Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  “And that makes it right? Maybe I’ll just save us the trouble, call Tom now, and let you two sort things out.”

  “I’ll get your money,” he said, his voice weak.

  “I thought so. Listen carefully. I hear the stripers are running at Sandy Hook, off North Beach, up past the old Nike missile base. Grab your surf caster, get yourself a little GPS, and learn how to use it. You got a pen and paper?”

  For a moment he didn’t answer, and Hazel wondered if she’d lost the connection. Then she heard shuffling. “Uh, yeah…”

  “Take down these coordinates,” she instructed. “Forty degrees twenty-eight minutes nine seconds north, seventy-three degrees fifty-nine minutes forty-three seconds west. You got that?”

  “Uh, yeah. Forty, twenty-eight, nine north, seventy-three, fifty-nine, forty-three west,” he recited back, his voice faltering. “But you know I don’t understand that boat stuff. Can’t we just meet somewhere and we’ll talk?”

  “We are meeting and we will talk, but you’ll do it on our terms. Follow those coordinates. There’ll be a beach chair and a flashlight in a bucket. Have the money in a backpack, and wear the backpack. No briefcases, no grocery bags. Nothing around you. We don’t want you carrying anything but that rod. Nine forty-five tonight, you walk out, sit down, pick up the flashlight, and shine it on your face. Nine forty-five. No earlier, no later, no exceptions. Come alone or the deal is off. Sit nice and polite on that chair with the light on your face, or the deal is off. You sit and you wait, and when Micah and I feel safe, then we talk. We’re only doing this once, and if anything makes us think you’re trying to be clever, which you aren’t, you’ll never even see us, but we’ll be phoning the appliance king. Understand?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice faint.

  “How’s it feel, Keith? Tell you what…we’ll cut you ten percent discount just for a picture of your face at this very moment.”

  I DON’T HAVE A CLUE

  July 4 dawned crisp and bright. The previous night’s rain had scrubbed the world clean, leaving a sharp, high-contrast morning, and the water sparkled like scattered diamonds. The humidity was gone, replaced by a light west wind and excellent visibility. Along the Jersey shore, the waters teemed with boats of every shape and size, making it easy for Gary, Hammon, and the canine crew to blend with the masses as they followed Revenge in a borrowed twenty-four-foot Sea Ray. They hung back a mile, guided by the signal, which, for a change, remained constant.

  “Why?” Gary said. “I can only figure they’d been disconnecting the batteries. Why not this time?”

  “Maybe it’s a trap,” Annabel suggested.

  Hammon lifted binoculars to watch Hazel, who sat alone on the bridge. Every so often she scanned the water, likely for Temperance. He hadn’t seen Micah all morning and that worried him.

  Gary said, “Why don’t you talk to Stevenson? See what he knows.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Hammon dug around the boat, discovering half a bag of stale Cheetos in the cuddy cabin. “When hell freezes over.” The dogs sat up, watching expectantly as he popped a cheese curl in his mouth. It was rubbery but edible.

  “Maybe you could ‘talk’ to him with a baseball bat,” Annabel said.

  Hammon chewed his Cheetos. “Tempting but risky. It’s better he doesn’t know I know she exists.”

  Gary raised a disapproving eyebrow. “Annabel?”

  She smiled brightly. “Yes?”

  Hammon squeezed his eyes shut. “Yup.”

  “You mean, even with that one,” Gary pointed toward the horizon, “clubbing you like a baby seal, you’re still seeing Annabel?”

  Hammon shrugged, sipping cold coffee. “Pretty much.” He tossed each dog a Cheeto. Charger caught his in midair while Yodel scrambled after the orange curl. Charger chewed for a moment, then dropped it to the deck. Yodel wouldn’t even pick his up.

  “Christ, Zap. Even the dogs won’t eat that. No wonder you look like shit. When’s the last time you got any rest?”

  “Counting unconsciousness?” Hammon stared ahead at Revenge. “I’m fine.”

  “Seriously? You’ve been popping NoDoz like they’re Tic-Tacs. You look like you’ve been run over. You need sleep.”

  “He’s right,” Annabel said.

  “I said I’m fine.”

  Just before nine Hazel docked in Belmar. She tied up then disappeared into the cabin, reappearing with Hammon’s backpack over her shoulder. She stood for a moment, looking strangely uncertain, then locked up and headed ashore. Gary circled back and docked farther down the fairway while Hammon watched Hazel enter the chandlery. As Gary shut the Sea Ray, Hammon rose, starting for the dock. Gary grabbed his shirt.

  “You don’t learn, do you? You won’t be happy till she kills you.”

  “I’m going to Revenge; I got to talk to Micah. I got a feeling he got hurt last night or he’d be with her. You see anyone bother her or she starts back, call me.”

  Gary drained his coffee. “You know what you’re doing?”

  “Nope.”

  “And I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”

  “Nope.” Hammon fished through his pockets. He knew he had the boat keys; they were with his car keys, which Hazel had left dangling in the Fairmont’s ignition.

  “You know you’re insane.”

  Hammon shrugged. “Was that ever in question?”

  “I’d say it’s been nice knowing you,” Gary called as Hammon hobbled toward Revenge with Annabel by his side. “But I’d be lying.”

  Revenge sat peaceful and serene, sunlight reflecting blazes of light across the dark hull. Hammon hesitated, feeling strangely uncomfortable.

  “She’s still our boat,” Annabel said. “It’s not like you’re stealing her or anything.”

  Still, it felt like he was trespassing as he climbed aboard and knocked on the salon door. “Hey, Micah. It’s me, Otto. Look, man, we got to talk.”

  The freezer compressor kicked on. He knocked again, burping coffee, Cheetos, and Munchkins as his stomach churned.

  “That’s it. I’m coming in.” He reached for the door.

  “The boat is locked,” Revenge announced, and Hammon smiled. Beneath the cosmetic alterations, the mechanical systems, including the locks, remained unchanged. He glanced back, took a deep breath, unlocked the cabin, and stepped inside, braced for a blow to the head or a bullet to the chest.

  Or not.

  “You sure we’re on the right boat?” Annabel said.

  Hammon looked around the salon, baffled. Daylight filtered through curtains, softly lighting the tidy cabin. Polished wood and bronze gleamed. Hammon’s throat tightened and he slid the door closed.

  “Micah? Look, I just want to talk.”

  Other than the hum of the cockpit freezer compressor and water gently lapping against the hull, there was silence. A latch held the head door open. The mildew smell was gone, and the mildew as well. The sink shined and a new seashell-print shower curtain was neatly tucked aside. In place of the black rectangle, his reflection stared back, perplexed. He reached up, touching his face, his scarred fingers tracing across his scarred cheek. Was that what he really looked like?

  “Step away from the mirror,” Annabel ordered. “Now’s not the time.”

  Hammon backed out to the spotless galley. His microwave had vanished, leaving the counter clear aside from two coffee mugs and two plates drying on a dishtowel. On the dinette, his non-skid travel mug contained an arrangement of daylilies, shriveled dandelions, and wilted loosestrife: the flowers he’d given Hazel right before he shot her. The forward cabin, like everything else, was clean, with clothing folded in small stacks.

  “So where’s Micah?” Annabel said.

  Hammon didn’t have an answer, only a bad feeling. His phone buzzed, the screen reading “haze rtng get out.”

  No. He’d stay, and he’d talk to her.

  “Gary’s right,” Annabel said. “You’ll never learn. This isn’t the place or the time.”


  “You got a better idea?”

  “Of course I do.”

  12:49 SUNDAY, JULY 4

  40°13’25.85”N/73°54’35.34”W

  NORTH ATLANTIC, 4 NM EAST OF ASBURY PARK, NJ

  With the gear stowed, Hazel headed out, watching for Temperance. Close to shore an armada of boats of crowded the waters, but none looked familiar or troubling. She decided to run further offshore where there was less traffic and anyone approaching would be clearly visible long in advance. The air was clear and the water smooth; under different circumstances it would have been a perfect day, and Hazel wished Micah was beside her on Revenge’s bridge. For a moment she smiled darkly. Despite the name across the transom, the boat’s true name seemed more fitting, especially for the work ahead.

  At slack low tide, she reached Sandy Hook, positioning Revenge and dropping anchor. She was surprised and slightly concerned that Hammon hadn’t materialized. Maybe Micah was right; Hammon had been hurt worse than she realized when she left him lying in that lot. Or maybe he’d finally gotten the message, if not from her then Gary, and taken her warning to heart. Her chest tightened at the thought of never seeing him again, but it was for the best, for his sake as well as hers. The farther he was from her the better off he’d be, and she had to stay focused, blocking all else out. It was the only way she’d get through.

  I’M BALLAST

  Years before when Hammon rebuilt Revenge, he’d designed a narrow passage connecting the lazaret to the engine room. A hidden lock released the watertight hatch, concealed behind the acoustic insulation, which allowed him to slither through to the cave-dark space below the cockpit.

  Hammon had settled on a lumpy nest of old dock lines and spare fenders lying between the massive fuel tanks. Surrounded by the warm, musty scent of bilge and the working parts of his boat, he listened to the thrum of the prop and water rushing around the hull. By Gary’s choppy texts, he knew they were heading north. Tucked inside the secure, confining darkness, gently rocking with the rhythm of the engine and Annabel singing softly to herself, Hammon drifted into much-needed sleep. He woke hours later as the RPM dropped to an idle, momentarily reversing. His phone buzzed and he read “anchrng sndy hk.”

  The engine went silent and Revenge rolled. Footsteps descended from the bridge and Hammon panicked, fearing Hazel might open the lazaret to find him trapped and cornered. He listened as she paced the deck.

  “Hi, Chris…How is he today?” She gave a strained laugh. “Really? And he wonders where I get it. Tell him he better start behaving or I’ll park RoadKill outside the hospital and camp in the sleeper until he cuts the bullshit.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then: “Thanks, Chris, I really appreciate everything you’re doing. Tell him he has to get better. He’s…” Her voice trailed off. “Tell him I love him.”

  Hammon listened through a pause of unbearable silence, then:

  “Mr. Atkins? It’s me. If you’re there, pick up…Hey. No, I’m fine, but…no, he can’t talk right now…Look, I hate to ask, but we need a favor and you’re the only one we trust. We need you to pick up RoadKill. The door doesn’t lock, and the key’s under the upper bunk. Just please, watch your back, and don’t let anyone see you, and I mean anyone…be real careful no one follows you. Get a trailer that locks up tight…Do a walk-around, check the brakes, lights, you know the deal…. Not far, but I don’t want to be stopped with the load I’ll be hauling. Go to the state marina in Leonardo, back up to the bulkhead where I can bring a boat alongside. Drop the truck by eight tonight, and leave.”

  Another pause. “I don’t know! Take a bus, walk. I don’t want you there.”

  She paced the cockpit. “Please…All right, I’ll explain when I get there. Watch your mirrors, keep it shiny side up, greasy side down.” She gave a tense laugh. “Yeah, I guess RoadKill doesn’t have a shiny side. You know what I mean…be careful.”

  More pacing, more silence.

  “Hey, Micah…How’s it going?” Her voice wavered. “This totally screws our plans, you getting shot like that. But I was right; you did need a doctor.”

  The air around Hammon became suffocating. Micah got shot helping him.

  “It’s not fair,” she said. “You’re supposed to…we’re a team, right?”

  Another pause, a strained laugh. “Hey. Guess what Chris told me? She says Dad tried to check himself out today. He got moved from the ICU, she said he didn’t have to stay there anymore, which is good I guess. Still, I wish they’d kept him there; he’s safer and I like knowing Chris’s keeping in eye on him. They put him on a portable heart monitor, and he decided he could leave. He didn’t get far but he tried. He’s only going to hurt himself trying stunts like that.”

  Hammon heard her sniffle for a moment. “I didn’t say anything about you. You know he’ll just get upset.” Another sniffle. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine, I promise. We’ve got a good plan; I can handle it.” There was a long silence, broken only by water slapping the transom.

  “I’ll be okay, really. I can take care of myself,” she said, her voice breaking. “I love you.”

  15:34 SUNDAY, JULY 4

  40°28’17.43”N/73°59’34.76”W

  SANDY HOOK, NJ

  Hazel knew Micah would give her such grief if she didn’t eat something, but a bowl of cereal was all she could manage, chewing mechanically and forcing herself to swallow. Then she washed up, climbed into the starboard bunk, and set the alarm. She had a long night ahead, and she needed her rest.

  Sleep, however, didn’t come easy. She rolled and shifted, unable to get comfortable. Closing her eyes, she tried to clear her head, which only made matters worse. She listened to waves lapping the hull, occasional passing boats, even planes overhead. Time dragged and her mind filled with troubled thoughts. She could still see Micah’s grin as he laughed off being shot, and even while it was obvious he wasn’t in pain, tears started to flow at the memory. She was too tired to stop them, too tired to hold back, and finally she quietly cried her way into an uneasy sleep and the cemetery with the fresh grave.

  Part of her remained conscious enough to know it was a nightmare, but that awareness couldn’t pull her away from the dreadful headstone she was compelled to read. Yet again Stevenson awaited her, sipping scotch, this time with a gaping, blood-less hole in his chest. He stood laughing with Micah, comparing bullet wounds. Hazel reached for Micah, but Hammon stepped between them, half grinning.

  “See. Told ya.” He motioned toward Stevenson. “No heart.”

  Stevenson nodded grimly, lighting a cigarette. “Why don’t you let go?”

  She looked down. In one blood-covered hand, she held a cluster of wild roses, the thorns piercing her skin.

  Micah smiled sadly. “She hates letting go, even when it hurts to hold on. Let go, hon. It’s okay.”

  She knelt, placing the roses across the turned mound of soil.

  “The other hand too.”

  Blood seeped between her fingers, clutched around something slippery and gelatinous. She uncurled her fist to reveal a pair of glazed orbs. She dropped them, shuddering, and they gazed up for a moment, setting down roots and sending out vine-like tendrils of veins. Buds appeared, opening into more eyeballs. Blue ones, brown ones, gray ones, gold ones. Hazel stepped back as the vine spread, curling around the headstone, staring back at her. She was sure every blossom was someone she knew, and she was afraid to look up. She couldn’t; she didn’t want to see the hollow, eyeless stares. She knew if she looked she’d see they were dead.

  “Hazel…” Hammon took her hand. “Wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

  And abruptly she was back aboard Revenge, curled in the bunk, Hammon leaning over her in the faint light of the oil lamp, studying her with gentle concern. His glasses were bent and scratched, his face was bruised, his hair tangled, and still the sight of him made her heart race.

  “You were dreaming,” he said.

  “I still am.”

  He brushed the hair back fr
om her cheek, his fingers lingering on her skin as he moved closer. His lips touched hers, his soft kiss tasting of gummy bears and tears.

  “A dream, or a nightmare?” he whispered.

  She gazed up at his wide gray eyes. “Definitely a dream.”

  “Hazel, where’s Micah?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “He got shot, didn’t he? Last night, helping me, right?”

  She nodded. “Just a little hole. He said it didn’t hurt, but I told him he had to see a doctor.”

  “And he left you alone?”

  “It wasn’t his choice.”

  “What’s with the gear in the cockpit?”

  “I’m going fishing.”

  “For what?”

  “Little fish. To catch big fish, live bait works best.” She stretched, her fingers grazing his. “Why are you following me? What do you want, really?”

  “You.” Color rose in his face. “To stay with me forever.”

  Hazel smiled. “Micah was right.” She reached up, pulling him toward her, taking charge this time with a kiss. Only too soon she’d wake to the nightmare her life had become, but at least for the moment she could give in to this little bit of escape. She pulled Hammon closer, and he shifted himself onto the bunk, lying beside her, holding her protectively. She pressed her face to the heat of his throat, feeling his pulse, and twined her fingers into his, remembering how he’d jumped the first time they touched. Safe in his arms, safer than she’d felt for so long, she closed her eyes and drifted off.

  Her dreams dissolved as Hazel woke, leaving only a vague, bittersweet ache. The alarm hadn’t sounded yet, but it was growing dark outside. She lay half-awake, staring at the faint constellations on the ceiling, hearing distant fireworks. The bunk was empty, the cabin was empty, she was alone, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think about it. Not yet at least; there was still work ahead.