Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  “Who are you people?” Nelson demanded. His gun remained fixed on them, his expression suspicious and uncertain.

  “Jake Stevenson. And I understand you’ve already had a run-in with my associate, Hammon. I’ve been trying to speak with you regarding some business, but this delightful little creature kept complicating matters.”

  Nelson scanned the shadows uneasily. Other than the sound of Valerie scraping at the door with something metallic, trying to pry it open, all was still. “So where are Micah and Atkins?”

  “I’ve already dealt with Atkins,” Stevenson assured him. Hazel’s eyes stung and she squeezed them closed; Atkins was only trying to help, and now he’d paid for it. “And Micah’s lying dead in the freezer in that trailer over there, shot by you last night, I’m told. Truly heartbreaking; he died in her arms. Why do you think she set this little ambush?”

  “Is that so?” Nelson grinned at Hazel. “I should thank you, catching that dumb bitch and Keith for me. So let me see if I understand. I kill them, you kill me, get yourself some payback and the money. Was that your plan?”

  “Go to hell,” she said softly. “All of you.”

  Stevenson laughed. “Enchanting, isn’t she?” The gun moved from her jaw as he touched the blood on his arm, still loose around her neck, then lifted her chin, inspecting the cut. “Hammon, care to explain?”

  He shrugged. “It was an accident.”

  “You wanted to talk business,” Nelson said impatiently. “So talk.”

  Stevenson nodded. “This operation of yours: it’s obvious you have distribution connections but you also have management problems. If a little thing like this,” he lifted a lock of Hazel’s cropped hair, “can disrupt things to this extent, you obviously lack a disciplined team. I believe with some restructuring, we could both profit very nicely.”

  The nearest snare was off to their right, a few feet back. Stevenson had relaxed his hold and Hazel made a quick jump to escape, knowing his arm would only tighten back into a controlling choke hold, pulling her back against his chest. But now she’d shifted their angle to where she wanted, and she shoved backwards with all her strength, hoping he’d catch the tripwire. She almost succeeded; Stevenson took a quick step to keep his balance, but not far enough. She tried again, managing to inch him further back. Stevenson squeezed her throat and pressed his face to her cheek, his stubble coarse and painful. “Stop the nonsense or you’ll regret it.”

  She pushed back again, but he was ready and it was like trying to move a wall. He lifted her chin, twisting her head painfully.

  “Such a fierce little thing. Look at the intensity of that hatred.” He smiled darkly. “You need to watch your step around her. Isn’t that right, princess?”

  “She’s a problem,” Nelson said. “We have to get rid of her; she knows too much.”

  “True.” Stevenson caressed Hazel’s cheek. “But I have some personal plans for this one first. And besides, she’s still useful in other ways. I hate to say, you’ve left one hell of a sloppy trail. Burning that old sailboat, Atkins’s trailer, shooting her father, her cousin, and Keith; those things draw unwanted attention.”

  Stevenson paused for a moment, considering. “Now, our sociopathic little friend here could write a suicide note explaining how she killed her disapproving family, only to learn that her beloved Keith was unfaithful. Poor thing, she already has a documented history of instability and violence; a multiple-murder/suicide would seem perfectly believable.”

  “You’ll never make me write that,” Hazel informed Stevenson, her voice strained with loathing.

  His fingers traced tenderly along her chin. “Princess, you can’t begin to imagine the things I’m going to make you do. We’re going to have so much fun together, you and I.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting not to let herself cry. Backed to Stevenson as she was, he couldn’t see her tears, but she knew he could feel her shaking with rage and frustration.

  “We’ll need to hammer out a few details,” Nelson said, “but I think we can work together. From what I understand, the cash from the last shipment is supposed to be in that unit over there with my lovely wife,” he motioned toward the building. “Unless our friend here is pulling another cute stunt. I’d like to inspect it all and make sure everything’s in order.”

  “Good idea.” Stevenson turned to Hammon, still holding the dart gun. “That loaded?”

  “Yup.”

  “Perfect. Stand right here and don’t move one inch. Watch her. She tries anything, shoot her.”

  Stevenson nodded to Nelson. “After you.”

  Hazel rubbed her bruised throat. “Otto, please…” She searched his eyes for any trace of the boy she’d met under the stars, the one who more than once stood on the wrong end of a gun to protect her, but he only watched her with disinterest.

  “You promised you’d help me,” she said, not sure whether she meant it as a plea or an accusation.

  He merely shrugged. “And you believed me.”

  Hazel froze, stunned. He might as well have struck her.

  Valerie must have given up on trying to pry her way out; she began pounding futilely on the door, the clattering drowning out Stevenson and Nelson’s hushed discussion, which concluded with a handshake. Stevenson glanced at Hazel, his face lit momentarily by the flare of the match raised to his cigarette. He stood back, waiting as Nelson unlocked the storage unit and rolled the door up. Valerie shrieked hysterically, Nelson fired, and there was silence. Nelson started to step through the unit doorway and was whipped backwards twelve feet by the stored force of the bent sapling, the snare slicing into his flesh and pinning him against the trailer, where the wire leading to the tree ran between the tires. He tried to scream, but the pressure compressed his chest and left him barely able to breathe. Stevenson took a long drag on his cigarette as a puddle spread beneath Nelson.

  “Wow,” Hammon said. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”

  This was her chance to run; Hammon was distracted and the dart gun only worked at close range. She knew where the other traps were, he didn’t. But Stevenson was watching her, an icy gleam in his gold eyes, and she knew she wouldn’t get far. “That,” he told Hammon, “could have been either of us.”

  Stevenson walked to the opposite side of the trailer, and Hazel heard each sapling spring free as Stevenson safely released each remaining snare.

  Nelson looked to Hammon. “Hel…mm…”

  Hammon said, “I bet he’d give up all that money right now just to live.”

  Nelson’s eyes widened and he nodded feebly.

  Stevenson considered and turned to Hammon. “How much do you think is in there?”

  “A lot. A whole lot.”

  Stevenson turned to Hazel. “And you? What do you think?”

  There weren’t words to express her thoughts, and her mouth was too dry to spit. Slowly she approached Nelson, studying how the wire sliced clear to the bone on one arm and buried itself within his chest on the other side. A little more tension might have cut him clean in two. Nelson’s head bobbed weakly, desperation in his eyes as he gasped like a dying fish.

  Stevenson rubbed his face. “So, princess, now what?”

  She didn’t reply, and he made no attempt to stop her as she walked to the unit and picked up a can of spray foam lying on the floor next to Valerie’s corpse. The horror in Nelson’s eyes as she approached, the nozzle raised toward his gaping mouth, almost brought a smile to her face. He thrashed feebly and tried to scream. Stevenson let out a long sigh and pulled Hazel’s arm away.

  “Interesting choice, but I can’t let you do that.” He took the can from her and wiped it down with a rag.

  “Why not? He’s dead either way, and you’ve got your damned money.”

  “You think this is about the money? You still haven’t figured it out, have you?”

  “Then what is it about?”

  Stevenson smiled the same chilling way she’d seen in her nightmares; that eerie cemetery smile
. “You.”

  Run, her mind screamed. But like the nightmares, she couldn’t move.

  “There’s something else you should know.” He pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

  She couldn’t speak.

  “This,” he held up the can, “works better when you shake it.” He turned to Hammon. “You’re positive she disabled the cameras.”

  Hammon nodded. “Every one I saw.”

  Stevenson stepped over to Nelson and patted him down, retrieving his cell phone and the recorder Hazel had left for him. He listened to the recorder for a moment then passed it to Hammon. “Get her in the car and stay there with her. Now.”

  Hammon grabbed her arm again and pulled her. She stumbled along, feeling in her pocket for a dart, slipping it from its cover. She could easily outrun Hammon, and while one dart might not knock Stevenson out, it would slow him enough for her to reach RoadKill.

  Hammon stopped to watch as Nelson tried to resist the nozzle Stevenson forced in his mouth. Nelson’s gurgling moans faded to a sickening hiss and then nothing. He writhed, nostrils flared, eyes bugging, mouth moving silently as foam extruded from his mouth like slow, sticky vomit. Hazel’s fingers closed cautiously around the shaft of the dart.

  “That stuff expands,” Hammon remarked as a glob bubbled from Nelson’s nose. “A lot. And it hardens.”

  Stevenson glared at him. “I said get her in the car.”

  Hammon still stood, watching in curious disgust as Nelson’s face turned purple and he convulsed, bucking violently. Stevenson charged over and grabbed Hazel by the arm, yanking her hand from her pocket and turning her forcibly away. She gasped as the sting in her hip registered and the familiar burning, tingling numbness began to spread.

  “And him?” Hammon asked behind her.

  “Leave him,” Stevenson snarled.

  He bumped the gate release with his elbow, revealing the Mercedes parked off to the side. Stevenson opened the trunk and Hazel pulled back in a panic, scratching at his hand to get free. He chuckled darkly.

  “That’s probably not a bad idea.” Stevenson laid the guns in the trunk. “But I figured you’d be more comfortable in the backseat.” He held the door open. “Get in the car, princess. It’s over.”

  It was. She’d failed. Micah was dead, Atkins as well, and she was utterly alone. It hurt to breathe, and she couldn’t stop shaking as the horrifying inevitable numbness washed over her. Soon she wouldn’t have the strength to stand or exert any control over what happened to her. She climbed in, curling up on the seat, knees to her chin, arms wrapped around her legs, and quietly began to cry.

  I WANT TO DIE

  Hammon stared ahead as his world unraveled, shredding like a tattered flag in a hurricane. Each death he’d died—burning, bleeding, drowning, lightning—had been mere practice for this moment and the pain of his heart slowly ripping itself apart.

  “Where are you taking me?” Hazel whispered faintly from the backseat, as though it took all her strength to ask. She sounded so diminished. Hammon had to turn away so Stevenson wouldn’t see him cringe.

  “Tell her,” Stevenson said.

  Hammon’s hand clenched into a fist. He stared out at the road, fighting not to look back or acknowledge her presence. “This was your brilliant idea. You tell her.”

  He could hear her rapid breathing and he could feel her confusion radiating through the car. He wanted to hold her and tell her this wasn’t what it seemed.

  It was worse. Much worse.

  Stevenson glanced into the backseat then dialed his cell. “It’s done,” he said tersely. “Yeah. We’ve got her…No, nothing to discuss over the phone…Okay, good. We’ll talk later.” He snapped the phone closed, staring ahead.

  Pain boiled through Hammon’s brain, and he writhed in his seat. He knew not to turn around and look at her, it would only make things worse, but he couldn’t help it. She seemed so small and fragile, eyes closed, curled into a defensive little ball beneath Stevenson’s jacket, and the stabbing in his chest overrode the pain in his head.

  Annabel glared at him. “Talk to her, you heartless bastard.”

  He couldn’t. If she hated him, if she never forgave him, he could live with that. It was better that way. He winced as the mercury seared within his skull.

  “Better for who?” snapped Annabel. “She’s terrified, you sadistic son of a bitch. She trusted you. How can you do this to her?”

  The temperature must have risen another fifteen degrees. Sweat soaked his hair and clothes as he fought to block Annabel from taking control. He knew that was what she wanted, to take over, to tell Hazel everything, but he couldn’t let her. He was going to pass out if he didn’t get out of there soon.

  “You can end this,” Annabel whispered. “Just tell Stevenson it’s in the snow.”

  “What snow?” Hammon clapped his hands over his ears. “It’s the goddamned Fourth of July!”

  Hazel didn’t move and Stevenson stared ahead, focused on the road, not speaking for the rest of the drive back to his house. He parked roughly beside the kitchen door, shut the car, and glared at Hammon.

  “Knock off the damned humming; it’s getting on my nerves.” Stevenson turned to the backseat. “Ride’s over, princess.”

  Hazel blinked and gazed around with a disoriented expression, shaking ever so slightly. Hammon stared out the passenger window.

  “Let’s go,” Stevenson snapped at him.

  “You don’t need me for this.”

  “No, you dense little shit.” Stevenson looked like he wanted to hit something. Or someone. “I don’t. But you’re coming anyway.”

  “You seem to have the situation well in hand. As usual.”

  “Don’t start.”

  Hammon climbed out, slamming the door. “What makes you think I ever stopped?”

  Stevenson opened the back door and waited, but Hazel didn’t move. Finally he reached in, guiding her out and to her feet. Eyes unfocused, she swayed and stared around the darkness passively, stepping toward Hammon, reaching out for him. He backed away and she stumbled; Stevenson grabbed her as she went down, and she didn’t resist. All her fight was gone. She squeezed her eyes shut as Stevenson picked her up, cradling her in his arms.

  “It’s all right,” he told her, sounding almost compassionate. “It’s over.”

  Hammon couldn’t watch. He had to leave. Leave, and he wouldn’t have to see where this was leading. He wouldn’t be a part of it. Leave, and it wouldn’t be his problem.

  “Sure,” Annabel said. “Take the easy way out.”

  Easy? Ripping out his own barely beating heart? He should have died instead of Micah. Then none of this would be happening.

  “But you didn’t and it is,” Annabel insisted. “You can’t let him do this.”

  “Yeah,” Hammon said. “You’re right about that.”

  01:03 MONDAY, JULY 5

  41°01’48.76”N/73°55’09.91”W

  PIERMONT, NY

  Hazel didn’t speak as Stevenson carried her into the house, sitting her on a kitchen chair. The effects of the dart were starting to subside, and she wondered groggily what occurred while she was out. Head bowed, she stared down. In the reflection on her watch crystal, she could see Stevenson, and with a minute shift of her wrist, Hammon staring into nowhere.

  “Hazel?” Stevenson snapped his fingers. He studied her grimly. “When was the last time she ate or slept?”

  Hammon shrugged. “Damned if I know.”

  She gazed at the slow-motion sweep of the second hand while her brain gradually reconnected with her body. She would wait. Wait to see what lay ahead. Wait to see what they had planned. Wait for the tranquilizer to wear off. Wait for her chance to kill Stevenson.

  As the fog in her head cleared, the events of the night replayed through her mind, reviving the horrible ache in her chest. It was as if her heart had been torn in two, and half remained behind with Micah, dead and frozen. Beneath her hand she felt the shape of the darts in her pocket, one still c
apped, one empty. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been out, and she knew she couldn’t stand or walk more than a few steps, if that. Hammon watched from the doorway, his expression unreadable. Was the boy she’d met that night by the river, the one who’d trembled at her touch, anywhere behind those cold eyes?

  Stevenson knelt beside her. “Hazel?”

  She didn’t answer. There was no answer. There were only the passing seconds and minutes and the reflections on her watch.

  Hammon stepped to the sink and washed the dried blood off his hands: his blood and hers. “Nice work, Jake. She’s gone. All trains of thought have stopped running. The tracks are shut, and service’s suspended till further notice. Kinda screws up your plans, don’t it?”

  Stevenson’s hands closed in fists, tendons rippling up his arms, and Hazel flinched. In a voice surprisingly steady for someone who looked ready to kill again, Stevenson said, “Talk to her. You might be able to reach her.”

  Hammon shut the faucet, wiping his hands on his pants. “It’s over. I’m done. You’re on your own with this.”

  He turned and walked out, the kitchen door slamming behind him.

  Until that moment, Hazel didn’t think she had a shred of hope left to crush, but as the rumble of the Viper broke the silence and tires screeched away, fading into the distance, a fresh wave of pain flooded through her. Her face burned and her throat tightened as surely as if it were still in Stevenson’s grip. What had she expected? She’d known Hammon was working for Stevenson, yet she’d let herself trust him. She tried to tell herself it didn’t sting, but there was no more pretending or wishing or hoping. This was a nightmare she wouldn’t be waking from, safe and sound in her bunk aboard Witch, back in her familiar, secure world. That world was gone, forever destroyed. Her father was lying shattered in a hospital, Micah was dead. It was all for nothing.

  The air hung heavy with tense silence, punctuated only by the ticking of her watch and random chirps of crickets. Hazel wanted to scream, to beat Stevenson until he was reduced to a bleeding mass of agony, but she was barely able to stand, let alone attack. A single tear of frustration escaped, dropping to the tile between her feet.