Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  “Mr. Moran, settle down NOW or I’m going to sedate you again and then you won’t be able to write to Hazel. Understand?” She looked at Hazel. “I told him I’d give him a few minutes to communicate with you and your brother, and now he’s making me regret that decision.” She glared at Hazel’s father, and he grudgingly sank down on the pillows. Chris sighed and hit buttons on the screens and machines, quieting them. “You have ten minutes. He’s not going to get better like this. He’ll bust stitches.”

  Her father’s expression softened briefly when he turned to Hazel, then just as quickly shifted to anger. He scribbled forcefully on the pad.

  WHY AR YOU HERE

  “Joe got us,” she said.

  He ripped the sheet off. The pencil tore through the paper as he wrote:

  WHY STILL HERE!

  Hazel stood speechless and Micah’s eyes narrowed.

  “Because we give a shit about you!”

  His right eye fell partially closed.

  IL LIVE. STA WITH LOU.

  His face slacked, drained.

  “He needs to settle down,” Chris told Micah. “He needs his rest. He’s doing himself more harm than good; he’s maxing out on the sedatives.”

  Micah glared down at him. “Try a bigger hammer.”

  He wrote again, holding out the pad to Hazel.

  LOVE YOU. GO.

  Tears streamed down her face as she leaned over, carefully kissing him on his cheek. Micah guided her outside, and she broke down in his arms.

  “See? He’s getting better.” Micah stroked her hair. “He’s already back to being an asshole.”

  Chris stepped out, offering a weary smile.

  “Whew! Clearly he’s improving. I was about to take him to the CT Scan department, but he was so agitated to see you first.”

  Hazel swallowed and wiped her eyes. Her father didn’t want to see her; he wanted to see her gone. If only she’d known what he’d been doing, maybe she could have helped him, and maybe he wouldn’t be in this awful place now. “How long will he have to be here?”

  “I can’t really say. His lung still has a suction tube in it to keep it inflated while it heals. His other wounds are draining, but there’s no further active bleeding that we can see. We’ve given him blood, and his blood counts are improving. So far, no signs of infection, but it’s too early for them as yet. To heal, what he really needs is rest.”

  Hazel nodded, sniffling. “He doesn’t want us here.”

  “Let me write down your contact numbers; I have Joe’s but not yours. There’s normally a policy that one family member be the spokesperson…so that’s you, Hazel?”

  Hazel’s phone had gone down with Kindling, and Micah’s was still missing. “I don’t have a phone right now. I’ll get one and call you with the number.”

  “And we need a password for phone conversations. I know it seems silly, but the Federal Government requires us to make sure we know who we’re talking to over the phone. It’s not always me you’ll be speaking to, but I am his primary nurse, so he’s my patient whenever I’m on shift.”

  “A password?” Any of their boat or truck names wouldn’t be hard to guess, not that Hazel knew who else might call or why. “Busted Flush,” she said. It was Travis McGee’s boat, named after the pivotal poker hand that won it for him.

  “Busted Flush,” Chris confirmed. “Should I ask?” She wrote it down and then studied Hazel. “I know you want to be here for your father, but I’m sure you’re exhausted as well. There’s no point living in a waiting room; it can’t be very comfortable for you, and it won’t accomplish anything, especially since it appears your father won’t relax until I assure him you’ve left. I promise I’ll call if anything changes.”

  Hazel hesitated. “He was shot. Someone tried…someone shot him.”

  Chris nodded. “And he’s safe here. No one can get in those doors unless they bust through with AK-forty-sevens. Trust me,” she laughed, her bright blue eyes sharp and serious, “NO ONE gets past me if they don’t belong. Not even your tattooed friend camping in the waiting room. I’m only letting your ‘brother’ slide because it’s obvious he’s holding you together.”

  “We should let Joe know we’re going,” Hazel said as they left the ICU. But he was nowhere in sight.

  “He’s probably outside on his phone. We’ll call him and explain. We need to get a phone and call Nurse Chris with the number.” They returned to the lot but didn’t see Joe. Micah unlocked Tony’s pickup and opened the passenger door for Hazel. “Then we decide what we’re doing about your boyfriend.”

  She slapped the envelope down on the dashboard. “He’s not my boyfriend.” Her face burned and she was grateful for the darkness.

  “Sorry, hon.” Micah reached over, squeezing her hand. “Just kidding.”

  She knew he was, but she was still furious with herself, falling for Hammon’s act so completely. Micah started the truck while Hazel stared back at the hospital, and it took a moment to register as she watched a tall, heavyset figure with pale hair climb into a massive black Mercedes.

  “Get down!” She grabbed Micah’s collar, pulling him below the dashboard with her.

  Head sideways, he looked over. “What are we doing?”

  “I think I saw Stevenson. It was dark, but it looked like him.” She sat up slowly, peering out. The car was gone. “Where do you think he went?”

  “Hard to say with my head wedged under the steering wheel.” Micah sat up. “I thought Stevenson was in critical condition.”

  “He didn’t look critical to me.”

  “Maybe your dad heard wrong. Or he heard what Stevenson wanted him to hear.”

  A horrible realization hit Hazel. “You think he followed us, or is he after Dad?” She shuddered at the thought of her father lying there, so helpless. “We have to go back.”

  “Wait,” Micah caught her wrist as she reached to unclip her belt. “Stevenson was leaving, right? And Chris was taking your dad for a CT scan. I’m sure he’s safe.” He put the truck in gear, pulling out of the space. “You know what I think? I think it’s time for a safari.”

  “Just so long as we’re not the prey.”

  Hazel was thrown against her seatbelt as Micah slammed on the brakes. He stared toward the Dumpsters in the far corner of the lot, shaking his head. “No fucking way.”

  “What?”

  Then she saw it, parked in the shadows. A dark blue Fairmont.

  I’M OUT OF HERE

  The Trauma Center was the last place Hammon wanted to find himself again, even as a visitor. Annabel flat out refused to enter the building. But if Stevenson was there, intent on finishing what three bullets started, it was up to Hammon to stop him. If only he could get that far. At every turn harsh whiteness and sharp right angles closed in; voices echoed all around and carried through the halls, suffocating him. The building seemed to pulse with unseen birth and death, sickness and pain, sucking him under. His worst nightmares lived within these walls, and the farther he went, the harder it became to move, as though gravity was increasing. Horrifying memories assaulted him and he stared down, terrified that anyone might look too close. There were too many people who might recognize his face. They should. It was their creation.

  This was a mistake. He couldn’t find his way, and he couldn’t find Stevenson, not that he knew what he’d do if he did. Without Annabel’s calming guidance, he stumbled along, disoriented and anxious, whipping his head around at every noise, certain someone would peg him as a lost psych patient and drag him back to treatment. Then he’d never escape. He’d never be able to see or help Hazel. Terrified, gasping for air, Hammon finally found his way back to the soothing darkness of the parking lot.

  Stevenson’s car was gone. He could track it, but he’d made up his mind. He’d stick with Plan A: get Hazel alone aboard Nepenthe and take her far from Stevenson and whatever dangers he presented. He had one problem, though; Annabel would try to stop him. There had to be a way around her interference and the bli
nding headaches that went with it. Maybe those medications; they were supposed to make the voices go away. There was a time he couldn’t imagine living without Annabel. That’s why he’d thrown them out. But now…

  Annabel emerged from the shadows as he unlocked the Fairmont, and Hammon’s heart sank. She knew what he was planning. She always knew. She stood, hands tucked demurely behind her, staring with solemn intensity. A single tear ran down her cheek.

  “It’s not that I want to get rid of you,” he mumbled apologetically. “You got to understand, it’s what I have to do.”

  “I do understand,” she said, her voice breaking. “Nothing’s coincidence…”

  “Huh?”

  “Haze, no!” Micah shouted, rushing over as she swung a tire iron, hitting Hammon square across the right knee with a sickening crack. He dropped like a sack of bricks onto the pavement beside the Fairmont and stared up through crooked glasses, seeing double as pain rippled through his body.

  Annabel strolled past Hazel and glared down with zero sympathy. “Serves you right, after all I’ve done for you.”

  Hazel stood over him, tire iron raised for another strike. “Don’t move,” she warned. “Or I swing again. Understand?”

  Hammon nodded numbly, blinking to clear his vision, noticing with detachment how his right leg twisted in a disturbing angle. By the look of things, it was unlikely he’d be able to stand. Hazel wiped her cheek against her shoulder as Micah stepped between them.

  “Hon, I thought we agreed I’d handle this,” he said, his voice gentle. “You know how you get.”

  “I think I’m being remarkably restrained, considering.”

  “You are.” He tried to take the iron. She wouldn’t release it. “But someone might hear him screaming.”

  “He isn’t screaming,” she pointed out. “Yet.”

  “Oh, that’s not good,” Annabel said. “What’d you do to piss her off?”

  “I don’t know…” Hammon choked.

  “Don’t know what?” Micah studied the unnatural angle of Hammon’s leg and cringed. “Damn, he’s got some amazing tolerance to pain.”

  Hazel placed the iron against his damaged knee. “Let’s see how much,” she said, each word razor-sharp, her eyes focusing hatred like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

  Hammon gazed up, helpless and confused. “Why?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Hazel said. “I guess Stevenson figured I’d fall for the sweet, shy act, and I guess he was right. You really had me fooled.”

  Micah held out the envelope with all his notes and cash. “I warned you not to upset her.”

  Annabel groaned. “You left that in your coat?”

  He was going to be sick. “That’s not what it looks like.”

  “It looks to me like Stevenson paid you a stack of cash to steal our truck, burn our boat, and…” She pressed down on the iron. “My father’s in that hospital and it looks exactly like someone tried to kill him.”

  Hammon moaned aloud. THAT was who Stevenson shot? This was even worse than the worst he could imagine. “I didn’t do it!”

  “We saw Stevenson leave,” Micah said, his voice low. “Why was he here? What does he want?”

  Hammon shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  The pressure on his knee increased, and he choked back a sob, more from frustration than pain.

  “Where’s our truck?” Hazel demanded. “And what’s Stevenson doing with it?”

  Hope rose in Hammon. He could prove he wanted to help! He knew where Stevenson stashed the red Freightliner; he could show them! He was about to speak when a jolt of agony ripped through his brain and he shuddered, gasping incoherently.

  “No,” Annabel warned. “You do that, you could lead them straight to Stevenson.”

  She was right, but pain choked his words. Annabel said, “Tell her you don’t know.”

  “Don’t…know…” he whimpered obediently.

  “Who is he working with?” Hazel demanded, again pressing down.

  “I don’t know!”

  Micah sighed in disgust. “Give it up, Haze. He doesn’t know anything.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “Then what’s Stevenson paying him for? I saw him in Piermont; he must’ve turned around and followed me straight to Forelli’s.”

  “No,” Hammon stammered. He wished she’d just hit him again; that hurt less than the way she was looking at him, like she could see straight through him and hated what she saw.

  “Tell her the truth,” Annabel said.

  The truth? He didn’t know it himself. He only knew she and Micah were in trouble, and they were running from Stevenson. “I didn’t tell Stevenson anything. He doesn’t know I found you.”

  “Not that!” Annabel said.

  “And I didn’t shoot your father.”

  Hazel’s eyes narrowed. “I never said he was shot.”

  “Stevenson did…”

  “Stop saying Stevenson,” Annabel snapped. “You’re digging your own grave.”

  “I swear…I…uh…oh…God…” he choked, his voice edging toward hysteria. He banged his head against the pavement, fighting back a giggle. This wasn’t funny. Headlights swept through the lot, casting long shadows beneath the Fairmont. The car stopped, lights shut, doors slammed, and voices receded. He could call out, but if help came, Hazel and Micah would leave and he might never find them again. He had to make them understand he wanted to help. Through one lens of his glasses, he watched Micah open his backpack.

  “Rope. Duct tape. A paintball gun.” Micah dug out the compact neon-pink-and-green “toy” Glock, inspecting it, feeling the weight. “Holy shit! This thing’s real.”

  Hazel took it from Micah and leveled it at Hammon. “You painted a real gun to look like a toy?”

  Micah reclaimed the gun. “It hasn’t been fired in a while.”

  “He could have cleaned it.”

  “Then it’d be clean. It’s hard to fire with a petrified gummy bear wedged behind the trigger.” Micah flipped through Hammon’s wallet. “Driver’s license says he’s John O. Hammon, from Manasquan, New Jersey. Fairmont registration in Stevenson’s name. Jersey boat registration, thirty-six foot, wood, diesel, also Stevenson. One library card.”

  Hammon heard the thunk of the trunk releasing. “Oh shit,” he mumbled.

  Annabel looked back. “Oh shit.”

  Micah surveyed the contents. “Oh shit.”

  “What now?” Hazel walked over. Micah blocked her. She pushed past then turned back to Hammon. “A shovel and a tarp?”

  “For burying things,” he admitted.

  “Things?” Hazel said.

  Annabel shook her head. “Your communication skills suck.”

  He couldn’t remember the word. Think…damnit…“Dead things.” Hammon winced from the pain in Hazel’s eyes. “I know last night…I talked about hurting you…I meant that…” he struggled, breaking into nervous giggles. “I was only gonna kidnap you, then…”

  “Otto, just shut up already!” snapped Annabel.

  “Haze, give me the tire iron,” Micah said.

  Hammon’s brain itched as the stitches inside came undone. He moaned, rubbing his skull against the pavement. “I WON’T HURT YOU!”

  Micah looked around. “He’s getting loud. Someone might notice.”

  No! If anyone came over, they’d leave and he would never see Hazel again. He couldn’t let that happen.

  “I’ll be quiet,” he insisted, desperately looking as cooperative as possible, lying next to the tire like…“Roadkill!” he said brightly, at last recalling the elusive term. Somehow, it only seemed to further infuriate Hazel.

  “Hon, let’s go,” Micah said. “He’s just hired help. He doesn’t know anything useful.”

  She looked down at Hammon. “We can’t leave this here.”

  He’d been reduced to “this.” “Hazel…” he pleaded.

  She knelt down, looking at him with those beautiful dark eyes, hating him.


  “Tell her the truth,” Annabel said.

  “I was just looking for Revenge. I…I’m…” Hammon choked, searching for the words.

  “Sick. You’re sick.”

  He knew that. “I’ll follow you. I promise.”

  “No.” Micah wrapped a strip of duct tape across his mouth. “You won’t.” Another length bound his arms behind his back.

  Hazel wiped her face against her shoulder and turned to Micah. “We have to get rid of…”

  Hammon flopped around like a landed fish, and he struggled to speak against the tape, desperate to get their attention. Micah glanced down and Hammon stared up. Please don’t kill me, he pleaded silently. Micah turned away, talking to Hazel too quiet for Hammon to hear.

  “That’s not encouraging,” Annabel said.

  They turned back to him. Micah grabbed his shoulders, and Hazel took his ankles, lifting him and rolling him into the trunk, onto the muddy, stinking tarp. The shovel dug into his spine.

  “His leg isn’t broken.” Hazel shoved the twisted right limb into the trunk. “It’s a prosthetic. That’s why he didn’t scream.” She snapped open a vicious little knife and lowered the blade to his throat.

  “Haze,” Micah said gently. “Don’t.”

  “Why not?” Her troubled eyes met Hammon’s for a second that lasted an eternity. “He found us once, he’ll find us again. And you saw what he’s got with him.”

  He tried futilely to explain through the duct tape. Annabel leaned against the car. “I think you’re doing better not talking.”

  Hazel was in danger, and once he was dead, he couldn’t help. He’d failed. The blade pressed to his flesh as Hammon gazed up, helpless. He’d given up on struggling. It was pointless. He couldn’t stop her. He was doomed.

  “We kill him,” Micah said, “Stevenson just sends someone else.”

  “We’ll worry about that when it happens.”

  Hammon studied Hazel, so beautiful even as she was about to kill him. Her eyes, so innocent and deadly, looked straight through his broken soul, and his heart wrenched the same way it did that first time her gentle fingers caressed his scarred cheek. He leaned his face against her arm, savoring the bittersweet sensation of his damaged skin pressed to her smooth perfection; it felt so good, but it was the last time they’d ever touch. A single tear caught beneath her trembling lip.