Read Last Exit in New Jersey Online
Authors: C.E. Grundler
Hammon watched the raindrops trail down the Fairmont’s windshield, reflecting the lights of the Emergency Room, and he waited for one more chance to see Hazel. He didn’t know what else to do. He wasn’t able to find
Revenge
; the tracker signal had dissolved into the offshore fog long before he was anywhere close. She and Micah hadn’t returned to Forelli’s boatyard, and no one knew where they’d gone. The hospital was his last hope; Hammon was sure Hazel would return to see her father, and when she did he’d talk to her. He’d explain everything. Maybe he could regain her trust and she’d stay with him forever. Yeah, right. Who was he kidding?
“She’s hurting,” Annabel said. “And she thinks you betrayed her.”
“She thinks I’m a psycho and I’m after her.”
“You are. Just talk to her.”
“And say what?”
An alert chirped on his new replacement phone: Stevenson’s Mercedes was proceeding south on 9W, heading toward the hospital. That decided it; Hammon would confront Stevenson and demand to know what he wanted with Hazel. But the signal exited on 80 toward Little Ferry. Abandoning his vigil, Hammon followed, back to the warehouse and the Moran Marine truck.
Hammon parked a block away. Using the night scope liberated from
Temperance
, he circled the building’s unlit south wall. Gary’s repairs on the damaged prosthesis left him somewhat stiffly mobile, and he moved with caution and a slight squeak. Roughly fifty yards from the warehouse, he settled into the Phragmites along the riverbank, ignoring the clammy mud oozing into his sneakers. A light drizzle continued to fall, and the wet pavement glistened orange beneath the glow of the sodium vapor lights. Beside the building, Stevenson leaned against the black Mercedes. Waiting.
“For what?” Annabel asked.
A few possibilities crossed Hammon’s mind, none of them good. All he could do was wait and see. Overhead, landing lights cut through the rain as a small jet swept in on approach to Teterboro Airport. A tail strobe flashed, and running lights cast an eerie glow as the plane dropped so low it seemed as if the landing gear might graze the trees. Stevenson turned toward Hammon, his face illuminated momentarily as he lit a cigarette, and Hammon panicked, thinking he’d been spotted. Stevenson gave the slightest nod to a row of flatbed trailers to his right. The night scope revealed a prone shape behind one trailer not twenty feet from where Hammon crouched, pistol positioned like a sniper, and the shape gave a low thumb’s-up in return.
“Damn,” Annabel said. “A little further and you would’ve tripped right over him.”
Another jet dropped through the clouds, lights glaring, engines whining as it slowed to land. Hammon lowered the scope, shielding his eyes, guarding his night vision just in time: down the road a car turned, its blinding high beams sweeping the riverbank weeds. Hammon looked up again to see a Chevy Blazer pulled up near Stevenson. Behind the flatbed, the gunman shifted, targeting the stooped figure that emerged. Stevenson unlocked the warehouse and rolled up the door to reveal the truck.
When Hammon turned his head and strained to hear their hushed discussion, he saw what none of them could: two slender figures approaching from the opposite end, slipping from shadow to shadow along the flatbed trailers.
“They don’t see the gunman!” Annabel said.
They didn’t, but if they continued, the gunman would undoubtedly spot them. Hammon tried to shout to them, but words choked in his throat. He had to do something, anything, even the wrong thing.
He bolted toward the flatbed at a frantic, clumsy hobble, armed with the only pathetic weapon he could scrounge up that day: a sock full of fishing weights. The gunman whipped around and Hammon swung down, striking the gunman’s shaved head with a satisfying
thwock
. The gunman went down, and Hammon looked back as one slender shadow yanked the other down. The gunman groaned and raised a thick, tentacle-tattooed arm, grabbing the trailer and struggling to stand. Hammon swung again and this time he stayed down.
“Is he dead?” Annabel asked.
Hammon watched the rise and fall of his breathing; he was just out cold. Hammon retrieved the pistol he’d dropped, feeling the weapon’s weight and balance, and he grinned. That and the box of ammunition were just what the doctor ordered.
Annabel screamed as the tire beside them blew out. Shots struck the pavement as Hammon rolled beneath the trailer. Between the tires, Stevenson and his companion crouched low, shouting accusations at one another as they both scrambled for cover.
At entrance by the north end of the lot, a muzzle flashed and four more shots cracked through the air. Stevenson went down as his companion dropped beneath the semi. An engine started and tires screeched into the night. Then silence.
“What the hell just happened?”
“I don’t know.” Annabel peeked out. “But I think Stevenson’s dead.”
“Would someone please tell me what the fuck just happened?” whispered Micah.
Huddled in the dirt behind a Dumpster, Hazel pressed against him. “Someone shot Stevenson and it wasn’t us. I think they’re gone.”
Micah rose, cautiously scanning the darkness. “I think I need fresh underwear.”
Hazel’s spine tingled and she held her breath, anxiously watching the shadows as they skirted the lot, braced for the next round of gunfire. None came. She’d heard someone leave in a hurry, but who?
Atkins crawled out from under the Freightliner and regarded the crumbled figure sprawled facedown in a dark puddle beside the Mercedes. “I got a feelin’ one of them bullets was meant for me.”
Hazel studied Stevenson, bewildered. It was unsettling seeing him so diminished, one arm twisted awkwardly behind, his jacket hiked up across his back. He wasn’t supposed to be dead. That wasn’t the plan. He still had too many questions to answer. She reached to roll him over, and Atkins pulled her back.
“Don’t touch him. Don’t touch anything. We better clear out before the cops show up. Let them deal with this guy and whatever’s in the truck.”
Hazel looked up from Stevenson’s body to the Freightliner towering above him, studying the Moran Marine Transport logo and numbers. Something wasn’t right. Micah took her hand, tugging her toward the Blazer. “Let’s go.”
She didn’t move. “That’s not
Tuition
.”
“Yeah it is,” Micah said, his voice slightly pained. He squeezed her hand gently. “C’mon, hon, we’ve got to go.”
“Amber clearance lights.”
Tuition
’s were port and starboard running lights, like
RoadKill
’s. It was a minor detail that anyone who didn’t know the truck might have overlooked. “And there’s no dent in the fuel tank from where Dad dropped the toolbox that time, and no satellite antennae.”
“Shit…” Micah mumbled. “She’s right.”
Atkins looked dourly from the truck to Stevenson’s body. “Either that dead bastard was trying to double-cross someone or someone was trying to double-cross him. Either way, that ain’t good.”
Hammon charged out from behind the trailers, pistol raised, eyes wild, breathing in rushed gasps as he grabbed Hazel.
“There’s…there’s…” he stammered, looking from Hazel to Micah. Abruptly he stiffened, his grip crushing tight, pain contorting his face, then collapsed in a twitching pile. Over Hammon, Atkins stood, stun gun in hand.
“Let’s go,” he said. “By time he comes round the cops’ll be here; they’ll find this nut, the gun, and Stevenson.”
A slow, misty drizzle fell, and for a moment or an hour, Hammon couldn’t tell which, he considered maybe he’d been struck by lightning again. There was that same agonizing burning ache from every muscle simultaneously contracting, though he couldn’t recall the flash or the smell. Gradual control returned to his limbs, and he rolled over to find himself staring at Stevenson lying facedown in a dark puddle. He looked at the warehouse and the semi looming over them, and it all started coming back. Except Hazel. Hazel was gone. Again. He dragged himself to Stevenson’s body, rolling it over, regarding the gaping hole in the front of his sodden shirt.
Annabel knelt down. “That’s a change. You’re alive, he’s dead.”
Stevenson coughed.
Hammon jumped, splashing in the puddle of blood as he recoiled. No, not blood, just water. “What the fuck?”
He poked at Stevenson, realizing some of his bulk was a Kevlar vest beneath his shirt.
“Son of a bitch,” Hammon mumbled. “Freakin’ brilliant.”
Stevenson groaned, one eye half-open, staring up blankly. In the distance, sirens wailed.
“Time to go, dear,” Annabel whispered.
“No argument here.” He staggered back to the hidden Fairmont. His clothes were soaked and heavy, his brain was screaming, and his heart felt like it had been run through a shredder. He checked his phone. All was quiet in tracking signal land.
Annabel sighed. “I think I’ve misjudged the situation. This may require a less subtle approach.”
The morning news radio cheerfully rattled off a summary of the tristate area’s madness, mayhem, politics, and sports, followed by traffic and weather, but made no mention of Stevenson or a shooting in Little Ferry. Micah wanted to check the newspapers; Hazel wanted to speak with Chris about her father’s progress. And they needed to stock up on provisions. So they locked up
Mardi
, still docked in Belmar, and headed out.
The report from her father’s nurse was positive: he was scheduled for surgery later that morning, and they didn’t anticipate any problems. Chris told Hazel to check back in the afternoon. Next came Joe, who sounded exhausted and had nothing to report. They assured him they were keeping low, staying out of trouble, and absolutely not up to any private investigator bullshit. Then a quick call to Tony at Forelli’s Boatyard, again offering the same lies. The call to Atkins’s cell went unanswered. They left the 7-Eleven, groceries in hand; as they crossed the street back to the docks, Hazel froze, halting Micah in his tracks. Tied up down the dock from
Mardi
sat
Temperance,
the boat they’d seen at Gary’s shop, like a little gray cloud in the blue sky.
“Maybe it’s just coincidence.”
Hazel gave him a skeptical look.
“You think Hammon knows we’re here?”
“Likely.” Her pulse rose at the thought of seeing him again. It was just adrenaline, nothing more. He was working for Stevenson, clearly he was following her; running into him was the last thing they needed. She scanned the area. Was he already aboard
Mardi
?
“That bastard just keeps coming. How did he find us?” Micah said. “We left him out cold.”
She didn’t say it, but Hazel knew the answer: there was a tracker hidden somewhere deep within
Mardi.
“Head toward the tackle shop. If he’s in there, at least it’s public. If he’s not, we can keep watch.”
Inside was cool, dark, and vacant other than a weathered old salt behind the counter who greeted Hazel with a broad grin and a wink. She smiled politely and glanced out while Micah pretended to inspect fishing gear. He said, “We’ll never outrun
Temperance
with
Mardi
. I think it’s time we ditch the boat.”
“We have to go back first.” Hazel watched the dock. “Stevenson’s file’s aboard.”
Across the lot, two men hauling an ice chest between them slowed as they passed
Mardi
, motioning and joking. A barking melee erupted from
Temperance
’s cockpit, and they scrambled back in synchronized surprise. Realizing the dogs weren’t jumping ashore, the men laughed off their fright and ambled off to load their gear into a dusty minivan.
“Gary’s dogs,” Hazel said. “Which means Hammon probably isn’t alone. But no one checked why they were barking or came out to settle them, so I don’t think they’re nearby, at least not aboard
Temperance
or
Mardi
. But they left the dogs, so they’ll be back.” She hastily gathered fishing gear, stacking it at the register. “I’ve got an idea, but we’ll have to work fast.”
Hazel paid, passing Micah their purchases, and they returned to the docks. The dogs spotted them, circling the cockpit, tails wagging. Hazel dug sliced turkey from the grocery bag.
“Keep watch,” she told Micah as she climbed aboard to an ecstatic greeting. “Hey, boys! Miss me?” She passed cold cuts to her new best friends, then unlatched the engine cover, pulling it forward. The dogs looked on, unconcerned as she set to work. Satisfied, she slid the cowl back in place, scribbled a quick note on the back of her shopping list, and propped it on the throttles.
“Now we wait and watch,” she said as they returned to
Mardi
.
Before long the first victim appeared, coffee in one hand, brown paper bag in the other. The dogs, basking in the morning sun, lifted their heads as he climbed aboard. Hidden on
Mardi
’s bridge, Hazel and Micah monitored his movements by emergency signal mirror.
“It’s Gary.” Hazel angled the mirror. “He’s alone and he looks pretty steamed.”
“Where’s Hammon?”
“Don’t know. I think Gary’s wondering the same thing. He just checked the cabin, and now he’s even more pissed. He’s checking up and down the docks, and…” She went silent for a moment. “He looked straight past and didn’t give
Mardi
a second glance. I don’t think he recognizes her.”
Hazel watched as Gary thumped into the helm seat, opening a coffee and unwrapping a bagel. He looked down at the dogs eyeing him expectantly.
“Are you guys begging?” Gary’s voice carried over the water. “You know better.”
Tails flogged the deck.
“No. Go lay down.”
Charger flopped down obediently. Yodel yawned, joining him. Gary stared absently ahead then paused, coffee halfway to his mouth.
“He spotted the note,” Hazel whispered. “He’s reading the shopping list…wait. He just flipped it.”
“And?”
“SON’VABITCH!” Gary yanked back the engine cover. “SON OF A BITCH! MY ENGINE!”
Micah chuckled. “You do such beautiful work.”
“It represents a desire for security and solitude contrasted against an inner turmoil arising from the fear of nonbeing.”
“Meaning you break shit so people will leave you alone.”
“Precisely.”
Gary knelt beside the destruction and groaned. Heads lowered, the dogs hung back as he glared at them.
“You two! You’re supposed to be guard dogs. This,” he pointed at the vandalized engine, “is what you’re supposed to guard.”
Charger slinked up, licking his face.
“Don’t even talk to me.” He stared at the engine dejectedly, shaking his head and rubbing Charger’s ears.
“Fuck it all,” he told the dogs.
Micah leaned over. “Now what’s he doing?”
“Digging through a locker…wait…he’s climbing into the bilge with a roll of duct tape.” Hazel turned the mirror, scanning the lot and the docks. “I still don’t see Hammon. But this might work even better.”
Contorted to reach the bottom of the hose, running off four-letter words in various combinations, Gary didn’t even look up as
Temperance
swayed. Charger and Yodel rushed to Hazel, tails wagging.
“Don’t talk to them,” Gary snapped as he knelt in the bilge water. “They’re as useless as you. No, at least they stayed aboard. There was a time direct sunlight would keep you huddled in the cabin; I guess love cured you of that. While you were gone, your little angel shut the thru-hulls and sliced the raw water hoses to ribbons. And the goddamned bilge-pump hoses too. She says she wants you to stop following her.” He ripped off another length of tape, wrapping the hose. “What I don’t get is why she left a warning not to run the engine.”
“Irreversible destruction is an act of desperation,” Hazel said. “Not to mention it’s a nice boat. I may want to steal it.”
Gary spun and stared up in shock. Charger leaned against her, and Yodel lay at her feet. Micah stood on the dock holding Hammon’s colorful “water pistol.” “I’ll be damned. You’re real.”
“As are you.” Hazel said. “With Hammon, it’s hard to be sure. Gary, right?”
He nodded, studying her outfit uneasily. Over her tank top and cut-offs, she wore baggy hip waders and rubber work gloves. Her gloved hand held a thirty-amp shore power cord, the end stripped to bare wires. Micah grinned, plugging the other end into the dock receptacle. Gary looked down at the salty bilge water around his ankles and Hazel slowly smiled.