Read Last Exit in New Jersey Online
Authors: C.E. Grundler
Last Exit in New Jersey (12 page)
Rocks. Dig a hole anywhere in north Jersey, you hit rocks. Hammon continued, trying not to think, just get done and fast. Two feet of rocks and roots, and his muscles were screaming. He returned to the car, carefully removing the lumpy tarp, keeping the ends up. This one wasn’t too messy, but…his stomach wrenched at the memory of the last time…the cold soup of piss and blood and God knows what else soaking into his clothes, the smell so thick he could taste it. He’d puked so hard his ribs hurt for days.
Annabel looked on somberly. Hammon hoped she understood he did this for her. He dragged the tarp to the hole, positioned so he wouldn’t have to look as it unrolled. He couldn’t. It was too…He didn’t want to think about the bloody, mangled remains.
No, it was better not to look. Looking meant nightmares. Pull the tarp aside, pick up the shovel, refill the hole, cover it with leaves and branches. Return the tarp, folded messy side in, the shovel and gloves back in the trunk, and leave. Miles rolled past, neither of them speaking.
“Poor thing,” he said finally. Someone had to say something. “At least it got a decent burial.”
“Do you think it was someone’s pet?”
“No. Probably a stray,” Hammon said, unsure whether that would make her feel better or worse.
“But…Someone hit that dog and left it in the road to die like that. Do you think it suffered?”
Hammon shook his head, swallowing. “Killed instantly, I think,” he lied. Annabel had some serious issues when it came to death and burial, and seeing her cry tore into him. If performing these unsavory rituals brought her some small comfort, that was reason enough. He looked across.
“You okay?”
She nodded weakly, then shook her head.
“Not really. Can we go back to the boat and leave?”
Hammon sighed. “Sorry, angel. I’ve got one more stop.”
“The house of evil? No thanks. Drop me by
Revenge
, I’ll wait for you there.”
Even after they left the restaurant, the silence continued. Apparently his injuries no longer bothered him and Stevenson drove, following the Hudson shoreline while Hazel stared at the Tappan Zee Bridge glittering across the dark water and tried to ignore the undeniable tension. She wondered what nerve she’d hit; it might be useful for future reference, but if she asked he’d likely read too much into her interest.
Stevenson pulled into the marina, scanning the docks. His grip tightened on the wheel. “Son of a bitch.” He climbed out, looking from the boats to Hazel and back, cursing under his breath and pacing around the car, his jaw rigid.
“You,” he ordered, “follow.”
She was torn between the opportunity to be difficult and interest in what had him so agitated. Curiosity won and she tagged along as he stalked out, straight past his black boat and up to a drab white sport-fishing boat.
“Wait here.” He climbed aboard and pounded on the salon door. When no one appeared, he looked around, took his keys, and unlocked the cabin. He kicked a bucket out of the way, stepped inside, and slammed the door, leaving Hazel alone and baffled on the dock.
It was a plain, nameless sport-fisher. Very plain, Hazel realized, almost neglected-looking, though without any traces of actual neglect. The waterline was clean, dock lines unchafed and neatly tied. No scrapes from hard dockings, no signs of overdue maintenance, nothing. It didn’t look like any production model Hazel knew, and there was a subtle grace to the boat. Stevenson emerged, his expression grim. He climbed off, heading back to the lot. “Let’s go.”
“Nobody home?” Hazel trotted to keep up. “Interesting boat. Whose is she?”
“Mine.”
“You never said you had another boat. She wasn’t here yesterday.”
“You never asked, and it wasn’t here because someone else was using it.”
“Is she a custom build?”
“Very. Just get in the car,” he ordered. “Remember, the more cooperative the hostage, the sooner you get released.”
His expression made it clear there’d be no more questions. She sank into the passenger seat and looked back. From that distance the boat seemed to fade, ghostlike, into the darkness. Stevenson shot out of the lot, screeching down the narrow road, and it was all Hazel could do to suppress a grin when red and blue lights flashed behind them, siren blipping. Stevenson pulled over and fished out his wallet as the officer ambled up.
“Evening, Jake. A bit heavy on the gas, don’t you think?”
Stevenson grimly offered his license.
“Put it away.” The cop gave Hazel a friendly smile. “I figured you should know your car’s been reported stolen. Again. By you, as usual.”
Stevenson gave a short laugh. “Which one this time?”
“All of them. You know, you could press charges. Filing false police reports is a criminal offense.”
“Just let it go, okay?”
The cop didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t look surprised either. He glanced at Hazel. “She as young as she looks?” he asked, voice lowered.
Hazel tilted her head and peered up shyly. “I’m seventeen.”
Stevenson nodded in agreement. “Mentally.”
She shot him a dirty look. “He’s kidnapped me, taken me across state lines, and he’s keeping me hostage.”
“Adorable, isn’t she?” Stevenson chuckled. “My friend’s kid. I got stuck babysitting.”
The cop cracked a smile. “You sure you don’t want to press charges with the cars?”
“Positive.”
“Your call,” he said as he returned to his patrol car. “Don’t be surprised when you keep getting pulled over.”
Stevenson rolled away at a good clip, heading back to the house. He shot through the opening gates with inches to spare, raced up the driveway past the carriage house, straight across the lawn, and parked beside the kitchen door. Hazel followed him inside.
“Mind telling me what’s up?”
“A little, yeah.” He pulled out a chair. “Do me a favor. Be a good girl, sit here and don’t move.” He stalked down the hall.
Be a good girl? Was he serious? The hell with that. “I’m going to take a nap,” she called to his back. “I’ll be upstairs if you decide to tell me what crawled up your—”
There was a soft chirp.
She paused.
It went silent, then started again, chirping in cycles.
It was behind the wall in a narrow passage she’d found earlier, leading from the kitchen to the dining room. It wasn’t unusual in a house of that period, dating back to a time when servants were expected to perform their duties unseen. Hazel pushed the panel beside the pantry inward and slipped into the space, waiting silently. Cricket stalking was an art.
Heavy footsteps approached and she eased the door closed. Stevenson’s shadow passed along the floor. Hazel held her breath and watched through a small gap as he checked the halls, up the stairs, and down the basement. Likely looking for her, but she wasn’t about to announce she was between the walls chasing bugs. He took a manila folder down from above the kitchen cabinets and dialed his cell phone.
“Yeah, I know. I saw the goddamned boat. Is he still seeing Annabel? You’re sure?…I was wondering how she’s wearing her hair these days.” He flipped through the file, listening. “Let’s just say I have a little surprise.” He grinned. “You’ll see.”
He ended the call and keyed in another number.
“We have a problem…No,
her
I can handle. That other issue we discussed has come up sooner than expected. Exactly. We could do without that complication right now.”
Stevenson paced as he listened, repeatedly looking out at the driveway as though someone might pull up at any moment. Hazel’s uneasiness grew; something was up, serious enough to concern Stevenson.
“We’ll move now. I’ll call when we get there…Her? I expect she’ll be difficult, but she’ll cooperate. She’ll have no choice.”
Hazel’s mouth went dry and she sank backwards. The cricket sang, reverberating through the wall. Stevenson paused, turning, and Hazel stiffened, terrified he would hear her anxious breathing.
“Everything’s set on this end. I have it. You watch; when word gets out I’ve got that Freightliner and cargo, we’ll see who makes the highest offer.”
Hazel covered her mouth, fighting to stay quiet. She knew they couldn’t trust Stevenson! Why wouldn’t her father believe her? Stevenson looked up the hallway again, his expression chilling.
“No. Get rid of
Witch
. I’ll deal with Hazel.” Stevenson nodded grimly. “You think she’ll be that much of a problem?…That’s your call. I’ll let you handle the messy part when the time comes…Call me once the boat is gone. I’m going to collect my little friend and get moving. Don’t worry.” He laughed. “She gives me any problems, I’ll just dart her.”
Stevenson snapped the phone closed, shoved the file above the cabinet, and charged upstairs. Hazel’s pulse rushed in her ears, and she felt paralyzed but she knew she couldn’t just hide there; when Stevenson didn’t find her he’d expand his search, and he’d realize she’d overheard. She wanted to ambush and interrogate him, but that was too risky; too much could go wrong. No, the better choice was escape while she had the chance and warn her father. Grab all the keys and remote for the gate along with that folder and whatever it contained, steal a car, and get the hell out of there.
Taking a deep breath, she slipped out, knife in hand. She slid a chair to the counter and climbed up to grab the folder, peeking inside.
Her face grew hot as she recognized police reports and her psychiatric profiles from her run-in years earlier with Pierce, with the words “extremely introverted” and “exhibits sociopathic tendencies” highlighted. Telephoto pictures showed her climbing out of the Miata, dated three days before it sank; photos of her father and Joe going about their daily lives, all taken from a distance.
Witch, Kindling, RoadKill,
even Joe’s Buick. More photos, the Miata again, muddy now, a close-up of the bullet holes.
Tuition
beside a brick building; another of the door with that morning’s edition of the
NY Times
in clear focus against the Moran Marine Transport logo and star. Photos of minifridges and A/C units inside the trailer. And finally, her reading that same
Times
edition, flipping Stevenson the finger.
Footsteps pounded through the hall, approaching fast.
“Hazel? Damnit, I don’t have time for this.”
She rushed to get down, misstepped, and the chair slid out from under her. All at once she was on the floor, dazed. Stevenson entered the kitchen, rushing up to her. She pulled away as he tried to sit her up.
“Are you okay? What were you…”
Then he spotted the folder in her left hand. She lunged, grazing his scalp as he ducked and grabbed her wrist in a crushing grip. He yanked her to her feet as he rose, holding her suspended and pinning her against the counter. Carefully he unwrapped her fingers and flung the knife, clattering across the tiles.
“You are predictable to a fault.” He wiped the blood from his face.
“Son of a bitch,” she cursed, twisting to get free.
“I know. Vindicating, isn’t it? You kept telling your father not to trust me, but he wouldn’t listen.” He lowered her enough that her toes brushed the floor, then released her hand. “Now, are you going to settle down and behave?”
“Go to hell.”
“I figured as much.” He kept her pinned against the counter. “I guess it’s time you and I had a little talk.”
Twisting, she reached backwards, struggling to escape.
“If you’d just listen for a minute,” he said, his voice bordering on aggravation.
She grasped for the bottle of scotch, but it slid clear.
“I heard enough.” The sugar bowl smashed to the floor.
“Good God. Knock it off already.” He grabbed her hands, wrapping his arms around her and pinning her wrists together behind her back. “Settle down.”
He was too strong, too close, holding her too tight, his chest pressed to her face. In a panic she turned, sinking her teeth into his arm. The taste of blood mixed with the smell of stale smoke on his sleeve, and he roared as he jerked back, slipping on the sugar. His head smacked against the edge of the counter as he went down. Furious, he started to rise as Hazel backed away. She grabbed the metal tea kettle from the stove and swung hard, with both hands, and again until he stopped moving.
Hammon dropped Annabel off at the marina, then stopped off at the Gas-on-the-Go/Quickeemart up the road to stock up on non-Annabel-approved food, Krazy Glue, toilet paper, and snacks for the crickets. Best he’d determined, crickets thrived on Frosted Flakes. Then he headed back to Piermont, as usual getting stuck at the town’s lone traffic light. He glanced at the vacant passenger seat and tapped his fingers to the clicking of his right turn signal. He was anxious to be done and back with Annabel aboard
Revenge
. The reflection on the dashboard went from red to green and Hammon looked up, lifting the clutch—
—and stalled, nearly getting rear-ended by a white Lincoln as he watched Annabel pull up to the red light in Stevenson’s Viper, waiting to turn left. The Lincoln’s horn blasted behind him and Annabel spun, anxiously checking the empty road behind her. The horn sounded again and she turned, following the sound, her eyes meeting Hammon’s while a stream of obscenities rose from the Lincoln pulling around him to go straight.
Surprised as he was, Hammon couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her even as his brain began to process that something was seriously wrong with that picture. What was she doing there? Had she gone to Stevenson’s house before him, and why? Why was she driving Stevenson’s car? Hammon’s light went yellow, then red, and hers turned green. Behind her, headlights approached. She looked back at the lights, then turned to Hammon, turmoil in her dark eyes, damp with tears. Tires screaming, the Viper fishtailed and shot past him, disappearing around the bend.
Hammon’s smile faded and he sat, utterly confused. What was Annabel doing and why did she look so upset? Was she in some sort of trouble, and if so, why hadn’t she told him? Something was very wrong, and if it involved Stevenson, it was the worst kind of bad.
Headlights off, Hammon pulled through the open wrought-iron gates, anxiety building. Stevenson never left those gates open. He killed the engine and coasted to a stop under cover of the overgrown hedges, then fumbled around his backpack, digging past squished cellophane-wrapped Ring Dings, his Game Boy, wadded napkins, and crushed chips, at last feeling the shape of a small gun. He knew no one would take a DayGlo orange-and-green water pistol seriously, but in the darkness it might be mistaken for the real thing.
As with the gate, the kitchen door was ajar, and Hammon struggled to focus over the clamoring alarms within his brain. Inside the house, on the other hand, all was quiet aside from random crickets. He spotted Stevenson’s bloodied shape next to the overturned chair. Hammon leaned closer, lime Slurpee rising in his throat.
Stevenson was still breathing shallowly.
Hammon couldn’t decide whether he was disappointed or not, but he knew Annabel couldn’t have done that; she just wasn’t capable. Someone else did it; someone else wanted Stevenson dead. Or did they? Were that the case, finishing him off would have been easy. Whatever happened, murder wasn’t the goal. He pushed Stevenson with his sneaker.
“Hey, Jake, wake up. Who did this?”
No reply.
“I guess I oughta get help, eh?”
Still no reply.
“You pissed someone off real good. Again. As usual.”
Was whoever’d done this still there? The back of his neck prickled, and Hammon scanned the shadows anxiously. “Hey, Jake, don’t move. I wanna look around.”
Right. If he didn’t barf first. Gun drawn, he searched the dark house, hearing only scattered crickets. At least his pets were happy. Whoever did this was long gone. Stevenson’s desk had been ransacked, but the hidden space beneath the bottom drawer, where Stevenson always stashed an envelope of cash, remained untouched, and once again Hammon cleaned it out.
He returned to the kitchen, picked up the cordless phone with a paper towel, and dialed 911. A neutral voice asked the nature of his emergency.
“Uh, yeah. Someone’s attacked me. I’m bleeding! HELP!” He dropped the receiver next to Stevenson. That ought to do it. He deserved a freakin’ merit badge. Within the receiver a small voice repeated questions Stevenson was unable to answer. Stay calm, it assured him, help is on the way.
On that note it was time to depart, more confused than when he’d arrived. There was only one thing Hammon knew for sure: something in his fragile little universe had shifted out of orbit. It was time to retreat to
Revenge
and the safety of dark, open water…and he desperately needed to talk with Annabel.
But Annabel and
Revenge
were gone.
It was unimaginable, but undeniable. They had vanished. Why would Annabel have left him?
She must have figured out what he’d kept from her, what he’d kept from himself. Maybe it was something he said in his sleep, or something she found. Something in the damned snow. Something Stevenson wanted. Whatever the case, she’d figured it out, and…and what? If she knew, she was in danger. He had to go after her. He had to find her.
She couldn’t be far, not yet, not with
Revenge
. With Stevenson’s black boat he could catch her.
Only it wouldn’t start. The key he’d lifted from Gary’s shop fit the ignition, and he knew about the fuel kill override, but the boat refused to cooperate. With each passing second, the distance between him and Annabel grew. He unwrapped the foil around his phone, connected the battery, and hit the speed dial. Pete answered over a radio thumping obnoxiously in the background. Hammon tried to speak, managing a choked hiccup.
“Just a sec,” Pete replied. “GAR—it’s Zap!”
Shuffling and mumbling.
“Yeah? Hey, Zap. Speak up! Will you guys kill that goddamn noise!” Gary shouted graphic suggestions regarding the radio and someone’s anatomy, and then there was silence.
Hammon hiccupped.
Gary sighed. “What now?”
“How do I start Stevenson’s drug boat?”
“NO! Whatever you’re doing, the answer is no.”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Define emergency.”
“
Revenge
is gone.”
“Just chill. You forgot where you docked again. Think back. Where—”
“No. She’s gone.” Hammon swallowed a hiccup. “For real.”
“For real? You’re sure about that.” Then Gary laughed. “I’ll be damned; that’s what Stevenson meant. He said he had a little surprise for you. Serves you right. I told you that airport stunt would bite you in the ass. I mean seriously, they strip-searched the bastard! I warned you there’d be payback; it was just a matter of time.”
“It wasn’t him! When I left Stevenson he was unconscious, tied up, and bleeding.”
Gary sobered up. “What?”
“I didn’t do it! I found him that way! I even called an ambulance!”
Silence.
“I said I didn’t do it! Now why won’t this boat start?” Hammon lifted the engine cover, with no idea what he was looking for. The compartment light switched on, and immediately he spotted the problem. “Uh, yeah, never mind.”
“What do you mean, never mind?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Do what?” Gary groaned. “Look, stay where you are. I’m coming; we’ll find your damned boat.”
Hammon stared down at the slashed hoses and shattered fuel-water separator bowls. Was that Annabel’s doing? Was she trying to stop him from following, or was she running from someone else? Hammon tried to speak, but his voice was gone. His brain, on the other hand, wouldn’t stop screaming.
