Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

  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.

  I’M OFF TO THE HOUSE OF DOOM

  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.

  Onl
y 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.

  22:32 SUNDAY, JUNE 27

  41°00’01.35”N/73°53’26.73”W

  HUDSON RIVER, SOUTHEAST OF SNEDEN LANDING, NY

  Beneath the shadow of the Palisades, Hazel tried to focus, fighting her growing panic. She couldn’t reach her father and Micah, not at her father’s number or Joe’s.

  Was she too late? Who had Stevenson been talking to? The file offered no clues. Hazel scrolled through the menus on Stevenson’s cell. The Received Calls history was empty, and Calls Dialed listed only her attempts to reach home; Stevenson must have deleted his records.

  Hazel surveyed the helm, scanning the backlit gauges. The anonymous white boat had seemed the best choice for escape; better than driving a car already reported stolen, better than Stevenson’s black boat, which was low on fuel and highly conspicuous. By all appearances the white boat looked to be a fast, modern sport-fisherman and a wise choice for a quick getaway.

  The key turned, lighting the gauges and confirming full fuel tanks. Once she’d located the fuel cutoff override, posing as a bait pump switch, the engine softly rumbled to life. It wasn’t until she was underway that she discovered the boat moved at the sedate, fuel-efficient speed of a displacement cruiser, with a hull that would never break nine knots. On a good day, Witch could go faster, but by that point there was no turning back; she was better off slowly pressing on.

  The flybridge console was a mess of empty 7-Eleven coffee cups, soda cans, Twinkies, and Good Humor wrappers. One area not buried was an illuminated Plexiglas chart table overflowing with paper charts of the region: well-used and worn, cluttered with scribbled notes of headings, with corrections for magnetic variation and compass deviation. Her temperature was dropping in the damp night air so Hazel slipped on the old sweatshirt hanging from the pilot’s seat. She tucked her hands into the pockets, finding a tiny flashlight, Sweet Tarts, receipts, and mint Chapstick.

  Closer to the city, the waters were twilight bright, and Hazel strained to distinguish which of the endless lights of the harbor were floating, underway, or shoreside red and green traffic signals. She’d be glad once she cleared lower Manhattan.

  She hit redial on the phone again, and fresh tears welled up when no one answered. Something had gone wrong, she was sure of it. There was no way to help. She’d given up on leaving messages for her father to call back: they were pointless and the phone’s battery was down to one bar.

  I’VE LOST IT

  “Who would beat Stevenson senseless and take Revenge?” Gary asked as he headed Temperance, his twenty-eight-foot Seabright Skiff, down the dark Hudson River. He studied Hammon, whom he’d located in Piermont futilely attempting to hot-wire a twenty-three-foot Searay.

  Hammon didn’t have an answer. Annabel did, and he searched his memory, trying to understand why she’d left him. Did his brain delete something critical? That happened sometimes; there’d be gaps and blanks where he couldn’t recall things he’d said or done; they’d been occurring more and more lately.

  “And you’re sure you didn’t fuel up,” Gary said.

  “Positive,” Hammon said, though the more he thought about it, the less certain he became.

  “So the gauge reads full, but their range is limited. We’re moving at twice Revenge’s top speed. We’ll catch up in no time.”

  Shadowed step for step by Yodel, Hammon paced the cockpit, stepping over Charger every fourth step. Lights from buoys, ships, roads, vehicles, traffic signals, and waterfront buildings glowed like a multicolored galaxy. And somewhere within that galaxy, aboard one little boat, was Annabel. He had to find her.

  At the helm, Gary turned. “Sit down already, damnit!”

  Hammon dropped into the other seat, and Yodel, tail tucked under, curled at his feet.

  Gary said, “They sabotaged Stevenson’s boat, so they figured they might be followed and didn’t want to be.” He studied the laptop’s screen, which displayed a digital image of the water and shoreline. A slow-moving red dot progressed past Jersey City.

  Hammon said, “That’s off by miles.”

  “Just look for your boat.”

  “It shows us by Ellis Island; we’re nowhere near there.”

  “The settings must be off. Just watch for Revenge.”

  Hammon looked across at the Spuyten Duyvil swing bridge spanning the entrance to the Harlem River. “Why are we going this way?”

  Gary scanned the laptop display. “Odds are they’re heading to open water.”

  “She could’ve taken the Harlem River? She could be headed toward the Sound. What if…”

  “She?”

  Hammon hiccupped. “Revenge.”

  Gary regarded him suspiciously then fiddled with the laptop, adjusting Temperance’s course slightly. He seemed more preoccupied with the screen than the water around them. Hammon leaned over, examining the display. He had enough problems; the last thing he needed was Gary trusting a defective navigational program.

  “You really should use paper charts,” Hammon said.

  “I thought I told you to look for your boat.”

  Hammon glared at the computer. “I don’t trust electronics.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “What program is that? Maybe I can fix it.”

  “Zap, you couldn’t fix your way out of a paper bag. Just watch for your damned boat.”

  It didn’t look like any navigational programs Hammon knew. He recognized the features of the harbor, but there were no depths or navigational aids. Gary never used the laptop for navigation, he usually went by the radar display beside it, which offered an accurate picture
of their present position. The dot on the laptop generated a constantly moving GPS position, far ahead of them but progressing slower than Temperance’s current speed, more like—

  Hammon jumped up, pointing at the screen with a shaking hand. “That’s…that’s…”

  Gary slumped back wearily.

  It was…it had to be…that dot was…“It’s Revenge.”

  Gary nodded in defeat.

  That was Revenge, and…

  Horror washed over Hammon as the cluster of pixels progressed across the digital harbor. “That…that…that’s…”

  “Your worst nightmare.”

  “You’ve been tracking me? YOU? TRACKING ME?”

  “Making sure you stayed out of trouble. And monitoring engine temperature, rpm, everything. Sorta a digital babysitter.”

  “You…had…a tracker in Revenge…all this time…You swore…”

  “I lied. You gave me the idea to begin with, always ranting about everything they do. Point is, there’s your damned boat. Have a meltdown after we get it back.”

  Hammon gazed numbly at the screen. Upset as he was, he was also that much closer to finding Annabel and some answers.

  “What I still don’t get,” Gary said, “is who’d want to beat the shit out of Stevenson?”

  Hammon leveled a skeptical look at him.

  “Besides you. And why would anyone bother stealing that barge?”

  Hammon stared out at the dark water. “Dunno.” He hiccupped.

  Gary’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  He couldn’t say it. Gary would go ballistic.

  “Spit it out!”

  Hammon shook his head.

  “Okay, then.” Gary pulled back on the throttle. Temperance drifted to a stop, settled in the water, and rocked with the outgoing tide. “I guess you don’t want your boat back.”