Last Exit in New Jersey (6 page)

The odds her absence went unnoticed were slim to none, so sneaking back was pointless. Even with the engine brake off,
RoadKill
moved with all the subtlety of an irritable T. rex. The exhaust stacks did little to muffle the downshifting diesel as Hazel rumbled into the boatyard, skidded sideways, and came to a rest in a cloud of dust. She gunned the engine, and crushed oyster shells shot out from beneath the tires, pelting everything for twenty feet as the truck rattled backwards and stopped precisely between her car and the Travelift with inches to spare.
RoadKill
idled as Hazel set the brakes with a loud hiss, then the collection of noise fell silent.

She climbed out with the boat-bag of alibis and peace offerings she’d picked up on the way back—deli sandwiches, cold sodas, chips—and scanned the lot. Joe’s Harley was where she last saw it, parked in the shade, and the storage shed remained closed. Her father had taken Joe’s old Buick wagon that morning, and it was nowhere to be seen. That was either very good or extremely bad, and lately bad was the rule.

Throughout the drive back, she’d mentally rehearsed what she planned to say. She could already hear her father ripping into her, but she had to tell him what she’d learned, though after the last few nights, she knew it wouldn’t go over well.

Hazel reached behind the Miata’s seat as she passed it, retrieving the bag containing her previous excuse for driving into town and the one thing her father wouldn’t question, argue, or volunteer to pick up: a box of tampons. After thirty-six hours beneath the river, the miniature drowning victims had burst free of their box, bloating into forty soggy bundles with blue string tails. Hazel regarded them, contemplating their premature demise, when the shed door behind her creaked. She jumped and spun around, dropping the tampons.

“Thought you beat me back, eh?”

Her father stepped from the shadows, and by the tightness of his features, she knew he was livid. Joe remained inside, standing between the blue Buick and the biodiesel still, looking uncomfortable with more than just the heat.

“Did I not make myself one hundred percent clear?” His voice carried across the empty yard. “Damnit, Haze, I’m not just saying this to hear myself talk. I didn’t want you going out, no less racing around in this rolling violation. I won’t even mention what it’d do to our insurance if you got a ticket.”

“Actually, you just did.” As per his usual rant, as if she’d ever received even a single ticket.

“What do I have to do? Pull the goddamned starter? I can’t believe you got this thing running. And you,” his wrath shifted to Joe, “didn’t even notice. Damnit. I said keep an eye on her while I was gone.”

Hazel fiddled with her ring as her father paced, fists clenched. Trapped in his disapproving glare, everything she’d planned to tell him evaporated.

“When I say something it’s for a reason,” he continued. “What the hell is your problem? Do you deliberately try to be difficult or do you just not think? I figured after last night you’d listen. Didn’t you see those bullet holes? That tire,” he slammed the side of his fist down on the Miata’s silty windshield and the glass crackled, sinking inward, “was
shot
out.
RoadKill
just makes a bigger target.” His eyes paused on the shark’s tooth around her neck. “You think I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You don’t! Micah’s missing. He’s not answering his phone, and I can’t find him anywhere. I think he’s in trouble.”

“And so are you, as usual, thanks to him.”

Hazel stood her ground, ignoring the sun’s heat and her father’s withering look. “REAL trouble, I mean. Micah took
Tuition.
”

“Really? Figured that all by yourself? Nice work, Travis. I’m impressed. But you better consult your little detective guides. The word isn’t ‘took,’ it’s ‘stole.’ Now cut the crap and stop playing private investigator before you get hurt.”

Her cheeks burned and she stared down. He didn’t get it. He’d never even read those books. Travis wasn’t a detective. He was a ‘salvage consultant,’ which meant he’d recover anything of value from which the rightful owner had been wrongfully deprived and held no hope of recovering, usually for a fee of fifty percent. But Hazel didn’t want to be like Travis McGee, not in the literal sense. True, her fictional hero’s instincts were sharp, his reflexes sharper. Even when he made mistakes or miscalculations, he always managed to come out on top. But in nearly every story, odds were high someone Travis cared for would meet with a tragic, violent, untimely end, which was precisely what she wanted to avoid. “Someone had to do something, and I knew you wouldn’t.”

“Is that what you think? Just because I don’t tell you everything I’m up to doesn’t mean I wasn’t out looking for that little shit. Or maybe you hoped you’d find him before I did.”

He had her there, and they both knew it. “Well, I found out more about my visitor last night.” That stopped him. His voice ominously low, he said, “I’m listening.”

She swallowed and forged ahead, explaining all she’d learned regarding Kessler and Atkins. She didn’t think her father could get any more pissed than he already was, but apparently she was wrong. He looked like he wanted to rip the hood off the Miata.

“So Micah figured he’d use our truck to make some quick cash,” he said, too softly.

“You don’t know that.”

“It sure looks that way. Typical Micah shit. Last night—”

“Nothing happened,” Joe interrupted softly, stepping between them. “If Micah’s in trouble, it’s his problem. We don’t want you winding up hurt, in prison, or both. Trust me, kiddo, I’ve been there, and it ain’t pretty.”

“But Micah wouldn’t…” she protested, feeling her eyes start to burn.

“Micah wouldn’t want anything happening to you either,” Joe said. “Let us take care of Micah.”

“But…” She turned toward the water, determined not to let them see her cry, and her voice died in her throat. Docked behind
Witch
, a low black powerboat sat like a menacing shadow. It was the sort of thing built purely for speed, though usually those boats were tarted up with colors and graphics louder than their engines. Not this one. It was absolute black. It was the absence of all color. If Darth Vader had a boat, it would look like that. And Darth Vader had no reason to visit Bivalve, New Jersey.

“What’s that and why is it here?” Hazel looked from her father and Joe to the strange boat. After the last few days, anything unusual was suspect, and around Bivalve, that boat qualified as highly unusual.

Her father sighed. “That’s the one we’re hauling north today. The Stevenson boat. He said he’d be here by two.”

“Today? We can’t do that TODAY.”

“I didn’t exactly plan for today to be
today
when we scheduled.” He rubbed his face. “Let’s take care of this, then we’ll talk. Stevenson’s probably waiting at the office.”

“Why do we have to truck it north? It got here under its own power just fine.”

“We’re not in business to ask why people want their boats moved, just to move them.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know exactly what you’re saying. Give it a rest. We have work to do.” He looked from
RoadKill
to her, regarding her wrinkled tank top and oversized hand-me-down jeans, belted in at the waist and rolled at the bottom. “And could you for once not look like you dressed from the Salvation Army? We need this job, but we’re not that broke.”

If things weren’t bad enough, Dave Pierce was in the office, leaning over the pool table and smirking to himself as Hazel trailed behind Joe and her father. Joe rented the shop in back, but the front office was a public place, open to anyone renting a dock, and that, unfortunately, included Pierce. Hazel didn’t know the fellow with him, though judging by his stained Rheingold Beer T-shirt and frayed cutoffs she doubted he owned the black boat, or much else for that matter. While his pal lined up a shot, Pierce appraised Hazel, the corner of his mouth curling lewdly.

At twenty-six, Pierce was fit and undeniably handsome, with an arrogant swagger that came from getting his way too easy and too often. Hazel had hated him ever since she was eight and found him testing the theory that seagulls couldn’t burp. On the surface it sounded harmless and amusing, though the truth was far more sinister. He was tossing gulls Alka-Seltzers wrapped in bread with the expectation that they would literally explode, or at least die agonizing, horrible deaths. Fortunately Pierce’s potentially sadistic experiment proved that not only could seagulls expel gas, but upon ingestion would foam at the beak and empty the contents of their stomachs midflight. That day Micah explained the concept of Karma to Hazel as Pierce, covered in fizzing fish guts, stood cursing.

Unfortunately Pierce’s nature never changed. After the time he tried to rape her, it was her word against his. Beyond her family and Joe, no one believed she’d stabbed him in self-defense; everyone else bought Pierce’s claims that she’d inexplicably attacked him. Most people concluded she might be dangerously unstable, which at least kept them at a comfortable distance. Pierce was different though: he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in lingering nearby, almost taunting. He knew better than to push it too far, though; if she didn’t kill him, her father or Joe would.

Hazel gave the room a quick scan, and saw no one else but Pierce and his buddy. Stevenson was probably waiting down by the docks.

“This Stevenson guy isn’t even here,” she said to her father. “Can we go now?”

She turned to leave and walked straight into a large, somewhat heavyset blond-haired man standing in the doorway. He flashed a broad smile, and Hazel backed away, a chilling déjà vu washing over her as his pale gold eyes locked on hers.

Her father looked from Hazel to the stranger. “Stevenson?”

He nodded. “Ian Moran?”

“Yeah.” Her father shook his hand and studied him intently. “Why do I feel like I’ve seen you before?”

Stevenson said nothing but watched Hazel.

“Cape May,” she said. “The Topaz delivery last Monday.” It was the day after
Tuition
vanished, so instead they drove
RoadKill
. She remembered how the blond stranger watched her maneuver the truck toward the lift, his distinctive eyes studying her in an unsettling way.

“Exactly,” Stevenson said, his expression unreadable. “Cape May. The yard manager gave me your name.”

Hazel knew it was paranoid, but in light of recent events, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was the reason Stevenson was there. She studied him warily while he discussed arrangements with her father. He wanted the boat hauled back and forth to his mechanic, paying extra for the additional days involved. They could stay in his house, only a half hour from Manhattan, he said. They could use the pool and tennis courts. Take in a Broadway show or two, he suggested. He could get them any tickets they wanted.

Hazel leaned toward Joe. “Does he need a boat hauled or is he selling timeshares?”

Her father shot her a dirty look, but Stevenson chuckled. It really wasn’t that funny. There was something about him she didn’t trust. He spoke with her father but kept studying Hazel with a strange, unnerving expression. He said the engines were stalling under load and he wanted the boat hauled to north Jersey but the shop was in Manasquan. He claimed the problem started in Cape May, but instead of having the boat picked up there, he’d brought it to Bivalve. If he was having problems, why didn’t he have them haul it from Cape May?

“Dad.” She tugged her father’s sleeve. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, trust me, we will.”

“No. I mean NOW.”

Her father turned to Stevenson. “Sorry. Give me a minute.”

Stevenson smiled with patient, weary understanding, and Hazel’s dislike for him grew. Her father followed her into Joe’s shop.

“We can’t do it.” She lowered her voice as the door closed behind them. “Say
RoadKill’s
not running right. Blame me, I don’t care. We can’t leave, not now.”

“You’re right. WE can’t. YOU can. It’s an easy job with no oversize or out-of-state permits. We’ll load the boat, and you’re taking it north.”

“Me? Alone? I thought you didn’t want me driving around alone.”

“Cut the shit already. You know damned well what I meant: alone around here. And you won’t be. You’ll have Stevenson for company. He needs a lift.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Trust me, I’m dead serious. You’ve done tougher runs than this alone. I was talking with the manager in Cape May the other day, said he’s known Stevenson for years and speaks very highly of him. You won’t have any problems. You’ll be at the wheel with his expensive toy in tow. If anything, I should warn him to raise his life insurance.”

He took a slow breath. “You want to be treated like a business partner, start acting like one. Without
Tuition
around,
RoadKill
is going to need new tires, brakes, and I don’t like the way the tranny feels. We need this job now more than ever. You want me to help Micah, fine; Joe and I’ll go pay Atkins a visit. But not while you’re here. It’s not open for debate.”

“This totally sucks.” Hazel spun around, stalked out of the shop and straight past the audience in the office, slamming the door behind her as she headed down to the docks. The sun glared off the water, amplifying the heat. Hazel lifted her hair up from where it stuck to her back and studied the sky. A cold front was moving in and when it hit, it would hit hard. Restless and aggravated, she walked down the dock to check
Kindling
’s lines were secure.

When they were small, she and Micah played in the ancient runabout, traveling the world without moving from the same mud-bound bank where the boat sat abandoned. At the time she believed
Kindling
, as her father called her treasure, was French for “beautiful boat.” With great amounts of Git Rot, caulking, Marine Tex, plundered parts, and determination, they restored
Kindling
to reasonable buoyancy and function. A decade later the little boat remained sound, dry, and reliable. Hazel reset the bilge pump counter and tested the float switch. As she climbed to the dock, a passing gull swooped low, dropping a splattered embellishment across the windshield.

Hazel nodded. “That about sums it up.”

She turned on the hose, rinsing away the gull’s commentary. The sun baked down, and heat from the dock rose through her sneakers. Water sprayed back from the broken nozzle, soaking her with a hot mist that gradually began to run cool, and she stood for a moment under the refreshing spray, studying Stevenson’s boat. The low, narrow, deep-vee hull was clearly built for one purpose: speed. No ports, rails, or hatches broke the streamline flow of the forward deck, from the sharply pointed bow straight back to a low-angled wraparound windscreen. The cockpit was strictly functional, with basic, unupholstered plastic racing seats. Off the stern massive exhausts flanked a pair of equally intimidating surface drives, the razor-sharp five-bladed stainless props mere inches beneath the water. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear it was designed for running drugs, and she recalled Keith’s comment about Atkins trafficking cocaine.

The dock shook and Hazel turned, expecting her father. Instead, Stevenson stood between her and
Witch
, lighting a cigarette and studying her with those creepy gold eyes. She would have let her hair fall forward, avoided eye contact, and pretended she hadn’t seen him, but it was too late now. Why was he so damned interested in her? She wore no makeup, and Micah’s hand-me-downs were anything but flattering. Micah claimed she projected a certain vulnerability that triggered a protective instinct in some men and a predatory response in others. Either way, it made her uncomfortable and she looked down, only to realize her tank top was pasted to her as if she were a wet T-shirt finalist. Just great. And she was supposed to drive with that guy in the cab? She dropped the hose and started toward shore. Stevenson shifted, blocking the narrow dock.

“Excuse me,” she said, fingernails digging into her palms.

Stevenson only took a slow drag on his cigarette. He looked as though he wanted to say something but instead continued to study her, eyes narrowing as they fixed on her ring. She shoved her hand into her pocket.

“Move,” she said, meaning to sound more forceful than nervous.

He took another drag, and his eyes drifted across her. He appeared to be her father’s age and roughly an inch or two taller, which set him around six foot three, and he moved with casual, imposing confidence. But up close, Hazel noticed beneath his perfectly tailored clothes he was sweating profusely and carried a layer of padding over an athletic physique gone soft.

Despite her request, he hadn’t budged one inch and she was really getting sick of him staring at her. She picked up the hose again, turned the nozzle as if to continue washing
Kindling
, and not-so-accidentally shot an arc of water his direction. Ignoring the burst of spray, he pressed his heel on the length of hose running past him, grinning as her expression dropped with the pressure. He regarded the wet cigarette dangling between his index finger and thumb with amusement.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he said.

Anger displaced uneasiness. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

His eyes lit with satisfaction. “The listing in the phone book says ‘courteous service.’”

“That’s an old ad.”

“I see that.” The corner of his mouth curled slightly.

This was going to be a long drive. Hazel glanced up at the office again, relieved to see her father heading down. It was about time. She shut the nozzle. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with my dad.”

With a gracious bow, he stepped aside, and she marched past, ignoring his delighted expression. Vile creep.

“Making new friends?” her father asked as she followed him aboard
Witch
, heading below.

“I don’t like him. He’s messing with me, and he looks at me weird.”

“You
are
weird. And soaked,” he pointed out. She glanced down self-consciously, color rising in her face, and he sighed. “Do you want me to find Micah, or is there going to be a problem? Tell me now. Otherwise, get going.”

“I’m sleeping in the truck.” The truck with no air-conditioning and a door that didn’t lock. She stalked into her cabin, changed into dry clothes, and began packing a duffle bag with enough to wear over the coming days.
Witch
rocked and she heard her father talking in the salon, likely going over things with Joe.

“So how long am I staying with creepy?” she called out.

“Could you please act civilized?” her father replied, aggravated. Good; served him right.

“Oh, I’ll be on my best behavior,” she said with sugary sarcasm. “I was just wondering whether I should pack this…” She stepped out holding up a pair of black lace panties and found herself face-to-face with Stevenson.

He glanced at her father. “Creepy will refrain from responding in the interests of self-preservation.”

Face burning, Hazel returned to her cabin, slamming the door on their laughter. Jerks. To hell with them both.

“Hey, Miss Manners,” her father called. “You ready to go?”

No, but apparently that didn’t make a difference. She sulked out, avoiding eye contact with either of them. Shaking his head, her father locked up
Witch
while Stevenson boarded the black boat and started the engines, which turned over smoothly. Hazel gave her father a loaded look: the engines sounded fine.

“Just bring the trailer around.” He walked to the Travelift as Stevenson guided the rumbling boat into the lowered straps. Hazel backed
RoadKill
to the trailer, locked the plate, raised the landing gear, and connected the electric and air lines, then tested the trailer’s brakes. Joe snugged the Travelift straps, Stevenson shut the engines, and the boat rose into the air.

Hazel lifted the shark’s-tooth pendant and rubbed the smooth fossil. She’d discovered it in the bank of a creek in Belmar. She’d always had a knack for finding things. Unaware that fossilized shark’s teeth were common for that area, she believed she’d unearthed a rare treasure and bestowed it upon Micah, who’d promptly lost it. He was forever losing his keys, watch, phone, wallet, his heart, and his way. It was a running joke how many times he’d misplaced the shark’s tooth over the years, but Hazel always managed to return it to him. She only hoped it was a sign she’d see him again soon.

A knock on the cab door startled her. She looked down at her father standing beside the truck.

“I was calling you.” He studied her. “You okay?”

No. “Just thinking.” She tucked the tooth back into her shirt.

“That what I smelled? Good. I was afraid
RoadKill
was overheating.”

He waited for the inevitable comeback but she had none. He sighed. “Haze, I’ll find him, I promise. Let’s get this loaded and rolling.” He passed her the shop keys. “Go grab the EZpass; it’s in Joe’s desk.”

This wasn’t right. She couldn’t just drive away, not now. Hazel climbed down, kicking shells as she trudged across the lot and unlocked the shop. Everything was spiraling beyond her control, and she didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that if she left, she’d never return. Behind her footsteps scuffed on the linoleum; she turned to find Pierce blocking the doorway while his friend Rheingold kept watch by the window.