Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  First order of business: check that all was clear. She headed outside, half expecting to see Temperance nearby, uncertain whether she’d be furious or relieved. But all she saw were distant running lights farther offshore, all underway. The park she had anchored east of closed from dusk to dawn, and only those with fishing permits could enter. With the night scope, she scanned the area, confirming the only movement was a single raccoon foraging for scraps of discarded bait. That was good. The raccoon wouldn’t stay if anyone was around, hidden or otherwise.

  Taking offerings from the galley for her four-legged security, Hazel loaded a child-sized inflatable raft, leaving no room for herself. That was fine; she’d bought it specifically to ferry the necessary gear to the beach. She lit the hurricane lantern, hanging it from the boom and setting the flame just bright enough to guide her back to the boat. Then, wearing only her tank top and panties, she slipped on a snorkel and fins then eased into the cool water, swimming to shore with the raft in tow. With everything prepared in advance, setting up didn’t take long at all. She left the raccoon treats by a stretch of low grass then returned to Revenge, deflated, and stowed the raft. She stripped, shivering as she pulled on dry clothes she’d left waiting, along with Hammon’s trench coat, the Glock’s reassuring weight tugging in the pocket. She positioned three fishing rods, each set with eighty-pound test multi-strand nylon-covered wire, and checked her watch. It was eight fifty-five. There wasn’t a car for miles. Everything was set to go, right on schedule. Now, it was a matter of sitting back and waiting. In the distance, fireworks rose spectacularly above Manhattan.

  “I see piracy is alive and well off the Jersey shore.”

  Hazel whipped around, her mind racing as Hammon materialized like an apparition, stepping down from the shadows of the side deck.

  “What are you doing here?” She pulled the Glock from the coat pocket.

  He broke into a broad grin, all fangs, and pushed his hair back. “I came for my boat. And you. Mostly you.”

  She couldn’t imagine how he’d gotten there but that didn’t matter. What mattered was staying on schedule. “I don’t have time for this. Not now.” He wasn’t her immediate target; in fact, she wasn’t sure whether he was a target at all. She only knew whenever he was around, things never went as planned. “You have to leave.”

  “That’s some rig you set up.” He studied the rods, plinking a wire line. “But you should check the restrictions and size limits on humans.”

  He wasn’t going to listen. She leveled the gun at him. “I said leave.”

  “You know, I’m getting some real mixed messages. You’re still wearing my jacket. I like that. I like you even better in nothing at all. I guess the water’s still pretty chilly, this time of year.”

  “Otto, I’m serious. I’ll shoot you.”

  “No you won’t. You don’t want to. I see it in your eyes.” He stepped forward, ignoring the gun, his thigh brushing hers, his arm sliding around her waist, pushing the gun away. She thought he meant to kiss her, but his ankle pressed behind hers, and he shoved her off balance. She fell backwards; the deck came up, knocking the wind out of her, and Hammon dove down, pinning her arms to either side.

  “Go ahead,” he coaxed, holding her wrist firmly. “Pull the trigger now; you’ll put a hole in the side of your boat. My boat, technically, but I’m willing to share. Sweet dreams before? We were in pretty much the same position, only you were way friendlier.”

  “Otto, please!” She twisted around, pinned beneath his weight. “Let me go!”

  “No.” He squeezed her wrist until she cried out, releasing the gun. She fought him, sinking her teeth into his arm as he fumbled to bind her wrists with duct tape. Layers of fabric blocked a direct hit, but he yelped in pain and sat up, still straddling her. He stretched for the gun and placed it on top of the freezer, beyond her reach. Twisting around, he wrestled her ankles together, binding them as well. “Sorry, dear.” He rubbed his arm and pushed his hair back from his face. “I never meant for it to end up like this. All things considered, you can’t blame me.”

  Hazel looked around, panic building. The dart gun was in the backpack, close by, but it was a clumsy reach she couldn’t make without tipping off Hammon as well. He rose, stepping back, and flipped open his cell phone, casting a circle of dim blue in the darkness.

  “Hi, Gary. Yes, we’re good…You can head back. I think we could use some time alone, just the two of us.” He knelt beside her, gently brushing the hair from her eyes. “You know, to talk and all.”

  I’M LOSING IT

  Hammon looked around the cockpit, completely disoriented. Sweat soaked his clothes and plastered his hair to his neck and forehead.

  He was aboard Revenge, he knew that much. He could hear Hazel’s anxious breathing, he could feel her fear. But he couldn’t remember any of what he’d done.

  “You haven’t done anything,” Annabel said. “Aside from panic before, when you had her safe in your arms.”

  “Oh God…” Suddenly he remembered. She’d been lying against him, so warm and soft and vulnerable, so utterly unaware of the conflicting thoughts racing through his head. He held her, torn between feelings of overwhelming protectiveness and unspeakable desire, certain he was on the verge of doing something he’d regret. The more he tried not to think about it, the more the perverse, unforgivable thoughts invaded his brain. How could he even think like that? It was so wrong. Finally, for her sake as well as his own, he retreated to the darkness of the bridge.

  “So,” Annabel said. “If you plan to fail, and succeed, which did you do?”

  He didn’t have time for her head games. “You’re not helping.”

  “Otto, please.” Hazel tugged futilely at the duct tape binding her wrists. “Let me go.”

  No. That was the only thing he knew for sure. Now that he had her there, he could never let her go or he’d lose her forever. And he couldn’t let that happen.

  Annabel sat beside Hazel, looking down with concern. “Talk to her. Tell her you want to help. I did all the dirty work. Now you can tell her you love her and you can live happily ever after,” she said sarcastically. “Tell her the truth.”

  How? He couldn’t even remember half of it himself, much less explain it to her. She’d never believe him. But the silence was unbearable. He had to say something. He knelt beside her. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he mumbled, touching her cheek. She flinched and pulled away.

  “Please, let me go.”

  “Not yet. You were talking before with Micah. He got shot, right? Where is he?”

  “Let me go.”

  Hammon could see she was at the edge, fighting not to panic. She squeezed her eyes shut, a tear slipping out between the lashes.

  “Look at me.” He gently turned her head. “Where’s Micah? I just want to talk to him.”

  Beneath the tears, anger flared. Was that it? Did she blame him for Micah getting hurt? His brain was coming unglued, pieces of mercury shifting, and he wanted to shake them back into place but he couldn’t, not with Hazel staring at him like that. His hands lingered on her wrists, tracing over the delicate skin. If he released her she’d leave.

  “Please,” she asked, her voice so soft it gave him chills.

  “No.” Hammon shook his head, hair falling in his eyes, and he pushed his glasses up. He’d made up his mind. She would stay. It wasn’t her choice anymore. She might not understand, but in time he’d make her see it was for the best. “You’re not leaving. Not ever.”

  Hazel pulled back, tucking her bound arms against herself in a modest, defensive way, and Annabel sighed.

  “Knock off the ‘forever’ crap. You already qualify as a stalker, now you sound like a freakin’ serial killer.”

  Hammon swallowed, feeling his hair sticking to his neck. He had to say something, anything, but everything came out wrong. Water lapped along the hull, the sound magnified against the silence. Hazel’s lips parted as if to speak, but she only gazed at him, her eyes wide and b
eautiful. Why was she looking at him like that? What did she see? She swallowed, her expression strangely uncertain.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, dreading her answer.

  She almost spoke, then hesitated, wincing. She was trembling the slightest bit, and Hammon wondered if it was fear, anger, or adrenaline. She took a deep, shuddering breath, breasts pressing against her shirt, momentarily drawing his attention…and then he saw blood on her wrist, seeping beneath the tape bindings.

  “Oh God. I hurt you.”

  “No.” Hazel pulled away, abruptly looking confused.

  “Lemme see,” he insisted, reaching for her hands.

  “Stay back!”

  As he touched her something shifted in her eyes. Her right hand, no longer bound, whipped outward, and pain seared through his palm as he reached to grab her. He threw his weight on her, and they both went down. She stared straight into his eyes with cool anger, and he realized that while she’d been pleading with him she’d also been cutting the tape, and herself, with that same knife she’d once held to his throat. His palm stung and blood flowed between his fingers, wrapped around her bleeding wrist. Hazel stared back, eyes glowing with murderous fierceness, breathing heavy.

  “That hurt,” he said plaintively.

  “It felt good to me.” The tears had been replaced with scathing hatred.

  “You tried to kill me,” he mumbled, amazed, scared shitless, and more than a little turned on. “The fear, the crying…that was just an act.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Hammon grinned. “Oh, this is way better. You’re not so helpless; you just let me think you were so you could kill me.”

  She glared back; knife in hand, defiance in her eyes as she tried to pry his fingers from her wrist with her left hand. “You’re surprised?”

  “Impressed.” He turned his attention to the little blade. A worn Spyderco, half straight-edged and scalpel sharp, leading into a vicious serrated pattern. Years of use wore the handle smooth.

  “Nasty little thing,” he observed. “I’d bet it could do some serious damage.”

  “I’d be happy to demonstrate.”

  “Wow.” He laughed, feeling a rush of lust. Was it wrong that he found her desire to kill him a turn-on? “I think I see how Stevenson ended up the way he did. He underestimated you, didn’t he?” Carefully he started pulling her fingers back from the knife. Her left hand locked around his.

  “He’s paying you, not me. Ask him yourself. Or does he have you on a need-to-know basis?”

  Hammon froze. “He’s not paying me!”

  “So it’s just a coincidence that you’ve got an envelope full of money from him.”

  He tried to think of how to explain, but his brain wasn’t getting enough blood. The pressure of her thighs against his, her smooth, warm skin beneath his fingers, was unbearable. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  “It looks like you’re getting a little too excited,” Annabel observed, and a flash of pain blurred his vision, distracting him from the X-rated images playing in the back of his head. “Stay focused.”

  It was hard.

  “Well, that’s apparent,” Annabel grumbled.

  To think. It was hard to think. And that too. He couldn’t help it, wrestling with Hazel beneath him like that.

  “Then what is it? Why are you following me?” Hazel said, still fighting his grip. “What do you want?”

  What did he want? Other than the obvious, unspeakable things, he wanted her to understand he’d die for her. He wanted her to stay and never leave.

  “Then tell her,” Annabel said.

  His hand throbbed, his clothes were soaked with sweat, and the air around him was suffocating. He wiped his face on his shoulder, not taking his eyes off her for a second. He was exhausted and sore, his arm was starting to cramp, and he could feel her straining against his weakening, slippery grip. He couldn’t hold her like that indefinitely, and once she was free he’d be helpless to prevent her from slicing him into neat little ribbons. Harsh language. Yeah. He could try harsh language; then again, even that wasn’t like him, and he’d never pull it off convincingly.

  Annabel sighed. “Tell her the truth.”

  He couldn’t. He’d only make things worse.

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” Annabel said.

  The knife moved toward his throat as her leverage increased.

  “Hazel, I want to help you.”

  “Then let me go.”

  “But then you’ll leave…”

  The lethal little blade grazed his neck and he swallowed. Everything seemed frozen in the lamplight, with only the sound of waves lapping against Revenge’s hull. He could feel every beat of her heart, every breath, and beneath her anger he could still see that gentle child that touched his hand and his soul. He’d failed, completely, absolutely, and he knew it. There was nothing he could say or do to win her trust. His strength was gone, both physically and mentally. She’d get free and she’d leave. Maybe she’d kill him first, but either way there was nothing he could do to stop her.

  Close by, the sound of a large powerboat quickly came and went, never slowing. Hammon sensed impending danger as he stared into the depths of her eyes, fascinated by the darkness, pulling him under, drowning him. His grip went slack, his fingers lingering on hers as she turned the blade, still between them, away from his skin. Time seemed to stop as she gazed back at him as though she sensed his surrender, she understood all he couldn’t say, when suddenly the powerboat’s wake slammed into Revenge, throwing the boat violently against the anchor lines. Hammon was crushed down on top of her as Hazel cried out. The cabin door banged back and forth, the lantern above them swayed wildly, light and shadows dancing across the deck as halyards slapped the mast, and the gear on the freezer showered down around them. Hammon tried to brace himself as Revenge lurched beneath them a second and third time, finally settling enough for him to back away and give Hazel some air. She sat up, knife in one hand, her other hand to her throat, and Hammon stared in horror as blood covered her fingers.

  21:20 SUNDAY, JULY 4

  40°28’17.43”N/73°59’34.76”W

  SANDY HOOK, NJ

  Hazel took a deep breath, willing herself calm. Panic wouldn’t solve anything. How bad was she cut? As Hammon watched in despair, she found her pulse, racing faster than blood flowed from the wound. In the corner of her eye she spotted his vivid gun lying among her wet clothes. He looked over at the Glock but made no attempt to pick it up.

  “I’m so sorry,” Hammon said, his voice breaking. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  Hazel grabbed the gun, leveling it at his chest. She expected he’d try to wrestle it away from her but he didn’t. He only sat motionless and sighed.

  “So this is it, huh?” He smiled weakly. “Okay, I guess. Go ahead; get it over with.”

  It wasn’t a dare or a challenge; it was an offering. Still she didn’t move, locked in his eerie gaze. This was her chance. Just shoot him. But Micah’s words echoed in her head, and she wondered if there might be another option.

  “How much is Stevenson paying you?”

  “I already told you, he’s…” Suddenly he brightened. “Why? You want to make a counteroffer, right? You want my help and, you really don’t want to kill me!”

  There was no point in denying it. “I know who has the money. I don’t know how much, but it must be a lot.”

  “I help you, I get a cut?” Hammon paused, looking from her neck to his bleeding hand. Ignoring the gun leveled at him, he reached across and pulled some White Castle napkins from his coat pocket. “Is that it?” He blotted his palm and winced. “In exchange for my help, I share the spoils of this war.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.” He gazed at her, his odd, colorless eyes magnified through the glasses, a strange tranquility barely veneering the madness. “I want more.”

  “You can have it all. I don’t want it.”

  “That’s not what I mean.�
�� Again he reached past the gun as though it wasn’t there, softly dabbing her throat with a napkin. “I want you.” His eyes almost glowed. “I help you, you stay with me. You can’t leave. Not now, not ever.”

  “Stay?” she repeated.

  A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek. “Yeah. Forever. Stay with me or shoot me. That’s your choice.” Hammon leaned forward, reaching down, cautiously untaping her ankles. “I know I’m insane, but I’m not crazy. I can’t lose you. Without you I might as well be dead. I love you. I’ll never leave you. I’ll die for you. Maybe you hate me, but I’ll take that chance.”

  It was insane, he was insane, and she was insane to even consider it. Slowly, with infinite care, he lifted her chin, his hand trembling the slightest bit. Hazel squeezed her eyes shut, laughing quietly when she imagined what Micah would say. Hammon gently held her face, taking another napkin and wiping away the blood. She laid the gun down beside them and took his other hand, turning it, inspecting a deep slash cutting through layers of scars, still bleeding but not seriously. He flinched and fidgeted, biting back a whimper as her grip on his fingers tightened. Hazel checked her watch. It would be slack tide soon. Too soon. She had so many questions, and time for only one.

  “Otto? Yesterday, why did you shoot me?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. You were in danger, and I knew you wouldn’t trust me. The only way I could keep you safe was to kidnap you. I had to protect you, even if you wouldn’t understand.”

  There was no mistaking the pure, childlike devotion in his eyes. Micah was right. It made no sense, but nothing did anymore. Trembling, she moved forward, kissing him tenderly.

  “I do understand.” Her lips brushed his while her hand found the dart gun in the backpack. “And so should you.”

  21:40 SUNDAY, JULY 4