Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  Hammon stared out the window. “I know things.”

  “What things?”

  Hammon sighed. “That’s the problem. I don’t remember.”

  05:07 FRIDAY, JULY 2

  40°10’49.98”N/74°01’47.35”W

  BELMAR, NJ

  July 2 dawned with vivid shades of red, pink, and orange shimmering off the water.

  “Damn, that’s freakin’ breathtaking.” Micah gazed up as they docked the freshly fueled-up Mardi among the fleets of charters and fishing boats in transient slips at the Belmar Municipal Boat Basin. “Almost leaves you without words.”

  Hazel regarded the sky as she tightened the spring line. “A depression’s moving in.”

  “Can’t you just once say, ‘Oooh. Pretty sunrise.’”

  Hazel looked up. “Ooooh. Pretty. My dad’s been shot, my life’s falling apart, people are trying to kill us, and the weather’s going to get ugly.”

  Micah grinned. “But on the bright side…”

  She glared at him. “Don’t say it.”

  They passed the day catching up on sleep aboard the boat. Through a late-day call from nurse Chris, Hazel learned her father was making a strong recovery, and making himself a pain in the process. If everything continued smoothly over the coming hours, he’d be headed into surgery with an orthopedic specialist to pin together his ankle, fibula, and tibia, all shattered when the Buick’s engine crushed into the firewall. They checked in again as darkness fell to learn surgery was scheduled for Saturday morning. The next call, made from a pay phone blocks away, left Micah pale.

  “Keith couldn’t find anything on Stevenson, but he said last night Atkins’s trailer burned to a shell. The cops didn’t find Atkins, but they’re still sifting through it.”

  “He might not have been there,” Hazel said, without much conviction. The way things had been going, her optimism had worn thin.

  Micah dialed Atkins’s number. Hazel leaned closer, trying to listen in as he scribbled down “NY, SDH-896” then hung up.

  “What’s that?” Hazel said. “A license plate?”

  “This,” he pointed to the paper, “is code for a time and place. We set this up back when things first hit the fan, just in case. Atkins is a bit on the paranoid side. Then again, he’s been right so far. Here,” he showed her. “Add all the numbers, you get twenty-three. So twenty-three minutes after each hour, give or take.” He underlined NY. “That means the Turnpike. ‘NJ’ is the Parkway. Take the last letter,” he circled the H. “That’s the eighth letter in the alphabet. So subtract eight from the eight-nine-six, then divide by eight,” he explained, figuring it as he did. “And that’s where we meet: at the rest stop by that milepost at that time at the furthest end of that lot. No one shows, leave and come back in an hour.”

  “Mile one eleven.” She knew Micah trusted Atkins completely, but she couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been sent the coordinates for a trap. “The Alexander Hamilton rest stop in Secaucus.”

  “And we need a car.”

  The vehicle of choice was a Chevy Blazer from which a mildly intoxicated couple emerged, laughing as they stumbled into the pub across the street. There was no debate or discussion; Hazel pointed, Micah nodded, and minutes later they were rolling, Micah at the wheel.

  The sky darkened and light rain began to fall, and the dismal wiper blades only smeared the view of the taillights ahead. Micah remained uncharacteristically quiet, which made Hazel more uneasy than she already was.

  At Newark she watched cargo planes taxiing around terminals and runways. A Fed-Ex jet roared as it raced Turnpike traffic then rose into the night sky. Rows of boxcars lined up on rail tracks, hauling cargo to and from the container ships docked along the Elizabeth waterfront. Massive cranes ceaselessly transferred loads between ships, trains, and trucks in a well-orchestrated ballet. Further ahead oil refinery lights twinkled. There was a certain beauty to the industrial landscape, alive and shimmering in the rainy night.

  “You know what the problem is?” Micah stared out. “People fly into Newark, see this, and figure the whole state’s the same thing.”

  Hazel glanced across, noticing his tight grip on the wheel.

  “It’s not just that,” she joined in. “Half the country, they’ve never even been here, they watched some TV show or movie and they assume Jersey’s a toxic wasteland populated with mobsters.”

  Micah nodded grimly. “Everyone says they air’s lousy, but nobody points out where most of that pollution comes from: out west. The jet stream carries all the smog from coal-burning power plants and dumps it here. I’m sick of Jersey-bashing. Atkins says the state slogan should be, ‘Welcome to New Jersey, now go home.’”

  Hazel counted the numbers on the mile markers, her anxiety rising as they increased. What were they headed into? Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the awful feeling this trip was a mistake.

  “It’s too bad we took Hammon’s phone,” Micah said.

  “How so?”

  “We’ve got no way of calling him.”

  “And why would we want to do that?”

  “Because you’re no fun when you’re morose. Around Hammon, at least you were smiling.”

  “Yeah, until I learned Stevenson sent him.”

  All the warning signs were there, but she’d chosen to ignore them. She’d been careless and completely misjudged Hammon, endangering them both. She was turning out to be a poor excuse for a salvage consultant.

  They passed through the Meadowlands, reaching the Alexander Hamilton service area on schedule, and Micah parked beside a dingy red Corolla. Hazel watched warily as the greasy-haired driver unfolded himself from the car, greeting Micah with a round of friendly profanities.

  “Didn’t even recognize you when you pulled up.” Atkins looked Micah over. “Good move losing the blue hair and crap on your face. Finally showing some sense.”

  Hazel remained beside the Blazer, scanning the lot for threats, and backed up slightly as Atkins approached.

  “You nervous, girl?” His discolored eye locked on her in an unblinking stare. “Smart. Micah said you got a good head on you.” He nodded toward their surroundings. “The last hour I been watching, no one’s came and parked over here. I warned Micah this shit was coming. Your boat, my trailer. Word is your dad’s had a bad accident, only I’m betting it wasn’t an accident.”

  “No,” Hazel said. “Someone shot him.”

  Atkins nodded. “I was afraid of that. This’s getting ugly. Someone out there’s rattled and wants us all gone. They shot up my trailer while it burned. Good thing I was out. Come dark I swung by your place looking for Joe. He wasn’t ’round, but I found this stuck to your old Kenworth.” He pulled a sloppily folded paper from his pocket, smoothed it, and passed it to Hazel.

  Micah leaned his chin over her shoulder to see. It read: “FOUND” with the photos of Tuition, the trailer’s interior, and Hazel, Times in hand, finger raised. At the bottom was a 201 area-code number.

  “That’s Stevenson’s number,” Hazel said.

  Atkins leaned back against the Corolla. “This’s just the thing I tried warning you about. I don’t know what’s become of Kessler, but he weren’t working alone. You got this Stevenson on one end, Kessler’s partner on the other, and us dumb schmucks stuck in the crossfire. I figured I call, play along, see what they say. Maybe we can turn it to our advantage, but I wanted to run it by you kids first.”

  “Why?” Hazel said suspiciously. Micah shot her a look but Atkins only nodded.

  “When I quit, Kessler said it weren’t that easy. I know his operations. So do you all, at least as far as they figure. Likely there’s bullets out there with our names on ’em. We work together, watch each other’s backs, maybe we make it out whole.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” Micah asked.

  “I thought about that the whole ways here.” Atkins’s unsettling gaze fixed on Hazel, an awful smile filling his face. “From all Micah’s told me ’bout you, I figure you’ll
appreciate this.”

  First step was arranging the meeting.

  Atkins called from the pay phones while Hazel and Micah stood lookout. The conversation was brief, and Atkins scribbled down notes. He hung up and they returned to the relative privacy of the cars.

  “My contact, he didn’t give me any name, but he’s one smooth-talking son of a bitch. He says I got an interesting little operation. He said he could keep everything for himself, but without the right marketing connections, it don’t do him much good. He says in exchange for twenty-five percent of the profits, he’ll return it and become a silent partner. He says anything unfortunate happens to him, he got documented information goes out to the DEA and all.”

  Atkins wiped his face. “He said Kessler got sloppy, and he’s got someone more reliable to replace him. And he said there were some loose ends. I’m guessing that’d be us. But he said he’s already got that being taken care of.”

  “Somehow,” Micah said, “I don’t think that means limos and room service.”

  “Not likely. We’re meeting by the truck at midnight to shake on our new partnership.”

  I’M SOGGY

  Hammon watched the raindrops trail down the Fairmont’s windshield, reflecting the lights of the Emergency Room, and he waited for one more chance to see Hazel. He didn’t know what else to do. He wasn’t able to find Revenge; the tracker signal had dissolved into the offshore fog long before he was anywhere close. She and Micah hadn’t returned to Forelli’s boatyard, and no one knew where they’d gone. The hospital was his last hope; Hammon was sure Hazel would return to see her father, and when she did he’d talk to her. He’d explain everything. Maybe he could regain her trust and she’d stay with him forever. Yeah, right. Who was he kidding?

  “She’s hurting,” Annabel said. “And she thinks you betrayed her.”

  “She thinks I’m a psycho and I’m after her.”

  “You are. Just talk to her.”

  “And say what?”

  An alert chirped on his new replacement phone: Stevenson’s Mercedes was proceeding south on 9W, heading toward the hospital. That decided it; Hammon would confront Stevenson and demand to know what he wanted with Hazel. But the signal exited on 80 toward Little Ferry. Abandoning his vigil, Hammon followed, back to the warehouse and the Moran Marine truck.

  Hammon parked a block away. Using the night scope liberated from Temperance, he circled the building’s unlit south wall. Gary’s repairs on the damaged prosthesis left him somewhat stiffly mobile, and he moved with caution and a slight squeak. Roughly fifty yards from the warehouse, he settled into the Phragmites along the riverbank, ignoring the clammy mud oozing into his sneakers. A light drizzle continued to fall, and the wet pavement glistened orange beneath the glow of the sodium vapor lights. Beside the building, Stevenson leaned against the black Mercedes. Waiting.

  “For what?” Annabel asked.

  A few possibilities crossed Hammon’s mind, none of them good. All he could do was wait and see. Overhead, landing lights cut through the rain as a small jet swept in on approach to Teterboro Airport. A tail strobe flashed, and running lights cast an eerie glow as the plane dropped so low it seemed as if the landing gear might graze the trees. Stevenson turned toward Hammon, his face illuminated momentarily as he lit a cigarette, and Hammon panicked, thinking he’d been spotted. Stevenson gave the slightest nod to a row of flatbed trailers to his right. The night scope revealed a prone shape behind one trailer not twenty feet from where Hammon crouched, pistol positioned like a sniper, and the shape gave a low thumb’s-up in return.

  “Damn,” Annabel said. “A little further and you would’ve tripped right over him.”

  Another jet dropped through the clouds, lights glaring, engines whining as it slowed to land. Hammon lowered the scope, shielding his eyes, guarding his night vision just in time: down the road a car turned, its blinding high beams sweeping the riverbank weeds. Hammon looked up again to see a Chevy Blazer pulled up near Stevenson. Behind the flatbed, the gunman shifted, targeting the stooped figure that emerged. Stevenson unlocked the warehouse and rolled up the door to reveal the truck.

  When Hammon turned his head and strained to hear their hushed discussion, he saw what none of them could: two slender figures approaching from the opposite end, slipping from shadow to shadow along the flatbed trailers.

  “They don’t see the gunman!” Annabel said.

  They didn’t, but if they continued, the gunman would undoubtedly spot them. Hammon tried to shout to them, but words choked in his throat. He had to do something, anything, even the wrong thing.

  He bolted toward the flatbed at a frantic, clumsy hobble, armed with the only pathetic weapon he could scrounge up that day: a sock full of fishing weights. The gunman whipped around and Hammon swung down, striking the gunman’s shaved head with a satisfying thwock. The gunman went down, and Hammon looked back as one slender shadow yanked the other down. The gunman groaned and raised a thick, tentacle-tattooed arm, grabbing the trailer and struggling to stand. Hammon swung again and this time he stayed down.

  “Is he dead?” Annabel asked.

  Hammon watched the rise and fall of his breathing; he was just out cold. Hammon retrieved the pistol he’d dropped, feeling the weapon’s weight and balance, and he grinned. That and the box of ammunition were just what the doctor ordered.

  Annabel screamed as the tire beside them blew out. Shots struck the pavement as Hammon rolled beneath the trailer. Between the tires, Stevenson and his companion crouched low, shouting accusations at one another as they both scrambled for cover.

  At entrance by the north end of the lot, a muzzle flashed and four more shots cracked through the air. Stevenson went down as his companion dropped beneath the semi. An engine started and tires screeched into the night. Then silence.

  “What the hell just happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Annabel peeked out. “But I think Stevenson’s dead.”

  22:52 FRIDAY, JULY 2

  40°50’26.86”N/74°01’57.41”W

  LITTLE FERRY, NJ

  “Would someone please tell me what the fuck just happened?” whispered Micah.

  Huddled in the dirt behind a Dumpster, Hazel pressed against him. “Someone shot Stevenson and it wasn’t us. I think they’re gone.”

  Micah rose, cautiously scanning the darkness. “I think I need fresh underwear.”

  Hazel’s spine tingled and she held her breath, anxiously watching the shadows as they skirted the lot, braced for the next round of gunfire. None came. She’d heard someone leave in a hurry, but who?

  Atkins crawled out from under the Freightliner and regarded the crumbled figure sprawled facedown in a dark puddle beside the Mercedes. “I got a feelin’ one of them bullets was meant for me.”

  Hazel studied Stevenson, bewildered. It was unsettling seeing him so diminished, one arm twisted awkwardly behind, his jacket hiked up across his back. He wasn’t supposed to be dead. That wasn’t the plan. He still had too many questions to answer. She reached to roll him over, and Atkins pulled her back.

  “Don’t touch him. Don’t touch anything. We better clear out before the cops show up. Let them deal with this guy and whatever’s in the truck.”

  Hazel looked up from Stevenson’s body to the Freightliner towering above him, studying the Moran Marine Transport logo and numbers. Something wasn’t right. Micah took her hand, tugging her toward the Blazer. “Let’s go.”

  She didn’t move. “That’s not Tuition.”

  “Yeah it is,” Micah said, his voice slightly pained. He squeezed her hand gently. “C’mon, hon, we’ve got to go.”

  “Amber clearance lights.” Tuition’s were port and starboard running lights, like RoadKill’s. It was a minor detail that anyone who didn’t know the truck might have overlooked. “And there’s no dent in the fuel tank from where Dad dropped the toolbox that time, and no satellite antennae.”

  “Shit…” Micah mumbled. “She’s right.”

  Atkins lo
oked dourly from the truck to Stevenson’s body. “Either that dead bastard was trying to double-cross someone or someone was trying to double-cross him. Either way, that ain’t good.”

  Hammon charged out from behind the trailers, pistol raised, eyes wild, breathing in rushed gasps as he grabbed Hazel.

  “There’s…there’s…” he stammered, looking from Hazel to Micah. Abruptly he stiffened, his grip crushing tight, pain contorting his face, then collapsed in a twitching pile. Over Hammon, Atkins stood, stun gun in hand.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “By time he comes round the cops’ll be here; they’ll find this nut, the gun, and Stevenson.”

  I’M NOT SURE

  A slow, misty drizzle fell, and for a moment or an hour, Hammon couldn’t tell which, he considered maybe he’d been struck by lightning again. There was that same agonizing burning ache from every muscle simultaneously contracting, though he couldn’t recall the flash or the smell. Gradual control returned to his limbs, and he rolled over to find himself staring at Stevenson lying facedown in a dark puddle. He looked at the warehouse and the semi looming over them, and it all started coming back. Except Hazel. Hazel was gone. Again. He dragged himself to Stevenson’s body, rolling it over, regarding the gaping hole in the front of his sodden shirt.

  Annabel knelt down. “That’s a change. You’re alive, he’s dead.”

  Stevenson coughed.

  Hammon jumped, splashing in the puddle of blood as he recoiled. No, not blood, just water. “What the fuck?”

  He poked at Stevenson, realizing some of his bulk was a Kevlar vest beneath his shirt.

  “Son of a bitch,” Hammon mumbled. “Freakin’ brilliant.”

  Stevenson groaned, one eye half-open, staring up blankly. In the distance, sirens wailed.