Stevenson leaned back, sipping his scotch. “You should be careful. You go through life pushing people away, one day you might push away the wrong one.”

  She wasn’t about to ask what he meant, he’d only give some equally cryptic answer. Maybe it had something to do with the blue-eyed beauty whose picture graced the background on the computer in his study. Perhaps she was the mysterious Annabel he’d spoken of, though Hazel had no intention of asking. She wanted to avoid all possible conversation, especially subjects of a personal nature. Instead, she glared at her plate, the mouthwatering aroma tormenting her. She’d intended to stage a small-scale hunger strike in protest of her captivity, but her grumbling stomach betrayed her.

  Stevenson laughed. “I thought you weren’t hungry. You lied.”

  “Then we’re even.”

  “How so?” Stevenson savored a mouthful of crab, the image of casual indifference, though behind his relaxed smile something subtle had shifted. Hazel let the silence linger. Stevenson stared back, eyes locked on hers. Waiting.

  “I saw your study,” she said at last. Framed articles from architectural and environmental magazines spotlighting Stevenson’s work covered the walls. A headline proclaimed: “ONE MAN’S CRUSADE; FIGHTING SPRAWL ONE FACTORY AT A TIME.” The photo showed Stevenson standing tall before an old textile mill, his expression somber. The article highlighted his work converting outdated manufacturing properties into office and residential space utilizing geothermal climate control systems and solar energy. The interview described him as “driven” and “private to the point of reclusive.” Another article focused on his geothermal climate controls applied to historical structures, including his own award-winning and once immaculately manicured home.

  “Why’d you say you were a developer?”

  “Because I am. It’s amusing to watch you make your own assumptions. You already decided you disliked me; far be it for me to alter your opinion with facts. Again, you should be careful; not everything in life is as it first appears.”

  “Sure, Yoda. Whatever you say.”

  It was senseless letting good crabs die in vain. Hazel stabbed a leg with her fork. Stevenson grinned victoriously.

  “Tomorrow, you drive the Chevelle. That relic from my muscle-car phase sits too much these days.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Tell me, princess, what makes you so wary of people?”

  “You mean not blindly trusting? I don’t know. Blame it on homeschooling and an overprotective father. The sheltered, unconventional environment I grew up in. A lack of peers. Take your pick.”

  “Your father raised you alone, right? What about your mother?”

  “She’s gone.”

  Hazel ripped off another crab leg, slowly chewing. The discussion was over, not that there was anything to discuss, really. Her parents met freshman year of college and Hazel was the unintended result of their passion. Much in love and determined to provide for his new family, her father quit school, bought the old Kenworth, and they moved onto Witch. Her mother soon concluded she wanted more than life aboard a leaky hand-me-down boat with a newborn and a truck-driving dropout. She needed space—space that included returning to school, graduating, and ultimately marrying well and settling in Westchester. When she was small, Hazel accepted the simple answers her father offered. As she grew older, she came to hate her mother for abandoning them, but by that time it was an opinion she kept to herself rather than upset her father. Eventually her attitude shifted from resentment to pity. Her mother chose wealth over love, or maybe she never was truly in love. She’d moved on and eventually built a respectable life with her husband and new children while Hazel’s existence remained the skeleton in her tidy suburban closet. Currently, Hazel had a half brother and half sister she’d never met. For Hazel, growing up with her father aboard Witch and crisscrossing the country in RoadKill, there was never a doubt she’d gotten the better part of the deal.

  Stevenson waited until she finally swallowed her food and sipped her water. “Your father said he practically raised Micah.”

  “He did.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  Hazel meticulously dismembered her crab. “No. Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m just curious why you’re so close.”

  “And I’m curious why you’re so curious. You already seem to know a lot for the little time you spent with my dad.”

  “You risked your life for Micah. You tried to kill me to go back for him. No one has to tell me you’re close. And I’m just making conversation; it’s what people do. No need to be so defensive. All right, different subject. What’s the story with the diamond ring? You’re engaged?”

  Hazel glanced at her left hand. “Maybe.” Actually, it was a facetted Cape May diamond: a piece of quartz common along southern New Jersey beaches. She figured someone like Stevenson could tell the difference.

  “May I see it?”

  She studied the ring and shrugged, slipping it off. Maybe if he thought she had a boyfriend, he might back off. Stevenson held it up, inspecting the stone. He tilted it and chuckled as he read the engraving inside.

  “Hazel&Jeremy4ever. That’s sweet. An optimist, this Jeremy. Forever is a long time.”

  Hazel snatched the ring back, looking away as she slipped it back on.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No.” It was none of his business. None of her life was, and least of all the shy boy with bright blue eyes and easy laugh whom, only two weeks after he’d given gave her that ring, she’d watched lowered into the ground in his casket. She shouldn’t have shown Stevenson the ring. Why was she even talking to him? “Why are you so determined to pry?”

  “You are intriguing. It’s fascinating how often you deflect my questions with your own.”

  “As often as you avoid answering mine.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched up. “You do make it frustratingly tempting. I may just say the hell with it all and keep you for myself.”

  His tone was joking, but there was chilling seriousness in his eyes. Hazel backed her chair away from the table. “You know what I’ve noticed? You’re always smiling, but you’re not happy, are you? You’ve got money and all those fancy toys, but no one to play with. You live alone in that big, empty house. Is that a ‘fear of commitment’ thing, or just that you’re such a jerk you drive everyone away?”

  Stevenson sipped his scotch, his expression distant and unreadable. Finally he rose, cigarettes in hand. “I know how smoking upsets you, so you’ll excuse me if I step away for a minute.”

  He didn’t return until after she’d finished eating, and he didn’t touch the rest of his meal. While it was a relief that he made no more attempts at conversation, Hazel had the uneasy feeling she’d crossed some line. He was right about one thing, though. The crabs were delicious.

  I’M ONLY DOING THIS FOR ANNABEL

  Rocks. Dig a hole anywhere in north Jersey, y
ou hit rocks. Hammon continued, trying not to think, just get done and fast. Two feet of rocks and roots, and his muscles were screaming. He returned to the car, carefully removing the lumpy tarp, keeping the ends up. This one wasn’t too messy, but…his stomach wrenched at the memory of the last time…the cold soup of piss and blood and God knows what else soaking into his clothes, the smell so thick he could taste it. He’d puked so hard his ribs hurt for days.

  Annabel looked on somberly. Hammon hoped she understood he did this for her. He dragged the tarp to the hole, positioned so he wouldn’t have to look as it unrolled. He couldn’t. It was too…He didn’t want to think about the bloody, mangled remains.

  No, it was better not to look. Looking meant nightmares. Pull the tarp aside, pick up the shovel, refill the hole, cover it with leaves and branches. Return the tarp, folded messy side in, the shovel and gloves back in the trunk, and leave. Miles rolled past, neither of them speaking.

  “Poor thing,” he said finally. Someone had to say something. “At least it got a decent burial.”

  “Do you think it was someone’s pet?”

  “No. Probably a stray,” Hammon said, unsure whether that would make her feel better or worse.

  “But…Someone hit that dog and left it in the road to die like that. Do you think it suffered?”

  Hammon shook his head, swallowing. “Killed instantly, I think,” he lied. Annabel had some serious issues when it came to death and burial, and seeing her cry tore into him. If performing these unsavory rituals brought her some small comfort, that was reason enough. He looked across.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded weakly, then shook her head.

  “Not really. Can we go back to the boat and leave?”

  Hammon sighed. “Sorry, angel. I’ve got one more stop.”

  “The house of evil? No thanks. Drop me by Revenge, I’ll wait for you there.”

  20:46 SUNDAY, JUNE 27

  41°03’29.81”N/73°55’12.61”W

  GRAND VIEW-ON-HUDSON, NY

  Even after they left the restaurant, the silence continued. Apparently his injuries no longer bothered him and Stevenson drove, following the Hudson shoreline while Hazel stared at the Tappan Zee Bridge glittering across the dark water and tried to ignore the undeniable tension. She wondered what nerve she’d hit; it might be useful for future reference, but if she asked he’d likely read too much into her interest.

  Stevenson pulled into the marina, scanning the docks. His grip tightened on the wheel. “Son of a bitch.” He climbed out, looking from the boats to Hazel and back, cursing under his breath and pacing around the car, his jaw rigid.

  “You,” he ordered, “follow.”

  She was torn between the opportunity to be difficult and interest in what had him so agitated. Curiosity won and she tagged along as he stalked out, straight past his black boat and up to a drab white sport-fishing boat.

  “Wait here.” He climbed aboard and pounded on the salon door. When no one appeared, he looked around, took his keys, and unlocked the cabin. He kicked a bucket out of the way, stepped inside, and slammed the door, leaving Hazel alone and baffled on the dock.

  It was a plain, nameless sport-fisher. Very plain, Hazel realized, almost neglected-looking, though without any traces of actual neglect. The waterline was clean, dock lines unchafed and neatly tied. No scrapes from hard dockings, no signs of overdue maintenance, nothing. It didn’t look like any production model Hazel knew, and there was a subtle grace to the boat. Stevenson emerged, his expression grim. He climbed off, heading back to the lot. “Let’s go.”

  “Nobody home?” Hazel trotted to keep up. “Interesting boat. Whose is she?”

  “Mine.”

  “You never said you had another boat. She wasn’t here yesterday.”

  “You never asked, and it wasn’t here because someone else was using it.”

  “Is she a custom build?”

  “Very. Just get in the car,” he ordered. “Remember, the more cooperative the hostage, the sooner you get released.”

  His expression made it clear there’d be no more questions. She sank into the passenger seat and looked back. From that distance the boat seemed to fade, ghostlike, into the darkness. Stevenson shot out of the lot, screeching down the narrow road, and it was all Hazel could do to suppress a grin when red and blue lights flashed behind them, siren blipping. Stevenson pulled over and fished out his wallet as the officer ambled up.

  “Evening, Jake. A bit heavy on the gas, don’t you think?”

  Stevenson grimly offered his license.

  “Put it away.” The cop gave Hazel a friendly smile. “I figured you should know your car’s been reported stolen. Again. By you, as usual.”

  Stevenson gave a short laugh. “Which one this time?”

  “All of them. You know, you could press charges. Filing false police reports is a criminal offense.”

  “Just let it go, okay?”

  The cop didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t look surprised either. He glanced at Hazel. “She as young as she looks?” he asked, voice lowered.

  Hazel tilted her head and peered up shyly. “I’m seventeen.”

  Stevenson nodded in agreement. “Mentally.”

  She shot him a dirty look. “He’s kidnapped me, taken me across state lines, and he’s keeping me hostage.”

  “Adorable, isn’t she?” Stevenson chuckled. “My friend’s kid. I got stuck babysitting.”

  The cop cracked a smile. “You sure you don’t want to press charges with the cars?”

  “Positive.”

  “Your call,” he said as he returned to his patrol car. “Don’t be surprised when you keep getting pulled over.”

  Stevenson rolled away at a good clip, heading back to the house. He shot through the opening gates with inches to spare, raced up the driveway past the carriage house, straight across the lawn, and parked beside the kitchen door. Hazel followed him inside.

  “Mind telling me what’s up?”

  “A little, yeah.” He pulled out a chair. “Do me a favor. Be a good girl, sit here and don’t move.” He stalked down the hall.

  Be a good girl? Was he serious? The hell with that. “I’m going to take a nap,” she called to his back. “I’ll be upstairs if you decide to tell me what crawled up your—”

  There was a soft chirp.

  She paused.

  It went silent, then started again, chirping in cycles.

  It was behind the wall in a narrow passage she’d found earlier, leading from the kitchen to the dining room. It wasn’t unusual in a house of that period, dating back to a time when servants were expected to perform their duties unseen. Hazel pushed the panel beside the pantry inward and slipped into the space, waiting silently. Cricket stalking was an art.

  Heavy footsteps approached and she eased the door closed. Stevenson’s shadow passed along the floor. Hazel held her breath and watched through a small gap as he checked the halls, up the stairs, and down the basement. Likely looking for her, but she wasn’t about to announce she was between the walls chasing bugs. He took a manila folder down from above the kitchen cabinets and dialed his cell phone.

  “Yeah, I know. I saw the goddamned boat. Is he still seeing Annabel? You’re sure?…I was wondering how she’s wearing her hair these days.” He flipped through the file, listening. “Let’s just say I have a little surprise.” He grinned. “You’ll see.”

  He ended the call and keyed in another number.

  “We have a problem…No, her I can handle. That other issue we discussed has come up sooner than expected. Exactly. We could do without that complication right now.”

  Stevenson paced as he listened, repeatedly looking out at the driveway as though someone might pull up at any moment. Hazel’s uneasiness grew; something was up, serious enough to concern Stevenson.

  “We’ll move now. I’ll call when we get there…Her? I expect she’ll be difficult, but she’ll cooperate. She’ll have no choice.”

  Hazel’
s mouth went dry and she sank backwards. The cricket sang, reverberating through the wall. Stevenson paused, turning, and Hazel stiffened, terrified he would hear her anxious breathing.

  “Everything’s set on this end. I have it. You watch; when word gets out I’ve got that Freightliner and cargo, we’ll see who makes the highest offer.”

  Hazel covered her mouth, fighting to stay quiet. She knew they couldn’t trust Stevenson! Why wouldn’t her father believe her? Stevenson looked up the hallway again, his expression chilling.

  “No. Get rid of Witch. I’ll deal with Hazel.” Stevenson nodded grimly. “You think she’ll be that much of a problem?…That’s your call. I’ll let you handle the messy part when the time comes…Call me once the boat is gone. I’m going to collect my little friend and get moving. Don’t worry.” He laughed. “She gives me any problems, I’ll just dart her.”

  Stevenson snapped the phone closed, shoved the file above the cabinet, and charged upstairs. Hazel’s pulse rushed in her ears, and she felt paralyzed but she knew she couldn’t just hide there; when Stevenson didn’t find her he’d expand his search, and he’d realize she’d overheard. She wanted to ambush and interrogate him, but that was too risky; too much could go wrong. No, the better choice was escape while she had the chance and warn her father. Grab all the keys and remote for the gate along with that folder and whatever it contained, steal a car, and get the hell out of there.