Last Exit in New Jersey (11 page)
Read Last Exit in New Jersey Online
Authors: C.E. Grundler
Hammon waited until Annabel was in the shower before he turned on the computer and pulled up the “Contact Us” page for Jehovah’s Witnesses. He was pleased to know that even in this troubled world, happiness, accurate Bible knowledge, and God and His Kingdom were mere keystrokes away. As he washed Ring Dings down with Mountain Dew, Hammon filled out the form requesting further information.
Then he realized it was quiet. Too quiet. He didn’t hear water running. Annabel stood behind him, wrapped in a towel, reading the contact information he’d entered.
“Otto, dear, we discussed this.”
He blinked, frowning. “We did?”
“Don’t even try the selective memory act with me. We talked and you know it. I thought you were going to stop.”
“I never said that. And besides, this is spiritual guidance. It’s something he could use.”
“Oh, just like the popcorn on his car manifold. And calling his obituary in to the papers. I’m sure he needed his mail redirected to Wisconsin. Or supergluing all the buttons on his car stereo at full volume with the Hampsterdance song on repeat.”
Hammon grinned. He’d used 3M 5200 marine adhesive, glued the car’s fuses as well, and disabled the hood release so Stevenson couldn’t disconnect the battery. He wished he’d seen that one. Or the time the police showed up to investigate the marijuana growing behind the carriage house that some “concerned” citizen reported. Or the annual IRS audits. Or the anonymous tip to airport security that Stevenson was traveling with a forged passport, carrying weapons and explosives stashed in hidden compartments of his luggage. Hammon made sure the bomb-sniffing dogs earned their kibble that day.
Annabel sighed. “One day Stevenson’s going to get fed up and do something awful.”
“He already did!” He took a deep breath, willing himself calm. It wasn’t Annabel he was mad at. “I’m keeping things in balance.”
“Releasing three hundred crickets into his house?”
“Reminders that I’m still here. It’s my job to make sure he never forgets what he did.”
“Which was what, precisely?”
Hammon blinked, tracing the scars running along his face. Like a fault line, the surface revealed only a fraction of the full damage. It ran deep within his brain, leaving gaps between cells and neurons. He could feel the mercury trapped in his gray matter like fruit inside Jell-O, imbedded so deep that any attempts to remove it would cause more harm than good.
“This mess…” He held his skull like a specimen on display. “Stevenson did this, and he knows it.” He let his head go and rubbed his arm, digging at a tiny scar. “There’s something I know that he wants. I just can’t remember what.”
Hazel’s frustration grew as the day wore on and her position remained unchanged. Stevenson alternated between irritating her with pointless conversation and retreating behind closed doors for phone calls too hushed to overhear. Her father hadn’t called or showed, leaving her essentially a hostage, unable to escape. Under the premise of cricket hunting, she searched the house from basement to attic, finding several passages hidden between the walls, fourteen crickets, a few surprising details about her host, and more questions she knew he’d never answer. The crickets crawled around an empty Hellman’s jar with holes in the lid, and the questions retreated to the back of her mind, growing and multiplying. Bored and restless, she devised more creative ways to amuse herself.
First, she determined Stevenson never went more than a half hour without checking on her and rarely made it past forty-five minutes without a nicotine fix. That provided sufficient time to set up. Then, with captive crickets as a centerpiece on the kitchen table, she sat down, put her feet up, and began reading the
Times
. Right on schedule, Stevenson strolled in. He paused, studying her.
“Should I worry?”
“About what?” she asked innocently.
“You almost smiled when you saw me. You’re up to something. The question is: What?”
Hazel shrugged. “Funny. Isn’t that what I asked you?” She gathered her hair, weaving it into a loose braid. “How about this? You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”
“Nice try.” Stevenson scanned the counter, spotting his cigarettes at the far end. He regarded Hazel’s legs, blocking passage like a tollgate.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, not bothering to move.
“Not at all.”
“Smoking’s an awful habit and very bad for you.”
“Your concern for my health is heartwarming.” He circled the table the long way.
She shrugged. “Your funeral.”
“Interesting choice of words.”
As Stevenson stepped toward the cigarette box, his ankle snagged a length of hundred-pound test monofilament fish line, which tugged free a fork strategically wedged beneath the edge of the door frame to the basement stairs. From there the line descended to the basement and looped over a beam. Earlier Hazel had stacked several weights from a dusty weight bench on a table beneath that beam, secured the line to them, then carefully eased the table away, leaving them suspended. Stevenson knew none of this; he only felt the tension of the fish line for a split-second before it snapped tight, jerking him off his feet and landing him flat on his ass.
“Yes!” Hazel laughed. “Ten points!”
The equation was simple. Distance of drop equaled distance of pull, and it worked precisely as calculated. Stevenson sat up, inspecting the monofilament loop around his ankles.
“Is there a point to this?”
“It amused me. With the right wire, tension, and travel, a simple snare like that could be deadly.”
“I’ll have to remember that.” He freed his legs. “Joe certainly taught you some fascinating tricks.”
“Survival skills.” Which included animal snares; but when she and Micah were little, neither wanted to hurt innocent animals, so instead they stalked one another. The game was Safari and the rules were simple. One point if the quarry took the bait but escaped, five for snagging the prey, ten for getting them off their feet. “The key to successful fishing is location and bait. I told you cigarettes are bad for your health.”
Stevenson stood, straightening his shirt. “No, princess.
You’re
bad for my health. So, are you getting hungry? I figured we’d go out for a while.”
It was approaching high tide when
Revenge
emerged from the fading twilight and idled up to the Piermont docks. Hammon smiled a sharp, dangerous smile. Darkness energized him. No one noticed his arrival, and Stevenson’s black boat sat abandoned. Perfect.
Beside him, Annabel sighed loudly. “Tell me again, why are we here?”
“I’ve got stuff to take care of.”
She offered no assistance as he tied up, grumbling to herself how this was a mistake. Hammon returned to the bridge, shut the engine, and sat beside her.
“Annabel, please. No headaches. We’ve been over this.”
“What if Stevenson catches you? Then what?”
“He hasn’t yet, he’s not gonna now.”
“He’ll put you back in the hospital. If you end up there…you know they won’t let us stay together,” she insisted, an uncharacteristic trace of fear edging into her voice. “You know what they’ll do to me!”
“I won’t let it happen, angel. I promise. You know I love you.”
“How much?”
Hammon grinned, all fangs. “This much.” He held his thumb and forefinger apart as far as the scars would allow.
Annabel regarded the distance. “That’s not a lot.”
He beamed. “No, look! It’s to scale.” He placed his hand along the chart index. “It’s over four nautical miles. Now, relax, everything’ll be fine.”
Hammon performed his usual predeparture rituals and jiggled the knob to confirm it was indeed locked.
“The boat is locked,” Annabel assured him.
Hammon nodded, satisfied, and they headed toward the lot. Annabel paused beside Stevenson’s boat, studying the damage. “Damn!”
Hammon continued past. “I didn’t do it.”
“I know. Were those bullet holes?”
“We can hope.” Hammon unlocked the padlocked shed he rented to store the Fairmont, shining his flashlight around and underneath the car, confirming it hadn’t been touched in his absence. While the 1978 Fairmont was somewhat conspicuous by virtue of advanced age, it retained a certain utilitarian blandness that rendered it otherwise unmemorable, especially at night. It looked stock, though Gary thoughtfully concealed an obscene amount of horsepower beneath the hood. Most important, it predated any automotive computers, electronics, or other digital refinements. For Hammon’s purposes it was essentially invisible.
He unlocked the car and stepped back as he opened the door. Even with the forest of pine-tree fresheners dangling from the mirror, it was ripe inside. He rolled down the windows, and within a few minutes on the road, the stench began to subside. Annabel said nothing as he followed 9W south, crossing the state line into New Jersey, then weaving into the more isolated roads. After a mile of passing no traffic, he eased onto the shoulder and looked around.
“We’re alone,” Annabel said. “Go ahead, I’ll keep watch.”
She sat on the hood while Hammon trudged back, took a deep breath, and unlocked the trunk. The dim bulb reflected off the blue poly tarp from which an unspeakable odor rose, and Hammon fought not to gag. He pulled on stiff, blood-stained gloves, grabbed the shovel, then closed the trunk and headed down the slope, beyond view of the road.
“Make sure you dig deep enough,” Annabel called.
Hazel scowled at the plate of soft-shell crabs, and she could almost hear her father. Knock off the drama, he’d say. Drop the hostage act. It wasn’t as though Stevenson was mistreating her or giving her the least reason to complain and she knew it. That in itself aggravated her even more, sitting there at a small table in the private courtyard of a quietly elegant but clearly expensive waterfront restaurant, wearing a pretty sundress Stevenson had had delivered to the house. It was wrong.
“Couldn’t you have just ordered pizza? Isn’t that standard hostage-feeding procedure?”
Stevenson smiled that insufferable smile of his. “Personally, I prefer the more civilized approach. Provide your hostage space, nice clothes, and the best soft-shell crab in town. And you didn’t seem to mind driving the Viper.”
Stevenson insisted she drive, claiming he was too sore from his kitchen tumble. Now,
that
was melodrama. And she’d never admit it, but the car’s power was intoxicating, and she’d had to suppress a grin as she accelerated out of turns, pressed into the seat. The Viper was quick and responsive, ready to devour as much road as she’d give it. It demanded complete attention, and while she blurred through sunlight and shadows, eyes narrowed against the wind, every thought beyond the next curve evaporated. He directed her into a long loop of back roads and highways, smiling with satisfaction as she slipped between gaps in the traffic, watching patterns and judging distances and speed. She was having fun; she was showing off and she knew it but she didn’t care. It wasn’t every day she had the chance to drive a car like that.
“We could’ve driven to a White Castle. I’m not even hungry. And these clothes weren’t necessary. Mine were dry, I could have worn them.”
“Then I’ll be returning you in better condition than I found you. Just humor me. You do clean up nicely, though.”
“Bite me.”
“Well, visually at least. Out of curiosity, on the Parkway, you looked upset when we reached the state border. Why was that?”
So he did notice when she slowed at mile 171, passing the large yellow sign on the grassy shoulder that stated simply: “LAST EXIT IN NEW JERSEY.”
“Anyone ever mention you pry too much?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“It’s none of your business. How’s that for an answer?”
“Not very civilized.”
“You think I care? I’ll elaborate. I don’t want to talk about it, AND it’s none of your business.”
“I’m not sure whether to be insulted or impressed by your determination to distrust me. Then again, you don’t trust many people, do you?” Stevenson leaned back, sipping his scotch. “You should be careful. You go through life pushing people away, one day you might push away the wrong one.”
She wasn’t about to ask what he meant, he’d only give some equally cryptic answer. Maybe it had something to do with the blue-eyed beauty whose picture graced the background on the computer in his study. Perhaps she was the mysterious Annabel he’d spoken of, though Hazel had no intention of asking. She wanted to avoid all possible conversation, especially subjects of a personal nature. Instead, she glared at her plate, the mouthwatering aroma tormenting her. She’d intended to stage a small-scale hunger strike in protest of her captivity, but her grumbling stomach betrayed her.
Stevenson laughed. “I thought you weren’t hungry. You lied.”
“Then we’re even.”
“How so?” Stevenson savored a mouthful of crab, the image of casual indifference, though behind his relaxed smile something subtle had shifted. Hazel let the silence linger. Stevenson stared back, eyes locked on hers. Waiting.
“I saw your study,” she said at last. Framed articles from architectural and environmental magazines spotlighting Stevenson’s work covered the walls. A headline proclaimed: “ONE MAN’S CRUSADE; FIGHTING SPRAWL ONE FACTORY AT A TIME.” The photo showed Stevenson standing tall before an old textile mill, his expression somber. The article highlighted his work converting outdated manufacturing properties into office and residential space utilizing geothermal climate control systems and solar energy. The interview described him as “driven” and “private to the point of reclusive.” Another article focused on his geothermal climate controls applied to historical structures, including his own award-winning and once immaculately manicured home.
“Why’d you say you were a developer?”
“Because I am. It’s amusing to watch you make your own assumptions. You already decided you disliked me; far be it for me to alter your opinion with facts. Again, you should be careful; not everything in life is as it first appears.”
“Sure, Yoda. Whatever you say.”
It was senseless letting good crabs die in vain. Hazel stabbed a leg with her fork. Stevenson grinned victoriously.
“Tomorrow, you drive the Chevelle. That relic from my muscle-car phase sits too much these days.”
“Whatever.”
“Tell me, princess, what makes you so wary of people?”
“You mean not blindly trusting? I don’t know. Blame it on homeschooling and an overprotective father. The sheltered, unconventional environment I grew up in. A lack of peers. Take your pick.”
“Your father raised you alone, right? What about your mother?”
“She’s gone.”
Hazel ripped off another crab leg, slowly chewing. The discussion was over, not that there was anything to discuss, really. Her parents met freshman year of college and Hazel was the unintended result of their passion. Much in love and determined to provide for his new family, her father quit school, bought the old Kenworth, and they moved onto
Witch
. Her mother soon concluded she wanted more than life aboard a leaky hand-me-down boat with a newborn and a truck-driving dropout. She needed space—space that included returning to school, graduating, and ultimately marrying well and settling in Westchester. When she was small, Hazel accepted the simple answers her father offered. As she grew older, she came to hate her mother for abandoning them, but by that time it was an opinion she kept to herself rather than upset her father. Eventually her attitude shifted from resentment to pity. Her mother chose wealth over love, or maybe she never was truly in love. She’d moved on and eventually built a respectable life with her husband and new children while Hazel’s existence remained the skeleton in her tidy suburban closet. Currently, Hazel had a half brother and half sister she’d never met. For Hazel, growing up with her father aboard
Witch
and crisscrossing the country in
RoadKill
, there was never a doubt she’d gotten the better part of the deal.
Stevenson waited until she finally swallowed her food and sipped her water. “Your father said he practically raised Micah.”
“He did.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Hazel meticulously dismembered her crab. “No. Why do you want to know?”
“I’m just curious why you’re so close.”
“And I’m curious why you’re so curious. You already seem to know a lot for the little time you spent with my dad.”
“You risked your life for Micah. You tried to kill me to go back for him. No one has to tell me you’re close. And I’m just making conversation; it’s what people do. No need to be so defensive. All right, different subject. What’s the story with the diamond ring? You’re engaged?”
Hazel glanced at her left hand. “Maybe.” Actually, it was a facetted Cape May diamond: a piece of quartz common along southern New Jersey beaches. She figured someone like Stevenson could tell the difference.
“May I see it?”
She studied the ring and shrugged, slipping it off. Maybe if he thought she had a boyfriend, he might back off. Stevenson held it up, inspecting the stone. He tilted it and chuckled as he read the engraving inside.
“
Hazel&Jeremy4ever
. That’s sweet. An optimist, this Jeremy. Forever is a long time.”
Hazel snatched the ring back, looking away as she slipped it back on.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” It was none of his business. None of her life was, and least of all the shy boy with bright blue eyes and easy laugh whom, only two weeks after he’d given gave her that ring, she’d watched lowered into the ground in his casket. She shouldn’t have shown Stevenson the ring. Why was she even talking to him? “Why are you so determined to pry?”
“You are intriguing. It’s fascinating how often you deflect my questions with your own.”
“As often as you avoid answering mine.”
The corner of his mouth twitched up. “You do make it frustratingly tempting. I may just say the hell with it all and keep you for myself.”
His tone was joking, but there was chilling seriousness in his eyes. Hazel backed her chair away from the table. “You know what I’ve noticed? You’re always smiling, but you’re not happy, are you? You’ve got money and all those fancy toys, but no one to play with. You live alone in that big, empty house. Is that a ‘fear of commitment’ thing, or just that you’re such a jerk you drive everyone away?”
Stevenson sipped his scotch, his expression distant and unreadable. Finally he rose, cigarettes in hand. “I know how smoking upsets you, so you’ll excuse me if I step away for a minute.”
He didn’t return until after she’d finished eating, and he didn’t touch the rest of his meal. While it was a relief that he made no more attempts at conversation, Hazel had the uneasy feeling she’d crossed some line. He was right about one thing, though. The crabs were delicious.