Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  Stevenson slammed his fist on the counter. “Son of a bitch.”

  She couldn’t let herself cry. If Travis McGee could do this then so could she, and Travis sure as hell wouldn’t be crying. Her hands stayed on her lap, her eyes on the watch, her mind set on that last sealed dart. The night and this nightmare were far from over.

  Stevenson offered her a napkin, but she stared through it. And she didn’t flinch or blink when he cupped her chin, lifted her face, and gently wiped her cheeks, the fury in his eyes mixed with something that almost passed for sympathy. With a weary sigh he rose, taking orange juice and eggs from the refrigerator and pouring a glass of scotch.

  “You need to eat,” he said, more to himself than her as he lit the stove.

  Hazel felt her way into the pocket, easing out the sealed dart, hiding it beneath her hand.

  “Sorry I was so rough on you before.” He downed the scotch. “There wasn’t time to explain, and I figured it was better I be a bastard than risk Nelson shooting you.” Metal banged sharp against metal as he dropped an iron skillet on the burner.

  While his back remained to her, Hazel moved her right foot the slightest bit, testing her reflexes. Pins and needles coursed through her veins. She tried her left foot, pausing as Stevenson turned. She continued to gaze down blankly while the muscles in her face tingled as feeling returned. She kept her expression slack and fought the impulse to wipe another escaped tear, itching unbearably all the way down the side of her nose. Stevenson studied her, his features hardening.

  “Goddamnit!” He struck his fist into the wall, cracking the plaster, leaving a bloody smear. “Show me Hammon’s wrong. Show me you’re still in there.”

  He picked up another napkin and blotted his knuckles. “I know you’re in shock and things haven’t sunk in yet. Unfortunately, it’s only going to get worse. Right now you’re running on hurt and hate; they’re powerful emotions and they’ll keep you going for a while, but they’ll consume you eventually, leaving nothing but bitterness. Trust me, I know.” He shook his head. “We’re already more alike than you realize.”

  He knelt down and lifted her chin again, gently drying her tear. As his hand brushed her cheek, her eyes locked onto his and she buried the dart deep into the underside of his arm. He winced and carefully pulled it out, studied the now-empty cylinder…and began to laugh.

  “That’s my girl. You were starting to worry me.” He eased himself to the floor and sat back against the cabinets. “I should have known better, right? Pretty careless, not checking if you were still armed.” He regarded the dart with amusement. “So this is it.”

  “It is.” She moved to the edge of the chair, testing her balance. “This ends here, tonight.”

  “I see.” He gazed at her and massaged his arm. “Now what?”

  “To start with,” she rose unsteadily, “you’re going to give me answers.”

  Stevenson yawned and tilted his head back against the door.

  “Why. That’s the big question, isn’t it? Why was I following you, even before I showed up in Bivalve, and why did I walk away from all that money? Why was Joe helping me? And why would Hammon leave you with a scumbag like me when it’s obvious how desperately he loves you?”

  Contentment filled his face, infuriating Hazel beyond words. He was supposed to be panicking; he was supposed to be terrified.

  “Revenge. It’s all about revenge.” He sighed. “And I’ll bet you think I mean that goddamned boat. Poor thing. Your world’s been shattered, your heart’s broken, nothing makes sense anymore.” His words were beginning to slur. “Before you start slicing, you might want…” He tried to motion but his arm flopped uselessly. His eyes fixed on his limp hand and he smiled faintly. “Complications.”

  His head drooped and his expression softened, but Hazel stood back, waiting. She hadn’t expected one dart would knock him out entirely, but combined with the alcohol in his system, it might. She kicked him with all her strength, which still wasn’t much, but enough for him to feel it. One eye half opened.

  “Not quite dead yet…” he mumbled, the corner of his mouth almost curling. “Go look.”

  “At what?”

  His face relaxed, his body sagged, and he lay there like a sedated lion, breathing slow and even. Hesitantly Hazel approached, watching. She slapped him across the face, hard. It felt good, but he only grunted and her hand stung, diminishing her satisfaction. Using kitchen aprons, she tied his wrists together securely and bound his ankles. Then she gathered the knives.

  I’M DONE

  “You know she’ll try to kill him,” Annabel yelled over the Viper’s rumble.

  “Likely. That’d solve lots of problems.”

  Hammon stared up at the red light, casting the same soft glow in the darkness over the same intersection where he’d first seen Hazel. Beside him, Annabel tore at his brain as she fought for control, trying to hijack his consciousness the minute he lowered his guard. He wouldn’t let her; she’d only go straight back to Hazel and undo all the heart-wrenching damage he’d done, making things infinitely worse in the process. The light turned green, and he struggled with the clutch. The Viper lurched and stalled. This time there was no one around to notice or care as they sat in silence.

  “You can’t let her,” Annabel said, more softly now.

  He pulled off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  There was still time to turn back. It wasn’t too late. Start the car, go back, walk in, take her from there, from Stevenson. Tell her he loved her and couldn’t live without her.

  “Then do it.”

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. More than life itself he wanted to go back, take her, hold her, keep her forever. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

  “So you’re just leaving her there? She’s all alone. She lost Micah. She needs you.”

  “She lost Micah because of me. If he hadn’t come back to help me, I’d be dead, not him. I’m doing what I have to. She hates me anyways.”

  “She doesn’t hate you.”

  “She should. It’s better that way.”

  “You really believe that? Or are you trying to convince yourself? I think you’re a coward and you’re running away. You swore you’d help her.”

  “And that’s what I’m doing.” He had to let her go, even if it killed him, and he knew it would. There was no way his heart could withstand damage of that extent for long.

  “You told her you loved her. That you’d die for her.”

  “Exactly.”

  He shouldn’t have said that. It took the right side of his brain a few seconds to process that thought and set off a barrage of questions he had no intention of answering. He restarted the Viper, the engine’s roar making it nearly impossible to hear himself, or anyone else in his head, think. With his damaged leg, driving that car demanded his full, undivided attention, allowing him to ignore his intangible passenger. Not surprisingly, headaches followed, distracting him from the agonizing ache in his chest. Unfortunately, they also left him disoriented and lost. He looked around for signs. It was New Jersey: there were signs everywhere, only none pointed toward the Parkway. He glanced at Annabel for a second and his heart twisted. She knew what he was thinking. She always knew.

  It wasn’t that he wanted to do it, but he had to. He was keeping his promise. His hands were shaking from adrenaline, yet he felt strangely tranquil. Was it peace, absolute despair, or both?

  Once he reached the Parkway, he’d see what the Viper’s top speed was. Then he’d see how quick it could stop by swerving into an overpass abutment. It was the only way. If he ceased to exist, Hazel would be safe. Sooner or later Stevenson would use her to get to him, to get answers. And those answers were deadly. Far better they remain questions.

  Hammon rounded an unfamiliar bend as train crossing signals flashed, and he coasted to a stop as the gates dropped in his path. The train whistle sounded through the darkness.

  “You can still turn back,” Annab
el said. “I know the way, it’s not far. Go back for her, get her out of there. Get her away from Stevenson.”

  The whistle sounded again, sharper, louder, approaching fast. Hammon sat, watching the reflections of the gate lights flashing across the black paint on the hood, waiting.

  “Don’t even consider it,” Annabel warned.

  Ironically, the thought hadn’t even entered that side of his mind until she mentioned it. He wouldn’t need the Parkway. The whistle cut the night air. The wobbling gates formed little more than a symbolic barrier between the car and the tracks, one the Viper could easily slip beneath. He was still in gear, his left foot holding the clutch to the floor. He was facing the wrong way for the full benefit of the impact; the train would hit the passenger side first, not that it’d make much difference. In an instant the passenger side would be the driver’s side. Crushed like a soda can, the Viper would all but vaporize beneath the first engine and be scattered in the bushes and trees while the train screeched and braked for a quarter mile, maybe more, dragging bits of debris the whole way. It would make interesting headlines in the local papers for people to read over their morning coffee. Hammon grinned coldly, imagining Stevenson reading the news, a grin that faded as he thought of Hazel seeing the paper. Maybe she’d be glad.

  “I’m sorry,” he told Annabel, his voice drowned by the piercing whistle. The ground shook and the engine’s light broke through the trees to his right. Hammon started to lift the clutch. It would be over before the engineer had any hope of stopping.

  “I won’t let you!”

  His brain throbbed and he blocked the agony, focusing only on lifting the clutch. “You won’t stop me. Not this time.”

  The Viper inched forward, ready…ready…

  A searing cramp shot through his left leg, locking it down as the ground quaked and four deafening locomotives blurred past the headlights. The freight cars, a wall of rushing metal and colors, roared along, drawing up stray leaves and paper to swirl in confusion in his headlights. And then it was gone. The gates lifted, their red lights snuffed as they returned to upright, leaving an empty silence.

  The flashing light on the rear of the train receded, along with the cramp in Hammon’s leg. “Thanks for nothing.”

  Annabel’s dark eyes fixed on him with a merciless hatred. “You’re welcome. You know, you used to be someone I liked. I can almost see why she’d be better off without you.”

  “Yeah, angel. That’s what I love about you, how you always manage to make me feel better.”

  “I didn’t see that on my job description.”

  “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

  “That’s what you want? Fine. Remember: be careful what you wish for.”

  02:16 MONDAY, JULY 5

  41°01’48.76”N/73°55’09.91”W

  PIERMONT, NY

  Hazel knelt beside Stevenson, watching blood rise in the thin slice she’d made along his bound arm. A small cut; nothing life-threatening…yet. She thought about Micah lying lifeless in that freezer and she pressed harder. Stevenson jerked and she stepped back.

  “Hello, Jake,” she said softly. “Ready to play twenty questions?”

  His head swiveled, zeroing in on her voice. His mouth moved but no words came out.

  Hazel rose as the kettle reached a boil, and she made herself a cup of tea. She lowered the flame, leaving the water at a slow simmer, then returned to Stevenson, sipping her tea as he stared up, awareness growing in his fogged eyes.

  “God you’re young.” He blinked, unfocused, and suddenly he looked excruciatingly sad. “Years ago,” he slurred, “in a kingdom by the sea…lived a maiden you may know…by the name of Annabel Lee.”

  Anger welled up inside Hazel. It was the ketamine talking, but she didn’t care. “Annabel isn’t real, you son of a bitch!”

  “Oh but she is, realer than you can imagine,” he mumbled. “Annabel…is you…and you are Annabel.” His eyes closed. “The moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee. The stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes of my beautiful Annabel Lee.” He sighed. “Tragic. She dies in the end. But you didn’t die, dear Annabel. He did.”

  Her hand shook and it was all she could do not to run the knife straight through his heart. “Damn you!”

  “Too late. Already damned.” His head rolled sideways. “Wake me when we get there.”

  Hazel traced the knife along his bicep, slicing through the fabric of his shirt, watching as a stain of blood spread. He winced but remained still.

  “Tell me, Jake, who were you talking with that night about me and the truck?”

  He grunted. “You won’t believe me.”

  She pressed the blade into the meat of his shoulder. “It was Joe, wasn’t it?”

  He flinched. “No, princess. It was your father.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” She twisted the knife hard. “I heard the whole conversation; that was NOT my father. Tell me who it was!”

  Stevenson choked back a groan and nodded. “Your father,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Set a trap…duplicate truck and cargo…and me playing the part of…well, me. Quite convincingly, it seems. The plan was to get both you and Micah somewhere safe, along with Witch.”

  Hazel pulled the knife back. “Why didn’t he tell me?” she challenged, not wanting to believe him, even as part of her knew it was precisely the thing her father might do.

  Stevenson regarded the blood on his arms, trying to focus. “He said you wouldn’t listen. I thought we should, but he said if you had no idea what we were doing, then you couldn’t try to help or do anything risky…playing ‘salvage consultant,’ he called it, whatever the hell that means.”

  There was a rushing in her ears, and her hands fell to her sides. “Go on.” Her voice was a whisper; she couldn’t manage more.

  “He didn’t want anyone else involved; it was supposed to be just me and him. Even Joe didn’t know the details until after your dad got shot. Plausible deniability, he insisted. If he wound up in jail, he wanted Joe around to keep you and Micah in line. It took me all night to track down a matching truck. Fortunately the graphics shop that did Tuition’s logos still had the design on file. Your dad picked up the truck, drove it to the warehouse, dressed it up, and e-mailed me the pictures. Everything was coming together until you overheard that conversation.

  “When you attacked me, your dad was more worried about covering your tracks and finding a place to dump my body.” Stevenson tried to grin. “He was sure you’d killed me. We agreed it was probably better if you thought you almost did. You were supposed to stay at Forelli’s boatyard. Hidden. Safe.” He was more alert now and he shifted, managing to sit straighter. “Yes, I knew you were there; I didn’t know you took Hammon’s boat.”

  Hazel listened, taking in all he was saying, processing it. “What was my dad doing the night he was shot?”

  Stevenson stared down at his bound hands. “He’d gone down to Bivalve to talk to the police. They had some questions regarding ‘human remains’ they found wrapped around your runabout’s prop. He went alone. Nelson must’ve tailed him on the highway afterwards.

  “Joe tracked me down, told me what happened.” He half smiled. “Scary bastard, that Joe. He made it clear he had some doubts about my involvement. Once he knew the whole story, he insisted on stepping in. Said you were his family, he owed it to all of you.”

  Stevenson made a sound that might have been a laugh but sounded more like a moan. “When you shot Joe, he was only trying to protect you. Joe saw Atkins negotiating with me over the decoy truck, and apparently Hammon ambushed him pretty good, so he figured those two were working together. Joe saw Atkins take your old truck so he tailed him.”

  Hazel gasped as it all sank in. “JOE! I ran him off the road!”

  “We saw. He’s fine, just a concussion.” Stevenson shifted uncomfortably. “Atkins brought him to the hospital. I guess that’s what your father meant about you getting involved. He said thing
s…how’d he put it…tend to ‘escalate’ around you. Joe said to tell you he’s impressed, he taught you well.” His eyes narrowed. “But you owe me a new Kevlar vest and repairs on the Chevelle.”

  “My father…” Hazel began, her voice faint. “Does he know about Micah?”

  Stevenson shook his head. “No. Last time I spoke with your father was yesterday, right after you called the ICU. I’m sorry, but you can’t tell your father until after the police notify us first. As far as you know, Micah left you behind at the boat two nights ago, and you haven’t seen or heard from him since.” He paused, contemplating his bound hands for a moment. “You should take Joe with you when you visit your father; you shouldn’t go alone.”

  Hazel’s stomach was in knots; she sat on her heels on the floor holding her knife limply. It all made perfect, horrible sense: her father keeping her in the dark like that, and everything had gone so wrong. But one detail still didn’t fit. Why was Stevenson involved to begin with, and why would her father trust a total stranger when he wouldn’t even include Joe?

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said. “I saw that file, you had all those things on me, even those photos from long before you hired my dad to move your boat. You’ve been following me since right after Tuition vanished.”

  He nodded. “Exactly. Tuition vanished, and instead you had to drive that old Kenworth for your next delivery. After all these years of searching I thought I’d never find that god-awful truck—I’d pretty much given up—I figured it’d probably long since rusted away—and then it pulls into that marina in Cape May, with you at the wheel, no less. Talk about dumb luck.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” A shiver ran down her spine, and Hazel rose, moving back. “What is this really about?”