Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  Hammon stood firm. “I’m not taking him anywhere. I’m going after Hazel.”

  “No. He…” Stevenson pointed to Atkins, “is taking Joe to the hospital, and WE are going after Hazel. Now get in the damned car so we can push.”

  Arguing was only wasting time. Grudgingly Hammon climbed in, glaring warily at Joe.

  “Now!” Stevenson yelled. Hammon put the Chevelle in reverse, gunning it as Stevenson and Atkins shoved the crumpled hood. Tires spun, flinging clods of dirt, then grabbed, jerking and hopping the car over the branches and soft ground. Hammon eased it onto the shoulder, climbing out for Atkins and returning to the Mercedes as the Chevelle clattered away.

  The next twenty miles passed without a word. Even Annabel remained silent; Hammon wasn’t sure why, but this only made things worse. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard then reached for the radio, only to discover it had been dismantled. He began humming Hampsterdance.

  Stevenson looked over, irritation simmering in his eyes. “You just don’t get it.”

  “Get what?” Hammon picked at his fang with his middle finger. “Your obsession with revenge, or the fact that Micah’s dead? Was that part of your plans? Then again, what’s one more life? Destroying them is what you do. How about you do everyone a favor and go kill yourself.”

  It should have been more satisfying seeing Stevenson wince, but it was a hollow victory.

  “At least he still has a few nerves to strike,” Annabel said.

  “Like it makes a difference. He doesn’t care; he gets off on manipulating people. He hasn’t changed, he never will.”

  Stevenson’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Same could be said for you. Still got those demented fangs, still pulling juvenile pranks and talking to imaginary friends. I hoped you would’ve grown up over the last few years. I should have known by the crickets, nothing’s changed.”

  Hammon turned away. “Everything’s changed. Micah’s dead. They were safe on the water; they weren’t supposed to come back. He came back to help me. I didn’t know. She…she talked like he was still alive…”

  Stevenson let out a weary sigh. “She’s blocking her pain, not letting it stop her, not while there’s still work ahead. When she runs out of people to kill, then it’s time to worry.”

  “So her wanting you dead is a good thing.”

  “You could say that. Apparently she has trouble dealing with loss.”

  “Asshole. Now I remember why I stopped talking to you.”

  Stevenson laughed coldly. “You stopped talking to me when you found out I had you killed.”

  23:45 SUNDAY, JULY 4

  40°56’52.89”N/74°04’20.27”W

  ROUTE 17 SOUTH, PARAMUS, NJ

  With the storage unit locked and the trailer uncoupled, Hazel headed out, driving RoadKill bobtail. She hated leaving Micah behind, but she needed to travel light, and the unpleasant truth was that it wouldn’t matter to him anymore.

  At midnight nearly every trace of central Paramus’s vibrant economy had curled up and gone to bed, with one glaring exception: Hooters. Lights glowed bright, through the windows Hazel could see the building was packed to capacity, and the parking lot bustled with an overflow of activity.

  She killed the truck’s lights and switched off the engine brake as she coasted past and pulled between buildings one lot away. Valerie had confirmed Micah’s claim that Hooters was Tom Nelson’s favorite haunt. And sure enough, Hazel saw Nelson’s dented 350 parked in the reflection of the orange signs.

  This was a risky step; if Nelson spotted her, at best it would throw her plans off, and at worst Hazel only hoped the public setting might keep him from shooting before she said her part. Fortunately, no one took notice as she approached the smashed-up Ford 350. Heart pounding, she tucked a note under the pickup’s wiper which read MORAN TRUCKING and her cell phone number. She duct-taped a ziplock bag into the corner of the truck’s bed then sprinted back to the relative safety of RoadKill’s cab, watching her mirrors as she pulled away. It was time to return to the storage unit, finish setting up, and wait.

  But not for long. As she backed RoadKill into position, the phone lit up, vibrating. This was it. She knew what she needed to say but her stomach fluttered with panic. She took a steadying breath.

  “Moran Trucking,” she answered in a neutral tone.

  There was a nervous hiccup. “Hazel…?” Hammon said, his voice breaking along with her heart.

  She slumped back in the seat. “Otto, leave me alone.”

  “Where are you?”

  “You really think I’ll tell you that?” She laughed, squeezing her eyes shut, blocking the pain in her chest. “Trust me. You’re better off without me.”

  “Hazel, please. Listen to me. There’s something you don’t…”

  The phone beep-beeped, call waiting. “Good-bye, Otto.” She hit END. The phone buzzed like an angry hornet. She hit SEND.

  “Micah? You little bastard, you think this is some game?”

  “Hello, Tom. I’m going to say this once so shut up, pay attention, and listen carefully. Micah didn’t take your shipment and neither did Atkins, but we know who did and where it is. In fact, we have the whole mess locked away in a nice, tidy package. If you’d only worked with us from the start, we could have avoided all this trouble.”

  “And?” He was suspicious, but listening.

  The phone beeped insistently. She ignored it.

  “Obviously, you want it back. We want you to go away and leave us alone. We figure the only way that’ll happen is if we tell you where it is. And considering the aggravation you put us through, a small finder’s fee is in order…say, oh, fifty percent. That’s fair, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She could hear him breathing.

  “Consider it a salvage fee,” she continued. “Half of what you lost plus our silence is better than all of nothing. The way I see it, you owe us big for what you did to my father, our boat, and Atkins’s trailer. So it’s fifty percent; either you agree, or we take this information to the police and let them sort it out.”

  The breathing quickened. Hazel imagined he was working out how he’d go around her little split. Finally he said, “Fine. You want half, you’ll get it.”

  “I figured as much. So here’s how it works: We already took our share. The rest, along with the ‘masterminds’ behind this unpleasantness, are locked up and waiting.”

  “Where? Who are they?”

  The phone beeped again.

  “And spoil the surprise? What fun is that? But you’ll love this part. You’re not on the road yet, are you? Look in the front left corner of your truck’s bed. There’s a bag with a recorder inside. See it?”

  There was a moment of shuffling. “Yeah.”

  “Listen to it. They give directions and everything. The gate card and keys are in a plastic bag by the gate. We’ve disabled the security cameras. I’d advise you hurry, before either of our friends get free or make enough noise to attract attention.”

  “And you and Micah?”

  “Already long gone. I told you. You don’t bother us, we don’t bother you. But try anything stupid, and duplicate recordings go to the police, the news, the Internet; you get the idea. If we go down, we’re taking you with us.”

  I DON’T MEAN THOSE!

  “She’s not answering,” Hammon said in despair. “She won’t talk to me.”

  Stevenson looped the Mercedes around the Nelson & Sons Appliance and Electronics Supersaver Store lot. There was no sign of Hazel or the Kenworth.

  “Now what?” Hammon asked Annabel.

  “I wish I knew,” Stevenson admitted.

  Hammon shot him a dirty look. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Stevenson sighed. “I see. So what does Annabel suggest?”

  “That he go fuck himself. Some help he is.” She leaned toward Hammon. “Atkins said she’s got that Keith guy in the back of the truck. Why? I think that’s the live bait she was talking about.”

  “That’s wha
t worries me.”

  Stevenson looked over. “Care to include me in the conversation?”

  “No.” He turned to Annabel. “Didn’t Micah talk about somewhere in Paramus his boss hung out?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Usually you remember these things.”

  “Yes. But I wasn’t the one banging our head against a Dodge.”

  Stevenson said, “Where in Paramus?”

  Hammon rubbed his forehead. “I can’t remember.”

  “I guess that hasn’t changed either.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  Other than Dunkin’ Donuts and the Suburban Diner, that stretch of Route 17 was empty. But farther ahead Hammon saw signs of life. Cars, trucks, and motorcycles filled the lot; through the windows a crowd was visible. Out front, several girls in snug tank tops and orange shorts waved enthusiastically to passing cars, beckoning them to pull in.

  “Hooters! Hooters!” Hammon jumped up in his seat, swiveling and pointing as they passed.

  Stevenson’s jaw tightened. “Really? I expected a little more maturity from you, considering.”

  “Truck…Hooters…” Hammon stammered, struggling to form a coherent sentence as the bashed-up 350 pulled from the lot. There was no mistaking the Ford; he recognized every dent he’d inflicted.

  “Say ‘U-turn,’” Annabel calmly directed.

  “You turn!” Hammon yelled.

  Annabel said, “Say ‘The psycho that shot Micah is pulling out of Hooters right now.’”

  “That psycho shot Micah!” He pointed frantically. “There!”

  Stevenson floored it, whipping through the jughandle. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Faster…you’re losing him.”

  “I’m not losing him. I’m staying back. I suspect he’s headed right toward a certain helpless little girl and a very nasty trap.”

  00:24 MONDAY, JULY 5

  41°05’24.37”N/74°09’11.63”W

  ROUTE 17 NORTH, MAHWAH, NJ

  Lying on top of the disconnected trailer, set parallel to the vine-strewn eight-foot chain link fence bordering the lot, provided Hazel an uncomfortable but unobstructed view of the entrance gate and unit seventy-one. From ground level her prone silhouette would blend into the backdrop of trees that bordered the property’s overgrown perimeter. Darkness covered much of the lot; she’d shot out all but one of the flood lights, leaving only a deliberately small circle of light illuminating the drive separating the trailer from the building. Behind the trailer, outside the fence, four saplings bent downwards, their straining trunks bowed over with the aid of RoadKill. Beyond view, the Kenworth waited on the far side of the building, buried in the shadows between two RVs.

  The trailer shook faintly as Keith indulged in one of his occasional struggles to free himself, and an odd sound, almost like a cat wailing, carried across the lot. Valerie was coming around, moaning for help.

  Leaving the money went against the Travis McGee code, but Hazel didn’t care. This had never been about the money, not for her. It had been about protecting her family, and there she’d failed. Now it was about avenging them, taking down everyone responsible for what had happened to her father and Micah. Once she had Nelson, she’d decide what to do about Stevenson and Joe; she still hadn’t figured their places in this operation, but she was determined to see things through to the end, whatever that might be.

  A set of lights slowed on the highway, breaking from the sparse traffic, and Hazel sank down as the 350 pulled up to the gate. The driver’s door opened and the interior light came on as Nelson stepped out to retrieve the gate pass. There was no one else visible inside the truck, which still didn’t guarantee he was alone. Nelson’s left arm was bandaged, likely from Micah’s gunshot, but the injury looked minor.

  Nelson drove in slowly and parked beside the unit. Hazel slid back, listening as the 350’s door slammed. Beneath her Keith thumped around like a fish in a cooler as one set of footsteps approached. In the corner of her eye, she saw movement near the gate; by the time she turned it was gone. Had Nelson brought company, perhaps even Stevenson? It was possible, not that she was worried. There were enough snares to go around. She heard Nelson open the trailer and laugh.

  “I’m impressed, Keith. Screwing my wife right under my nose and fucking me over. I didn’t know you had it in you. And you almost pulled it off, but it looks like that little Moran girl played you good.”

  Nelson only had to step inside and she’d have him. Hazel waited for the sound of the sapling snapping straight. Instead, a gunshot echoed and the thrashing ceased. Footsteps moved away.

  Nelson had dealt with Keith more abruptly than she’d expected, and unwittingly dodged her first trap in the process. Still, three other snares awaited, and she had the Glock and the dart gun. Hazel didn’t want Nelson’s end to come from an unseen bullet: that would be too easy. She wanted him to suffer, and she wanted him to know why. It was vengeance now, pure and simple. It would never bring back Micah, but that wasn’t going to stop her. She wondered if she was turning into something worse than those she hunted. If by night’s end she’d finished off Nelson, Joe, and Stevenson, what would remain of the person she once was? But she couldn’t dwell on that, not while she still had work ahead.

  Inside the storage unit, Valerie, no doubt fully awake now and panicked by the sound of gunfire, began screaming, luring Nelson straight toward another snare. In her peripheral vision, Hazel saw movement: a figure hobbled through the shadows along the fence, a faint light reflecting off his glasses as he stalked Nelson. Hammon was moving toward the trailer and the unit, heading straight into a minefield of high-tension snares. He was going to get himself killed trying to rescue her.

  She should have disabled him when she’d had the chance; then he wouldn’t have followed her and at least he’d be safe. She could shoot him with a tranquilizer dart, but even if it did penetrate his layers of clothes, it wouldn’t immobilize him fast enough and he’d be left helpless and exposed.

  Nelson was walking toward the storage unit, drawn by Valerie’s frantic pleas, as Hammon slipped beside the trailer stalking Nelson. Hazel silently slid herself to the edge, peeled off a strip of caulking, and winged it at him. Hammon paused, glancing around anxiously.

  “Otto,” she whispered, praying he’d hear and Nelson wouldn’t.

  “Not now.” He rubbed his forehead.

  Hazel’s voice caught in her throat as Valerie’s cries amplified. Nelson would be steps away from one snare; once Hammon cleared the trailer after him, he’d be closing in on Nelson and another. She could shoot Nelson, but if Hammon ducked for cover in the shadows, odds were he’d end up horribly snared. She put the dart gun into the backpack, tucked the Glock into her coat pocket, and eased down the back of the trailer, pulse racing as she stepped in front of Hammon.

  “Otto, stop,” she said, barely audible.

  He looked at her, shaking his head, then slipped past as though she didn’t exist. He narrowly missed the closer snare but headed straight toward the next. Nelson was only ten yards away, his back to them at the unit’s door as he pulled the card key from his pocket. She circled around Hammon, blocking his path.

  “Stop,” she mouthed, eyes on Nelson as she drew the Glock.

  “Annabel, quit it. Hazel’s…”

  Over Valerie’s screams, Nelson still hadn’t heard them. Hazel stepped against Hammon, pressing her fingers to his lips. His eyes widened, and she could see the gears shifting.

  “Hazel…”

  She leaned toward his ear. “I told you not to follow me.”

  “I had to find you,” Hammon said—a bit too loudly, at the very moment Valerie decided to stop screaming. Nelson spun, gun raised, to find himself staring into the barrel of the Day-Glo Glock Hazel aimed rock-steady at the center of his head. With only five yards separating them, neither would have any trouble taking the other out. Time seemed to freeze, and a cold sweat ran down her back. She hadn’t planned for this; she was no l
onger hidden or out of range, and in that millisecond when Nelson’s focus shifted and the smell of cigarette smoke drifted past, she knew she’d failed. An arm closed around her throat and pulled her backward as the Glock was yanked from her grip. The cool muzzle pressed beneath her jaw, forcing her to look up at Stevenson’s chilling smile.

  “Good work, Hammon,” Stevenson said. “I had my doubts at times, but you came through in the end.” He turned his attention to Nelson. “Tom Nelson, right? You mind lowering your gun, considering I just saved your life? I knew this,” he stroked Hazel’s cheek with the barrel, “was hiding somewhere. It was simply a matter of using the right bait to lure her out.”

  Was that why Hammon was there? She didn’t want to believe it, but as he stood by, watching with detached indifference, clearly unconcerned by the gun to her head, her heart sank.

  “Poor thing.” Stevenson’s strangle hold remained firm. “You almost pulled it off, didn’t you? Things were going perfectly until you risked your pretty little neck to save Hammon’s. Don’t feel bad, we all have our weaknesses.”

  A low roar had been building inside her skull, like a distant waterfall, and the sweat from Stevenson’s arm burned the cut on her throat. Her fingers found her knife and she flicked it open as Stevenson squeezed harder and everything turned a dim red.

  “Hammon,” he said wearily, “she’s still armed.”

  Hammon removed the knife from her hand as her grip slackened and air became more a priority than a fight.

  “I’ll take this too,” Hammon said, reclaiming his backpack as the roaring in her head grew deafening. Her lungs ached, the ground tilted, and only Stevenson’s choke hold kept her from falling as her world swam into grayness.

  “Behave,” Stevenson warned, his arm loosening just enough for her to breathe. Hazel gulped and coughed, filling her starved lungs. Hammon inventoried his backpack, removing the dart gun.