Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  Micah hauled the ladder up and laid it in the cockpit. “You are a twisted child. You know that, right?”

  “So say the pysch reports. ‘Exhibits potentially sociopathic tendencies.’”

  It had been a long, exhausting day, and though it was late, neither of them was ready to sleep. There was too much to discuss, and for the first time since Hazel arrived, they were finally alone. They’d spent the day within the shed with Tony, Nicky, and Lou, cannibalizing the derelict Wheeler. Pieces were pried and Sawz-alled off the old boat, then just as crudely grafted onto the stolen boat using bolts, wood screws, epoxy, and 5200. Work was quick and sloppy, with leftover house paint slapped over everything, and by day’s end the sleek boat was transformed into a forlorn, neglected-looking wreck. And while not as spacious as Tony’s efficiency apartment, the “new” Mardi offered individual bunks and privacy to talk. So after pizza and showers, they left Tony out cold on the couch in front of late-night TV and returned to the boat.

  “Cute,” Micah said, referring to Hazel’s kitty-cat top and pajama pants. “That was kind of Stevenson, leaving clothes aboard for you.”

  “I think they’re for some girl he knows. But they were never worn, they fit, and I’m too tired to care.”

  They spread borrowed sleeping bags across the V-berths. Hazel claimed the starboard side and Micah posted the charred “NO WAKE ZONE” needlepoint on the port bulkhead. Power remained disconnected, and an oil lamp cast warm light through the cabin. Micah contemplated the galaxy of luminescent dots scattered overhead, glowing in a perfect representation of the winter sky, his expression troubled and tense.

  “So let’s hear it,” Hazel said at last. “Why’d you take Tuition, and what the hell is going on?”

  “I fucked up,” Micah admitted. “Kessler said he’d pay me five grand cash if I did a delivery for him. Haul a load of broken minifridges to a warehouse in Florida, swap them for repaired ones, and deliver to some other stores, all off the books. He didn’t want mileage showing on the company trucks. I figured I’d use RoadKill, but he said use the new rig or no deal; he didn’t want me breaking down or getting pulled over.”

  He paused, as though expecting Hazel to say something. She already had a list of questions, but she wanted to let him talk, which once he got rolling he usually did. Seeing that she was still waiting, finally he continued.

  “It seemed so simple. You and your dad were sailing a delivery down to Maryland, and I figured I’d have Tuition back before you returned. I’d tell your dad I hauled a boat for someone, give him some of the cash, and so long as I didn’t get a scratch on the truck, he couldn’t be too pissed.”

  “And did you even wonder what you were really hauling?” Hazel said, realizing how reproachful that sounded. “Keith said he’d heard Kessler was moving drugs.”

  Micah rubbed his face and closed his eyes. “Kessler said it was appliances, and that was fine by me. I didn’t know; I didn’t want to know. All I knew was it was cash, I’ve got a fortune in school loans, and my daddy didn’t save up a truckload of money to send me to college.”

  It was the one sore subject between them, one they rarely touched upon. Her father was a first-class hard-ass at times, but he’d always put Hazel ahead of everything including himself, and sometimes she took that for granted. She reached across and gave Micah’s hand a squeeze.

  “I’m sorry, hon,” he said. “It’s just…yeah, trust me, I know…in hindsight it was a stupid move. Real stupid. I knew it at the time. I didn’t let myself think about it; I just drove. Each place I delivered, they had at least one or two broken units for me to take back. I made the last delivery in Elizabeth then pulled off at Vince Lombardi to fuel up. I figured I’d better return Tuition topped off. I run in to take a leak and grab a coffee, not five minutes, and I know I locked the truck.” Micah dug in his pocket, producing the keys. “I come out and Tuition’s gone. The only things left were a bunch of busted freezers in the trailer and A/Cs, and my phone in the cab. I called Kessler from a pay phone, and he went ballistic, screaming how if I didn’t have that cargo back, I was good as dead. I was screwed; if Kessler didn’t kill me, your dad would for sure. Joe wasn’t answering, so I called Atkins then spent the night hiding on the side of the Turnpike until he got there.”

  “Why Atkins?” Hazel sat up. “Keith said Atkins threatened to break your legs.”

  Micah grinned. “Yeah, I guess that sounds bad out of context. He’d been driving for Kessler, doing the same run once a month using his own rig. He actually thought he was moving appliances, nothing more, and he wasn’t getting paid all that much. The last time Atkins drove, Kessler paid him from a duffle bag filled with bundled hundred-dollar bills, and when he saw all the cash, Kessler actually tossed him an extra grand, ‘a bonus,’ to forget what he saw. Atkins decided he didn’t want to get pulled over and find out what he was really hauling. He told Kessler no thanks, keep your money, find someone else. When Kessler came to me, Atkins tried to steer me clear. But I didn’t want to hear it; all I could think of was paying down my student loans.”

  “How do you know Atkins wasn’t setting you up?”

  “Because he wouldn’t. He’s a good person.”

  “Who called Keith, saying he knew I was all alone and could probably use some company? He wanted to pay me a visit and show me something.”

  Micah burst out laughing. “I knew that’d freak you out! I couldn’t just call you, that was too risky. I figured Kessler was watching you, and I knew you’d start looking for me, but if Keith relayed that message, we both know your dad would sure as hell drop by to have a word with Atkins.”

  Hazel didn’t quite share Micah’s unquestioning faith in Atkins, but voicing her opinion wouldn’t change anything. “These shipments, who else knew about them?”

  “Anyone along the route, I guess. Or maybe someone just wanted a nice new truck.”

  “Not just anyone,” Hazel announced at last, sitting up. She brought out the manila file, hidden beneath the bunk mattress, and passed it to Micah. “Stevenson has Tuition.”

  He inspected the photos of Tuition and the cargo. “Yep. That looks like all of it. Why didn’t you mention this sooner?”

  “I wanted to hear your side first. There’s something I learned from Travis McGee; he called it ‘Meyer’s injunction,’ from his friend Meyer. It goes, ‘Don’t mix up what you really know with what you think you know.’ I figured it was better to see what you could tell me.”

  Micah held up the photo of her reading the Times. “Excellent composition. I like the way the sunlight catches your hair. Nice touch with the finger. This come in wallet size?”

  “It’s not a joke. I still don’t get where Stevenson fits in.”

  “Atkins thinks Kessler was just middle management.”

  “Speculation.”

  “No. He said the routes weren’t in Kessler’s handwriting. Maybe Kessler and Stevenson were partners.”

  “Then why intercept his own shipment? And who was he talking to on the phone?”

  “Dunno. What else you got there?”

  “His wallet.” She passed it over. “And his phone, but he deleted everything in it.”

  Micah examined Stevenson’s driver’s license. “No way! JAKE Stevenson?”

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally, but I’ve heard of him. This guy, he’s like a legend in green engineering. My thesis on the economics of global warming, half my information came from his articles and work. We talk about him all the time in the engineering department. No way he’s dealing drugs.”

  “You don’t know that; maybe the economics just work on paper.” Hazel stared up, picking out constellations and brooding. Something didn’t fit, but she couldn’t put her finger on what. Then it hit her. She sat up, sniffing. “Do you smell smoke?”

  Micah sniffed. “Wet paint, mildew, stale Fritos. My clothes smelled like schooner flambé, but I left them in the cockpit.”

  “I mean cigarette smoke. All St
evenson’s things smelled like an ashtray.” She looked up at the stars on the ceiling. “But not this. Whoever borrowed the boat had it for a while, which means this mess isn’t Stevenson’s…and neither is the porn or the weird covered windows.” She chewed her lip, thinking. “But all the mirrors in his house were painted over the same way. Odd. What if whoever borrowed the boat is who Stevenson was talking to?”

  Micah lay back and contemplated the painted galaxy. “Well, we know it sure as hell wasn’t Kessler.”

  “I’d love to pay Stevenson a visit and ask him some questions.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be answering anything for a while.” Micah mock-punched her in the shoulder. “You really need to work on your self-control.”

  Hazel wasn’t amused. “I didn’t hit him that hard; just enough to keep him down.”

  A midday call from her father confirmed she indeed had not killed Stevenson, but come “damn-near close.” He was in critical condition, more or less comatose, and the police were seeking information regarding a girl he’d been seen with earlier that day. It was vital she and Micah stay out of sight. They assured her father they were locked in the old building and going nowhere.

  Hazel said. “We can’t just sit here like this, doing nothing.”

  “You heard your dad. We’re supposed to wait for him here.”

  “And suddenly you’re listening to my dad? Seriously, he left you in charge of me! You. I mean, no offense, but that’s like leaving the inmates in charge of the prison, and we both know it.”

  “That’s what Joe said. Your dad called it the lesser of two evils.”

  “What’s the greater?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. Plausible deniability, he said. If I didn’t know, then you couldn’t beat it out of me.”

  I’M JUST LISTENING TO

  THE VOICE IN MY HEAD

  More alone than he could remember in years, Hammon pulled into the boatyard he’d seen that morning. In the glare of the Fairmont’s headlights, he read a plywood sign propped against a fifty-gallon drum:

  Welcome to Forelli’s Boatyard.

  We are moving boats. Cars must be left UNLOCKED with keys IN IGNITION or they WILL be forklifted into the creek.

  Thank you.

  He drove through the dark lot, surrounded by shadows of blocked-up boats, and a quick look over the slips confirmed Revenge wasn’t in the water. A few runabouts and cuddy cabins sat on the hard dirt along with a cluster of weary sailboats, a stocky old Cheoy Lee trawler, and several shrink-wrap-cocooned shapes. Two were close enough in size to be possibilities. The Travelift stood to the south beside a tired wooden shed large enough to conceal Revenge four times over. Hammon parked in the darkest corner and slipped out of the Fairmont, grabbing his backpack and locking the car. From the shadows he watched to see if anyone noticed or cared.

  Apparently no one did. The docks were devoid of all life. Lights shined from a small Cape Cod on the north side of the yard, the shades drawn. The blue glow of a TV flickered from behind a second-story window over the south shed, but no one looked out. It was a shopping-cart yard.

  There were yacht clubs: gated, manicured establishments with pools, tennis courts, and private memberships; and there were marinas: friendly family places open to anyone who paid for a slip, with clean showers, maybe a clubhouse and pool and “dock carts” for moving gear. And then there were boatyards: gravel and dirt paved, overgrown, undergroomed places dealing in the messy business of keeping boats running, with an eclectic assortment of shopping carts pilfered from local supermarkets and home improvement superstores. In general, shopping-cart yards were somewhat lax regarding security other than perhaps a mellow dog or cat. Hammon saw no signs of any four-footed patrols. But a lone video camera rotated atop the shed, covering the span of the property.

  Hammon stepped between two boats, where the camera couldn’t follow. He removed his backpack and pulled out a small, highly accurate paintball gun with a night scope. He timed the camera, steadied his breathing, took aim, and fired. The camera lens continued its sweep, now sporting a fresh splat of water-soluble white paint. Local gulls would take the blame and the next good downpour would rinse it away. Hammon moved on, inspecting covered boats, none of which were Revenge, when a slender shape emerged from the shadows.

  “You are here,” he mumbled.

  She smiled. “I was never gone, dear.”

  Hammon fought the urge to reach forward, to touch her dark curls, feel her satiny skin. He knew better. “But you’re not real. I know that now.”

  “You always did, in your heart at least; but you never wanted to face reality. Far be it for me to complain. Why shatter a perfect illusion with messy facts?”

  “Like the fact that I’m nuts?”

  “A technicality. Does it change anything?”

  She had a point. He could let it bother him or he could simply accept it and move on. He was more concerned with finding Revenge. Once he found the boat, he could search for his lost mind. He turned his attention to the locked shed, which raised the stakes from temporary vandalism to breaking and entering. He rummaged through his backpack for the appropriate tools, pressed his shoulder to the door frame, and set to work. Aided by a few picks and some gentle persuasion, he convinced the lock to cooperate, then opened the door a quarter inch, listening for alarm sounds but hearing nothing alarming.

  He slipped through, shining his flashlight up at the darkened superstructure of a weathered black Wheeler that had seen better decades. It sat neglected and forlorn: the centerpiece in an arrangement of oil drums, paint cans, old fenders, tarps, delaminated plywood, and other random junk piled high against the hull. The boat looked familiar, but bore no resemblance to Revenge’s sleek lines. The bridge was shorter and higher. Wide overhangs surrounded the salon. Heavy, work-scarred rub rails ran from bow to stern, and rows of lobster-boat-type strakes covered the hull. A long pulpit jutted from the metal-sheathed plumb bow. And rising from the cockpit, a short mast projected upward, rigged to a boom with heavy block and tackle, ideal for raising lobster pots or massive sharks…

  “That’s it!” Annabel laughed, delighted. “It’s the boat from Jaws.”

  Hammon swept the beam across the stern, where faded, stained block letters read “Mardi.” He sighed. Revenge was probably hundreds of miles away.

  “That’s something I’ve always admired in you,” Annabel said. “Your optimism.”

  Hammon trudged out of the shed. “Realism. Why you think I hate reality? Guess it’s time for Plan B,” he said, with no Plan B in mind. It just sounded like the thing to say.

  “I’m already on it,” Annabel said, skipping toward the docks.

  “On what?”

  “Plan B. I bought another boat.”

  Hammon squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “You…Wha…How…?”

  “Online. Think about it. You saw ‘me’ here this morning, but that wasn’t me, just like it wasn’t me in the Viper last night. When I looked up information on this place—”

  “Looked up when? How?”

  “I told you. Online, at Gary’s. You wouldn’t remember, you thought you were asleep. Anyways, the yard had some boats for sale. I figured I’d buy one so we’d have some privacy, somewhere to rest, a good excuse for being here, and a way to keep watch. I transferred the money online.”

  “Annabel…which boat?” A bad feeling grew as he scanned the docks, spotting his worst nightmare.

  “That’s her!” Annabel beamed. “Isn’t she neat?”

  “That thing?” He’d never seen the boat before, yet he recognized it. “Good God, angel, it’s a dinghy!”

  “Oh, seriously. She’s not that small.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding. It’s…it’s…” He was at a loss for words. Bow to stern, it couldn’t have been more than twenty feet.

  “Her name’s Nepenthe. How cool is that? She has an inboard diesel, standing headroom in the cabin—”

  “What…where…how? And what’s with all thos
e ropes and the big pole in the middle?”

  “She’s a sailboat. Gaff rig, in fact.”

  “And that means what to me? In case you forgot, I can’t sail.”

  “Trust me, I know what I’m doing. Have I ever guided you wrong? It made sense: we’re yard customers now, not trespassers. It’s perfect.”

  “Wha…no. ‘Perfect’ is twice that big and has zero sails.”

  “It’s somewhere to sleep, and it’s bigger than Gary’s couch.”

  “Barely.”

  Annabel planted her hands on her hips, and her eyes narrowed.

  “Let’s get something clear right now. Everything from your brainstem up, I own. Understand? You’re just the tenant. I get the right side of your brain, as in I’m always right, and you get the left, as in you get what’s left. I control the majority, and I’m not staying at Gary’s place. I do the thinking and I need rest. Like it or not, I bought that boat. The paperwork and keys are under the starboard seat cushion.”

  23:58 TUESDAY, JUNE 29

  40°27’56.56”N/74°17’17.25”W

  MILE 123, GARDEN STATE PARKWAY, NJ

  Just before midnight a white 1986 Volvo wagon heading up from Great Adventure pulled off the Garden State Parkway and into the Cheesequake service area, parking in the southeast lot. Four college-age males with a weed-induced case of the munchies spilled out, unaware that they were under surveillance. Joking and shoving, they piled into the building, oblivious to the figure slipping from the shadows to follow them. They gazed up at the glowing menu over the twenty-four-hour Burger King, debating how to best spend their remaining cash, when a pretty, dark-eyed girl with bobbed curls approached, asking how to find Seaside Heights.

  Their eager, stoned attempts to give her skimpy tank top directions were almost comical. Though north and south were alien concepts, the group was determined to help, offering to drive, lead, follow, and in one case, marry her. When at last they agreed on an incorrect route, she nodded tentatively, then tried to repeat it back, even more confused than them. Pouting, she sighed. “Could you tell me again?”