Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  Micah shook his head. “We’re good for now, we just want to know what’s going on.” Hazel leaned against him, and he squeezed her hand.

  Valerie watched Hazel as though she were an injured bird. “If you reconsider, the offer stands.”

  “I’ll pray for you. We both will.” Keith looked from Micah to Hazel. “You should open your hearts to Jesus. He can save you.”

  Micah nodded. “We’ll take that under consideration.”

  Halfway down the driveway, Micah began to snicker.

  “The look on Keith’s face.” Micah stretched, yawning. “Priceless. I’m telling you, if there is a God, clearly He’s got a sense of humor. There you are on Keith’s doorstep, the answer to his prayers, and you catch him with his pants down.” He yawned again as they walked up to the Volvo.

  “You’re okay to drive?”

  “I’m good.” He opened the door for her. “But you need rest. Get some sleep; around Trenton we’ll pull off and switch.”

  She didn’t want to sleep. “So that’s Tom Nelson’s wife.”

  “Yeah, that caught me by surprise. Not like I blame her. I mean, I never got why Tom would bother cheating, married to that. At thirty-three she’s hotter than most girls our age. She used to be one of those Hooters girls; she was even in their calendar.”

  Hazel yawned. “This whole trip was a waste of time.”

  “Keith and Mrs. Nelson. How weird is that? Or maybe not.” Micah rolled down his window. “A few weeks back, I’m at the bar with some friends and she comes in, looking real upset. She’s drinking alone, so I go talk to her. Turns out she just realized Tom was cheating on her. I don’t get how she didn’t know sooner—I mean, everyone else did. She was already pretty drunk, so I offered to drive her home. We get there, the house is dark, Tom’s car’s gone, she says lately he’s over at Hooters every night. She loses it and starts crying. I’m trying to make her feel better, telling her how hot she is and what a jerk Tom is not to appreciate what he’s got. Next thing I know she’s got her hand down my jeans.”

  Hazel opened her window, hoping the fresh air would wake her up. “Too much information. I really don’t need to hear this.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Well, I did; I panicked. I was like, whoa! I started saying all these dumb, noble things on how we should wait, go slow, get to know each other. Pretty stupid, huh? I’m acting like we’re on a first date when all she wanted was to get even with Tom.”

  Hazel watched the passing lights; even at that late hour that stretch of road was busy, but she was so tired her vision was starting to blur. She leaned back and closed her eyes, just for a moment.

  “C’mon, hon. Get up.”

  “Huh?” Hazel yawned, looking around at the empty highway, bordered with darkness and trees, trying to understand how everything had changed so abruptly. “Where are we?”

  “Cheesequake. I let you sleep. You needed it. I’ll drop you at the yard and return the rental.”

  “And walk back alone? Think again.”

  “It’s not even a mile.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Ever.”

  “That’ll be real awkward on dates.” He pulled into the nearly vacant rest stop and returned the car to its original space as Hazel gathered White Castle boxes.

  “Leave those. It’ll give the stoners something else to ponder.”

  At four a.m., traffic was sparse as they walked along the northbound shoulder of the Parkway. Hazel said nothing. This was her favorite time of day: quiet and peaceful. Most night owls had turned in, and the early birds were yet to rise.

  “Haze,” Micah began. “If Atkins hadn’t helped me, I could’ve gotten hurt, or worse. You understand that, right?”

  Her throat tightened and she didn’t answer. She understood all too well. She slipped her hand into his the way she had when they were small.

  As they hiked up the low hill that bordered the west edge of the boatyard, a car slowed and pulled to the right lane. Hazel watched the old Fairmont rumble past, turn signal flashing as it approached the upcoming exit.

  “Weird,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I saw a Fairmont just like that the night I left Stevenson’s.”

  Micah shrugged. “Coincidence.”

  “I guess,” she said, recalling the boy in Piermont’s haunting smile.

  The boatyard was still dark, but a faint hint of color tinted the eastern sky. Skirting the lit areas, they walked back to the shed.

  “Wait.” Hazel grabbed Micah, pulling him to a stop.

  Parked in the shadows beside the shed, the Fairmont clicked and ticked as the engine cooled. They looked around but there was no one in sight. Hazel switched on her flashlight and swept it across the car, noticing the wide rear tires mounted on steel rims. Dual exhausts were barely visible. Hazel shined the light into the car. The backseat was loaded with boat bags, fenders, and lines.

  “Damn,” Micah said. “Five speed and a full roll cage. You can bet there’s something evil lurking under the hood. Man, I’d love to borrow this one.”

  Hazel stared into the darkness and listened to Micah’s steady breathing. How could he just shut off like that? They were no closer to knowing how Stevenson fit in this mess or where her father was and what he was up to. And now there was that blue Fairmont sitting just outside like an enigma. Was the driver that boy she’d seen the night she’d torn away from Stevenson’s place in the Viper? Part of her almost hoped it was; she recalled his eyes, in that brief moment he looked at her, as though he knew her completely, and more important, he understood, absolutely and unquestioningly. She knew it was only her imagination taking that passing instant of his smile and building it into something more. Or maybe it was that same boy, but there was something entirely terrible about his proximity.

  She only knew she couldn’t sleep, and the harder she tried the more it eluded her. She rolled over and fluffed her pillow, unable to get comfortable, finally giving up in frustration. Quietly she dressed, pulling on an oversized black sweatshirt and tucking her cropped hair beneath a baseball cap. She slipped off Mardi and out of the shed. She didn’t go far, just far enough to see the Fairmont still parked off to the corner, locked, silent, and troubling.

  Hazel wandered down the vacant docks, past the weekend toys: open fishing platforms, ski boats, and cuddy cabins. Farther out were a few cruisers, trawlers, and livable sailboats. Was the Fairmont’s owner aboard one of them? The old Chris Craft Commander was a possibility, except the wide stretches of glass lacked curtains. To live on a boat was to live in a fish-bowl: with no privacy from the traffic on the dock, curtains were a necessity. The Grand Banks looked lived-in, but she’d seen a retired couple aboard. She passed the Luhrs, Formula, and Mainship, filing them under “maybe.” A few sailboats joined the list, including an old Flicka she’d personally hauled there two years back, though none appeared occupied.

  She was on the finger dock in the shadow of the Blackfin when she heard footsteps and turned as a shadow headed toward shore. He must have exited one of the boats she’d already passed. Hazel followed, walking softly, her pulse rising as the figure moved with the slightest limp toward the Fairmont. Unfortunately he never turned enough for her to see his face as he climbed into the car, started it, and headed out.

  I’M RUBBING OFF ON ANNABEL

  Annabel looked back as they drove out of the boatyard.

  “I’d swear someone was following us.”

  Hammon checked the rearview mirror. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “If I think we’re being followed, does that make me a paranoid delusion?”

  “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t really after us.”

  19:19 WEDNESDAY, JUNE 30

  40°27’24.61”N/74°16’09.29”W

  PARLIN, NJ

  “Behind every dark cloud is an even darker cloud,” Micah announced.

  “I thought we were making progress.” Hazel tied a trash
bag closed. “It’s not so bad with the biohazards gone.”

  “It’s another T-shirt.” Micah held up a wrinkled black shirt stating that very sentiment. He sorted the debris, separating the piles of laundry from books, magazines, CDs, and anything else of interest. The batteries remained disconnected, but orange extension cords snaked onboard, providing volts for lights and a Shop-Vac. Armed with kitchen gloves, bleach, disinfectant, and scouring pads, they’d passed the day scrubbing their way through the cabin. They removed cardboard covering the salon windows and scraped black paint from the mirrors. The unspeakable icebox was beaten into submission. The microwave was declared beyond hope and tossed, and a fresh tank of propane connected to the lines for the ancient four-burner galley stove. For Hazel, the worst part was the bleach vapors, triggering flashes of her last night aboard Witch.

  “There’s quite a collection. Let’s see.” Micah rummaged through the T-shirts. “‘I haven’t lost my mind…it’s backed up on a disk somewhere.’ ‘Everything I need to know I learned from the people trapped in my basement.’ ‘When the pepper spray runs out, can I have your number?’ ‘I’m just one big f#&*ing ray of sunshine, aren’t I?’ ‘Sleep is overrated.’ And my personal favorite, ‘I do very bad things and I do them very well.’”

  “How about the notes? ‘Eat something healthy.’ ‘Check for bugs.’ ‘Meteor showers, 1:45 7/1.’ And I keep finding this one.” She held up a Post-it. “‘It’s in the snow.’”

  “Meteor showers tonight? Cool. What time’s it now?”

  Hazel checked her watch. “Almost seven-thirty.”

  “A.m. or p.m.?” Micah dragged a heavy black trash bag to the cockpit. Hazel shuddered momentarily, recalling Kessler’s disposal.

  “Does it matter?” Within the windowless shed, there was no day or night, just industrial floodlights. Absolute light or absolute dark. Hours dragged out, unmeasured and undefined, leaving Hazel too much time to think. She wouldn’t have minded if that thinking yielded answers, but so far she’d come up empty.

  “These cleaners are giving me a headache.” She peeled off the rubber gloves, dropping them in the galley sink. “I need some air.”

  Micah joined her as she exited the cabin and climbed to the bridge. She stared over the wheel at the compass. “We’ve been on the same heading for days, and the horizon hasn’t changed. It’s like ocean cruising without the ocean.”

  “At least we haven’t hit any bad weather,” Micah said, returning to his stack of Maxims.

  “Yet.” She picked up the Westlake novel she’d found aboard and stared idly at the page. Was the Fairmont still out there? Should she go check? Maybe the owner would be near, and then at least she could know one way or another whether it was the boy she’d seen in Piermont.

  Micah lowered his magazine. “What now?”

  Hazel looked up. “What?”

  “You’re sighing. A lot.”

  Hazel traced her finger along the wheel. “Ever meet someone…I mean, just see them on the street, not even talk to them, and the moment your eyes meet you feel like you’ve known them your whole life? Is that weird?”

  “Nope. Happens to me all the time. Like a few weeks back I saw this girl in Dunkin’ Donuts, and the minute I looked at her, I knew we were meant to spend the rest of our lives together. She smiled back at me, and I knew she knew it too.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Nothing. She had a boyfriend the size of a Mack truck and he wasn’t smiling.”

  A loud crash sounded from below, and a symphony of graphic, physically unachievable remarks rose from Tony. Micah glanced overboard then leveled a critical eye at Hazel. “Didn’t I say no more snares?”

  “You’re no fun.” She climbed down to Tony, lying flat on his back, and offered him an apologetic smile as she helped untangle fish line from his ankles. “Sorry about the security system.”

  Tony sat up. “Security for what, exactly?”

  Micah climbed off the ladder and helped Tony to his feet. “Haze thinks we’re being followed. You know who owns that old blue Fairlane?”

  “Fairmont,” Hazel corrected.

  “Same difference.”

  Hazel rolled her eyes. “Is not. Ford stopped building Fairlanes in North America in 1971. It’s a Fairmont.”

  “Lane, Mont, whatever.” Micah turned to Tony. “Who owns the old blue Ford POS?”

  “That thing? That’s the guy who bought Nepenthe. You remember, the Flicka Hazel hauled here two years back.”

  “What’s he look like?” Hazel asked, trying not to sound too curious.

  Tony shrugged. “Hard to say. I never really seen him during the day. Young. Kind of short, glasses, brown hair. Kind of weird. Talks to himself. Why?” Then Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, never mind why. Your dad called. He said he’d be coming soon and he wanted to be sure you weren’t doing any ‘salvage consultant shit,’ whatever that means.”

  Hazel brightened. “Soon when?”

  “Didn’t say. Just soon.” Tony regarded the tangle of fishing line. “So please refrain from snaring customers. Especially the ones who pay up front.”

  I’M NOT SURE ANYMORE

  Hammon passed the day sweltering aboard Annabel’s so-called boat, fans running, lying on the bunk and sweating, trapped by the sun beating down on the decks above. Much as he hated to admit it, he was grateful for the place to hide, and impressed by the surprisingly sturdy little bath toy.

  “Told you so,” Annabel said. “It’s a Flicka. These things can cross oceans.”

  “So can plastic soda bottles. And they’re about the same size.”

  And yet the boat contained all the necessary comforts in a neat little package, as well as privacy Gary’s couch lacked. Tucked up forward were V bunks. To port stretched six feet of stove/sink/chart table, with ample storage and standing headroom to spare. Starboard, a short settee and the world’s smallest enclosed head/shower. Wedged beneath the cockpit was a miniature diesel. All in all, just enough space for one person. Barely.

  “One?” Annabel said.

  “So much for privacy.”

  “You could lock yourself in the head,” she teased.

  Hammon didn’t reply. It was pointless arguing with himself and he was exhausted. He’d improvised curtains over the ports using a cut-up old sail bag and duct tape and made extra space earlier in the day by moving the spare sails into the Fairmont. The boat came from an estate sale, fully provisioned with everything from charts to cutlery, pots, pans, plates, life vests, and expired flares. Sometimes he wondered what he’d do without Annabel.

  “I shudder to imagine.”

  Still, it freaked him out that she’d bought the boat without his knowledge or consent, and it left him to wonder how much control he truly had over his own actions.

  “Don’t concern yourself, dear. It’s only in your best interests.”

  02:02 THURSDAY, JULY 1

  40°27’24.61”N/74°16’09.29”W

  PARLIN, NJ

  Tired as she was, Hazel couldn’t sleep. Yet another day had come and gone, with them no closer to any answers. A storm was approaching, she was sure of it. The question was, when would it hit and what damage would it leave behind?

  She sighed, watching Micah contentedly sprawled across the port bunk. She sighed even louder; still he didn’t move.

  “Micah?”

  Nothing. Not a flicker of consciousness. He’d always been a deep sleeper, able to doze through the roughest weather. She fought the urge to smack him with a pillow.

  “Fine. You sleep. I’m going for a nice, long walk. Alone.”

  It just wasn’t fair that he could sleep so sound. She was too restless. Hazel slid off the bunk, dressed in the dark, then lit the hurricane lamp in the galley, lowering the wick until only a sliver of blue flame remained.

  The yard was silent and empty beneath a clear night sky. The moon was approaching last quarter and random fireflies blinked over the Phragmites reeds. The space where the Fairmont usually
parked was vacant, and Hazel wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or annoyed, or why it even mattered.

  A flash of light shot across the sky, then another, reminding her of the note she’d found earlier. This was a perfect excuse to wake Micah. More meteors followed, nearly one a minute, and she was halfway back to the shed when an approaching rumble broke the stillness and headlights rounded the boatyard entrance. Hazel flattened herself behind a blocked-up boat, her adrenaline rising as the Fairmont rolled past. The car braked, backed into the far corner, and shut down. No interior lights came on, the door just opened and a shadow emerged. It might have been the boy from Piermont; it was too dark to be sure. He stood, back to her, staring upward. Then, rather than heading to the docks, he wandered through the brush and out to the riverbank.

  Hazel waited, frozen. She could get Micah, but by time they returned her target might be gone. And it wasn’t like she was going to do anything; she simply wanted to see who it was while she had the chance. What harm was there in that? If he was, as Tony said, Nepenthe’s owner, that pretty much ruled out the possibility that he was any danger to her. All the same she opened her knife, slipped her hand into the ribbon loop, and tucked the blade against her arm. Ahead, a faint outline marked the boundary between land and water, with a figure sitting slump-shouldered at the edge. Hazel watched, waiting, but he did nothing.

  It was time for a closer look.

  I’M SORRY

  Hammon stared up as streaks of light cut the darkness: pieces of the universe crashing and burning. It was beautiful in a depressing way, and he was compelled to watch, empathizing with those bits of cosmos. Did they realize they were getting too close to the gravity that would pull them in and destroy them? Did they deliberately hurl themselves into the irresistible force of a spinning planet like moths to a flame, bent on their own destruction? Or were they innocent bystanders, merely passing through the galaxy, only to be drawn into inevitable doom? Whatever the case, it verified one of Hammon’s theories: gravity was a myth; the earth sucked.