Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  Hammon’s stomach lurched with each roll. If he told Gary, he knew what would happen. But the longer he remained silent, the greater the distance between him and Revenge grew. He swallowed hard and forced his dinner to stay put.

  “Annabel did it.”

  01:03 MONDAY, JUNE 28

  40°46’00.23”N/74°00’32.95”W

  HUDSON RIVER, WEST OF PIER 86, NYC

  Hazel noted the time on the chart as she approached the shoreside Lincoln Tunnel ventilator shafts. To port, marking West Forty-sixth Street, the USS Intrepid was strung with white lights like a well-armed house at the holidays. The Empire State Building and Chrysler Building gleamed, jewels in a postcard-perfect skyline. It was amazing how beautiful the world could be even as it disintegrated.

  Green buoy 31 leaned with the outgoing tide, gonging softly as Hazel passed Ellis Island. She marked her time and position. Ahead, the Statue of Liberty beckoned and green 29 flashed. Beyond that, the upper bay opened up and the Verrazano Narrows Bridge arched across the water forming a glittering gateway. She kept herself distracted by plotting her course and calculating the boat’s lack of speed as she reached each mark.

  Aside from radar, depth finder, and a VHF radio, the boat was oddly electronics-free. The entire trip north, Stevenson navigated solely by a high-end GPS chart-plotter, and panic hit as Hazel realized her slow motion escape had one massive flaw. Like his cars, the boat may have been equipped with a locator beacon; Stevenson could have been following her position all along. Hazel studied the chart and the surrounding waters, eased the throttle back, and moved out of the main channel. The depth finder showed the bottom rising to thirty, then twenty, then eighteen feet. To her relief no one nearby changed course. She slowed to a stop, reversed, and let the windlass feed out the anchor line, pausing to feel it bottom out and set, then laying out a modest scope. She wouldn’t be staying long.

  With the boat in neutral, she left the engine idling. Diesels operate on the principle that highly compressed fuel self-detonates. No distributor, no spark plugs. Even with the batteries disconnected, so long as the fuel pump was mechanical, the engine would run until either fuel or oxygen was cut off. She’d have no running lights, instruments, or gauges, but she had the compass, a flashlight, and a chart. That was all she needed.

  First things first. She went forward and confirmed the anchor line was just that: line, not chain. Chain would be difficult to haul up once the windlass had no power. Line, on the other hand, she could cut and run, sacrificing the anchor for a quick exit.

  She returned to the cockpit and tried the door.

  “The boat is locked,” said a soft voice within the cabin.

  I CAN’T DEAL WITH THIS

  “Let me be sure I got this right,” Gary said. “You think Annabel beat the shit out of Stevenson and stole your boat.”

  Hammon nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  Gary slumped back in his seat. “Dear God. Why me?” He looked at Hammon, shaking his head. “We’ve talked about this. Shit, kid.” He rubbed his face. “You stopped taking your damned medication again, didn’t you?”

  Hammon blinked, saying nothing. The pills didn’t help. They only made things worse.

  “You haven’t been taking your meds,” Gary said.

  “Does NoDoz count?”

  Gary looked at the laptop and sighed. “Look, it’s not like I got something against you being happy, and I really hate to rattle your coping mechanisms, but there is no Annabel.”

  “No! You’re wrong!” Hammon insisted, his voice breaking. This was why he couldn’t talk to Gary about Annabel. Gary didn’t understand.

  “For your sake I wish I was. She doesn’t exist. You understand that, don’t you? Annabel isn’t a real person, she’s just something you created in your head, a delusion or whatever.”

  “No!” Hammon clapped his hands over his ears, turning away.

  “Christ, Zap, are you seriously that messed up? I hate to say it, but like it or not, that’s the truth. Annabel doesn’t exist.”

  Gary was wrong; she was real. She had to be. “What about her clothes…and her…her…stuff. Her books, her music, her magazines, her toothbrush, her…”

  “All bought by you, right?” Gary stared ahead with a pained expression. “Why in all the years I’ve known you, have I never seen her?”

  “She pilots Revenge…She keeps a better course than me.”

  “It’s called an autopilot,” Gary said flatly.

  “So then who messed up Stevenson? I saw Annabel; she drove right past me.”

  “You think you saw her. Like you think your nonexistent little girlfriend beat a two-hundred-fifty-pound man unconscious, stole his car and then your boat.” Gary sighed. “Or maybe you snapped, went postal, and now you can’t deal so you’re blocking it out and letting your imaginary friend take the blame.”

  “That’d be pretty fucked up.” Hammon paced the cockpit, scouring his brain. “Am I really that screwed up?”

  “That, my friend, is and always has been the big question.”

  “Then what about Revenge?”

  “Don’t know. Coincidence?” Gary put Temperance into gear. “I’ll tell you one thing. We’ll overtake them soon enough. It’ll be real interesting to see who’s aboard.”

  01:37 MONDAY, JUNE 28

  40°41’36.52”N/74°02’10.17”W

  NEW YORK HARBOR

  Heart pounding, Hazel stood, knife raised to the darkness, listening. Only the engine’s soft idle replied, exhaust gurgling as water slapped the transom. Buoy 31 gonged in a tug’s wake.

  She’d assumed the boat was empty, but Stevenson said a friend had borrowed it, and a horrifying realization hit: whoever was aboard may very well have been the other half of Stevenson’s phone conversation.

  There was nowhere to go; Hazel knew she had to face whatever lay beyond that door. Throat tight, fighting not to panic, she said, “We have to talk.”

  Nothing. The boat rolled and Hazel shivered as dew collected on the decks.

  Damnit. This wasn’t good. She couldn’t stand there all night like that.

  “Please…I had to get away and…”

  Still no answer. She tried again to open the door.

  “The boat is locked,” said the soft feminine voice within the cabin.

  “I got that, yeah.”

  She took a deep breath, trying to stay calm as her shaking fingers brushed the handle. The instant she did, the same voice repeated, “The boat is locked.”

  She pulled back, paused, and tried again.

  “The boat is locked.”

  Each time her fingers contacted the cool metal, the reply was identical. Fear eroded into disbelief. She touched the knob.

  “The boat is locked.”

  It was a recording, activated by touch. How and why was something else altogether. And sure enough the boat was, as it insisted, locked. Leaving the engine running, Hazel separated the keys and unlocked the cabin. The boat had nothing to say about that.

  IT APPEARS I’M INSANE

  It was pointless trying to reason with Gary. Hammon understood what he was saying about Annabel, deep down inside he sort of half knew. But he also knew he’d seen her driving the Viper. Or had he?

  “What are we doing?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  “Looking for your boat,” Gary replied with strained patience.

  “So Revenge is real. I was just checking.” He studied Gary. “How do I know you are?”

  Gary smacked him across the back of the head.

  “Ow!” Hammon whined. “It was a valid question!”

  “And that’s my answer. Put it this way. In all these years, did you ever actually touch Annabel?”

  Only when he was dreaming or dead. Hammon squeezed his pounding skull. His brain hurt from trying to sort out what was and wasn’t real. He liked it better just accepting everything at face value. It was easier and way more fun. If Annabel wasn’t real, then neither was what had been, up to that point, a workable exist
ence. She was his guidance, his happiness, his love, and if she didn’t exist, neither did any of that. He turned to Gary in desperation.

  “So Revenge is gone, right? What if I docked somewhere else and forgot? I’ve done that, but when I did, Annabel…” His voice trailed off. Annabel told him where he left the boat. And where he parked. And where he left his keys, and his glasses, and…“How did Annabel always know things I forgot?”

  “Maybe that’s the part of your subconscious that remembers whatever your conscious brain blocks.”

  That sort of made sense. But he had bigger problems, and now Annabel wasn’t there to help sort things out. “Someone took Revenge, for real. Somebody who knew about Stevenson and about me. That’s really not good.”

  Gary rubbed his face. “Really?”

  “Really what?”

  “Never mind. Forget I said anything. You’re good at that.”

  “Good at what?”

  Gary shook his head. “Nothing.”

  02:45 MONDAY, JUNE 28

  40°33’56.94”N/74°01’50.39”W

  AMBROSE CHANNEL, RARITAN BAY, NJ

  Hazel counted four seconds between the green flashes in the darkness and listened for the melodic gong of G19, marking Ambrose Channel. At nine knots on a heading of 200 degrees it was eight minutes to G17. She checked her watch, noted the time, and swung to a heading of 206 degrees. A pale glow appeared beside the chart, softly buzzing: Stevenson’s phone with an incoming call from Joe’s shop. She grabbed it and flipped it open.

  “Dad?”

  “Haze?” her father said, his voice hoarse.

  “Dad! Is everyone okay? I’ve been calling all night! Stevenson has Tuition!”

  Her father didn’t reply. In the background, Micah shouted something to Joe.

  “Did you hear me? Stevenson has Tuition; he was talking on the phone, telling them to get rid of Witch! I’m not making this up! You have to believe me! He had a file on all of us from before he hired us, with pictures of Tuition taken yesterday. He said he was going to take me somewhere and he’d drug me if I gave him any problems, but I got away.”

  “Oh, Christ. Hon, where are you?”

  “Headed to Lou’s place.” Her father would know that meant Forelli’s boatyard, and they both knew the Forelli family would keep her safe, no questions asked.

  “Haze, what did you do to Stevenson?”

  “I didn’t kill him. I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

  “Hon, listen to me. I’ll come get you, but you’ve got to stay out of sight until then. Understand?”

  “Yeah, but you and Micah…”

  “We’ll be fine. Just do as I say. Stay put, wait for me. And don’t ‘yes’ me. I’m serious this time.”

  “I promise, Dad. I will.”

  I’M INSANE AND I’M BOATLESS

  Hammon watched the slow-motion video game play out on the displays. There was the little boat shape on the chart plotter, that was Temperance, and there was the red dot on the laptop, that was Revenge. Hammon stared at the screens, sick to his stomach. Ironically, the concept of a tracker aboard Revenge, which should have been freaking him out, was the least of his concerns. It was the last link to the only part of his existence that actually existed.

  “This tracker,” Hammon said. “How long’s it been there?”

  “Since we first launched that barge, what’s that, three years? In case you got into trouble, I’d know where to find you. You had some serious problems back then.”

  He still did. He’d just gotten better at hiding them. “Anyone else got access to this?”

  “You mean like Stevenson?” Gary shook his head. “No. Just me. It’s buried in the engine room, disguised as an inverter, with a rechargeable backup battery. We find the boat, I’ll show you. How do you think I found you whenever you went missing?”

  “You always said I called you. I didn’t?”

  “Nope. What’s that tell you?”

  Hammon nodded. “So now what?”

  “I figure we get close, hang back, and do some fishing while we see where they’re headed, then wait till they run out of fuel or tie up, whichever comes first.”

  “And then?” Hammon swallowed. He hadn’t been seasick in years, but the urge to stick his head over the side was overwhelming. His world had been okay up to that point. It might have been built on illusions and delusions but it worked. Now it was shattered, his sanctuary violated and stolen from him. There was nowhere safe anymore, not even inside his brain. The only thing he had left was that tiny digital blip on the…

  Hammon hiccupped.

  Gary turned. “What?”

  Hammon pointed at the screen. A pop-up stated: SIGNAL LOST.

  “I didn’t do it.”

  Gary leaned over, examining the display. “It’s…wha’d you touch?” He hit refresh. A window came up reading: NO SIGNAL RECEIVED.

  “I didn’t do it!”

  04:14 MONDAY, JUNE 28

  40°27’55.27”N/74°15’24.97”W

  CHEESEQUAKE CREEK, PARLIN, NJ

  Dead ahead, flashing red and green buoys flanked the entrance to Cheesequake Creek. Hazel guided the boat through the inlet, taking care to keep the submerged portions of the east breakwater at a respectable distance. Three bridges lay ahead. The first, with a clearance of twenty-five feet, wasn’t a concern. The second, a railroad bridge, had a clearance of three feet, but as far as Hazel recalled, it remained open unless a train was due. And the third, where the Garden State Parkway crossed the creek, marked the end of the navigable waters. But she wasn’t going any further; to starboard the fuel dock at Forelli’s Boatyard came into sight, a single light shining on the closed dock house. A slim shape bounded from the shadows, blue curls blowing across his face as he waved.

  “Micah?” Hazel blinked back tears of relief. She edged the boat along the dock and he jumped aboard, climbed to the bridge, and lifted her off the deck in a bone-cracking hug. His hair and clothes smelled like a campfire.

  “Hey, brat,” he said. “Took you long enough getting here. I was starting to worry.”

  She buried her face against his shoulder. It seemed as though they’d been apart for years, and she’d started to feel like she’d never see him again. She looked to shore. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Head into the pit.” Micah pointed toward the Travelift, rumbling to life. “We want to haul this thing before anyone’s up and around.”

  Hazel spotted Tony Forelli at the controls, his stocky, barrel-chested shape a welcome sight. He waved a hairy arm, directing her in.

  “Drop the straps low,” she called over the lift’s engine, pointing down and moving her hand in a horizontal circle: the standard signal for lower. “She’s deeper than she looks.”

  Tony nodded and the motor whined, dropping the slings.

  “We’ll stick it in the east shed,” Tony’s father, Lou, directed. Still in his bathrobe, he looked around, scowling. “Tony, where the hell’s your brother? I want Nicky out here now!”

  Guided by Tony’s signals, Hazel eased the boat into the lift, gave a quick goose in reverse, then dropped into neutral, bringing it to a stop. Nicky jogged barefoot and bare-chested from the clapboard cape overlooking the yard. He pulled on a sweatshirt as he ran, waving to Hazel. At fourteen, he shared the family tendency toward a broad build and thick black hair, though so far it remained isolated to his head and not covering the rest of him like a sweater.

  “Nicky, get the shed open,” Lou snapped. “And get some shoes on, damnit.”

  “Where’s Dad?” Hazel said.

  Micah studied her soberly. “You’re okay?” He lifted her chin. “What’d that guy do? Your dad wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  Hazel shut down the boat’s engine. “Don’t worry; you don’t have to avenge my honor if that’s what you mean. Where’s Dad?”

  “I broke your record for unlock and hotwire,” Micah said proudly as he and Tony positioned the straps. “You’d think people would learn not to park in front of the
lift. There’s enough signs warning them not to block it.”

  Motors whined and slings tightened, hoisting the boat from the water. It swayed, suspended in the creaking straps, and the lift began to motor across the yard. Lou certainly wasn’t wasting a second moving the boat out of sight, and still Hazel didn’t see her father anywhere. She turned to Micah, uneasiness growing.

  “Micah, where the hell is my dad?”

  By his sheepish expression she knew she wouldn’t like his answer. “He figured we’d be safe here and I could keep an eye on you.” He paused, his dark eyes clouding. “Him and Joe went to see what’s left of Stevenson.”

  “No! Damnit!” she cried in frustration. “He told someone to get rid of Witch! Why won’t anyone ever listen to me? They have to move her!”

  “Haze, it’s just a boat,” Micah said, his voice wavering.

  Hazel stared at him, stunned. How could he say that? Witch was her home. That boat had been in the family for generations. She was irreplaceable! Micah turned away, and through her shock Hazel realized he was wiping his eyes.

  “Micah?”

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I really fucked up.”

  Her grip on the wheel tightened as uneasiness gave way to dread. “Micah, what happened?”

  He pulled a piece of damp, singed fabric from his pocket; Hazel unfolded it, her chest tightening as she studied the “NO WAKE ZONE” needlepoint that had hung outside her cabin door.

  “We were pulling into the yard when we saw the flames. Your dad took an axe to the hull and sank her before she burned to the waterline. She’s in one piece on the bottom until we can raise her. I dove down to…check…I…” His voice trailed off. “I…I’m so sorry.”