Read Last Exit in New Jersey Online
Authors: C.E. Grundler
Hazel glanced at the barometer on the wall. The air pressure was dropping. “It’s coming.”
If she’d ever needed Micah, it was now, and he probably needed her even more. She had to get out of there; she had to find him. She knew what her father said about staying put but she didn’t care. Clearly the building wasn’t on fire and an imminent nuclear attack on Bivalve seemed unlikely, which left one option. She turned up the air-conditioner, cranked the radio to match, then paused and looked around.
“Did this place just shake?”
Joe shrugged. “This dump’s built on sand and mud. Ninety years, the foundation’s still settling. I’m amazed it hasn’t collapsed yet.”
It might’ve been settling, or maybe the ground trembled, even to the slightest degree. That would qualify as an earthquake.
“But it wasn’t my imagination. You felt it too.”
Joe kept working but he nodded, “Yeah, maybe, I guess.”
He was just humoring her, but that wasn’t the point. She had confirmation; that was good enough. “I’m going to wash up and grab a soda,” she said. “You want one?”
“Yeah, kiddo. That’d be nice.”
“Be right back.” She walked out of the shop, heading toward the refrigerator. And past, to the lot. She hadn’t specified where she’d get the soda. With the radio cranked and the air-conditioner maxed, Joe wouldn’t hear a bomb go off. He’d be so absorbed in his work it’d be some time before he realized she left.
Seriously, he should have known better.
Time to go. Step outside, shut door, lock up, walk.
Simple on the surface, but wasn’t that the case with so many things?
No. First Hammon had to check every system aboard from bow to stern. Check the stove, make sure it was off, not that he’d used it in years or even had propane tanks aboard. Double-check each knob anyway, confirm they were off. Everything unplugged. Every circuit breaker off. Every hatch locked. Step into the pelting rain, lock the cabin. Yeah. Definitely locked. Hammon slid his fingers along where frame met door, verifying there was no gap. He pushed a bucket up against the door. That meant it was closed and locked. He wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t closed. Check again, just in case. Try to open the door, jiggle the handle.
“The boat is locked,” Annabel said. He checked again, and again Annabel reassured him. Of course it was locked. The bucket was there. He wouldn’t walk away if it wasn’t.
Climbing off, he checked each dock line. Exposed to a stiff chop, the boats on either side churned and fought their lines while
Revenge
rode out the weather with steady dignity.
Externally,
Revenge
didn’t look like much. Just another generic sport-fishing boat indigenous to the East Coast. At thirty-six feet she was average in size. Her lines were vaguely classic, but that was subtle, and most people wouldn’t notice subtle details. Unlike the surrounding boats, no shiny tags or distinctive style indicated any specific builder. On closer scrutiny, it became evident she lacked anything shiny. Railings were unpolished, the hull a drab off-white, and gray canvas covered all glass surfaces. She seemed to blend into the stormy sky. Backed to the dock, her transom was blank; only faded New Jersey registration numbers on the bow provided any identification, however inaccurate, and only because missing registration numbers could draw unwanted attention.
Hammon looked everything over again. Exposure to daylight was bad enough, but separating from his personal sanctuary was worse. Concealed within his trench coat, he forced himself to walk away even as his stomach twisted in protest. Annabel, on the other hand, proceeded without a care in the world and dressed accordingly. She grinned as fat raindrops soaked her cutoffs and tank top in the most appealing way.
Though it was daytime, there was one reason Hammon was able to venture out. The downpour had driven away the summer crowds; they had fled the beaches, docks, and streets and sought refuge indoors, quite literally leaving the coast clear for him to roam. And the satellites peppering the sky, the ones scrutinizing the planet’s surface in minute detail, couldn’t see through clouds. Rain made Hammon almost as invisible as darkness. He reached into his pocket, switching on the MP3 player tucked in a ziplock bag.
“What aren’t you listening to today?” asked Annabel.
Rain streaked his glasses, and he wiped them with his fingers, smearing the lenses. “The usual electromagnetic noise. The Ramones, I think.”
The music wasn’t important, thus no headphones. Listening wasn’t the point. The MP3 player emitted just enough electromagnetic interference to confuse the satellites sorting through the electronic racket rising from the ground, effectively shielding him from detection. He glared up at the sky. “Can you hear me now?”
Not all satellites were evil. Some transmitted benign TV, radio, and Internet signals; some provided GPS coordinates. But then there were the Watchers, the Listeners, and worse yet, the Trackers. Trackers didn’t care about clouds or rain or even the Ramones; if they had your digital scent, they could find you no matter what. It was only aboard
Revenge
he truly felt concealed. Hidden beneath the boat’s joinery and insulation, every inch of her interior was lined with continuously grounded fine copper mesh, painted over with high-frequency-shielding conductive copper paint. Essentially, he’d created a floating Faraday cage, impenetrable to electromagnetic waves, cell phone signals, CB, TV, AM, FM signals, radio-frequency radiation, and microwaves.
But outside the cabin, his only protection came in the form of his baseball cap and an oversized trench coat, both lined with ultrathin silver/copper-core-thread fabric. It was better than nothing and less conspicuous than aluminum foil. When people see someone dressed like a baked potato, they tend to make negative assumptions.
“Would you relax already?” Annabel stomped her flip-flops in puddles with childlike enthusiasm. “They can’t find us.”
Maybe they couldn’t, but an unsettling feeling rose in Hammon’s gut. He’d forgotten something. That wasn’t unusual; he forgot things all the time. What now? He rubbed the side of his skull. He couldn’t think straight, not with that damned mercury buried deep inside his brain, shorting circuits between neurons.
Think, damnit. What was it?
Then panic hit. Did he lock the boat?
Revenge
was already out of view. He remembered leaving the cabin, and he remembered checking the lines but drew a blank on the time in between. He slowed, straining to quell the building dread.
He’d never not locked the boat; all the same, if he couldn’t remember, it was possible he’d left his refuge exposed to the world. If there was one area in which Hammon’s brain excelled, it was in visualizing disaster. He’d had enough experience to draw on. He froze, sweat trickling down his back.
Annabel paused her puddle-stomping. “What now?”
He blinked. “I can’t remember…”
“Go on,” she said patiently.
“Did I lock
Revenge
?”
She smiled. “Yes. The boat is locked. I told you.”
“You did?” Relief displaced anxiety. If Annabel said the boat was locked, it was. They continued onward. His Converse high-tops were soaked, but the rain was warm, and wet feet only bothered him somewhat. When Annabel wasn’t looking, Hammon fished out his wallet and thumbed through the contents. He studied his driver’s license as though the plastic card belonged to someone else.
According to the state of New Jersey, he was John O. Hammon, sex: M, hgt: 5-06, eyes: GRY, currently twenty-one years of age and residing in Manasquan, New Jersey. He stared at the miniature photo of his face with aversion. He wasn’t so much pale as devoid of color. His skin, what little he revealed, had the unhealthy, washed-out tone of one who avoided daylight and fresh vegetables. The digital fuzziness downplayed his scars. His hair was a dull mousy brown, and his most vibrant feature, his battleship-gray eyes, seemed to absorb rather than reflect surrounding color. His wardrobe of faded black completed the effect. If not for the blue background, the photo could just as well be monochrome. Frowning, he shoved the license back in his pocket.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Annabel said, skipping past him on the sidewalk. Hammon glanced around. No one but them.
“Just lost in thought,” he said as her soaked shirt redirected his brain. She was drenched, her tank top plastered to her well-defined curves. The words “1.6 liters is a soft drink, not an engine” rose and dipped and rose again over her chest. He loved the rain.
“Should I send a search party?” Amusement flickered in her dark eyes. “Or are you still thinking about your dirty pictures?”
His face grew warm. “What pictures?”
“It’s cool; you don’t have to hide them from me.” Annabel grinned and tucked her wet hair behind her ear. “I like them too.”
Her playfulness fascinated Hammon. In all the years they’d been together, so much of Annabel remained a mystery, delightful and perplexing. He didn’t even know her age; his best guess currently put her somewhere around nineteen. Yet another of her secrets, along with her true name and her past. He’d learned long ago not to ask. If he pried too deep, she’d get upset and go silent for days, and that was hell on earth. Discussion of their lives before they met was off-limits, which worked just fine for him. His brain was like a trailer park after a tornado: some memories lay in twisted, unrecognizable piles, others vanished without a trace. Better to accept things as they were and just go on. It was hard to imagine, but whatever brought Annabel to the ICU was worse than what he’d survived. While his scars were visible, hers lay hidden beneath an unmarred exterior.
Gary swore there was something very wrong with her. Hammon didn’t care what Gary said. True, Annabel was far from perfect; Hammon was the first to admit it. She was sarcastic and critical. Without explanation she could turn moody and withdrawn. And she could be ruthless. She knew him better than anyone; she knew his every fear, his every weakness. Lying to her was impossible. He was a lousy liar, and she saw right through him. But in the end, he and Annabel were both survivors, however damaged. Annabel accepted him as he was and he accepted her, no questions asked. It was that shared, unspoken understanding that bonded them.
Outside the shop everything had the glaring, washed-out dullness of an overexposed photo, and Hazel squinted as her eyes adjusted. Her potted tomato plants, watered at dawn, were already wilting, and even the more heat-tolerant peppers were showing the strain. The air was thick with a blend of marsh and decaying shellfish, but the sunbaked boatyard hummed with life, none of it human. Terns darted and wheeled, chattering as they picked off flies. A muskrat shuffled into the rushes, and high above an osprey circled, scanning the river for lunch. Hazel crossed the lot and watched as the bird dove, plunging feet first into the water, then rose skyward with an eel struggling in its talons.
Keys out, Hazel stopped beside her Miata. It was a base model older than her, with an odometer that had flipped more than once and a duct-taped convertible roof that leaked so badly it was pointless to close. Still, it had run well, and with white Shelby stripes over the faded blue paint, it almost resembled a 427 Cobra. Almost, especially if she closed her eyes, which wasn’t exactly the best way to drive.
But the Miata was history now. Using the Kenworth and a mooring chain, they’d dragged it to shore that morning, leaving a slug-like trail the whole way. Its short stay on the river bottom left the little car coated in mud, and silty water still dripped beneath the doorframe. All that remained of the rear tire was a frayed shred on a rim; she’d driven hard even after it had blown out. But what really concerned her father were the four bullet holes in the rear quarter panel.
Looming protectively over the Miata, the ancient red Kenworth baked in the sun like a dozing dragon. Dull blue flames encircled the front end. The cloudy Lucite wind deflector on the hood read “HAZEL,” the painted lettering faded from two decades of highway miles.
Over the years an assortment of creatures had perished beneath the Kenworth’s tires; unfortunately, swerving and abruptly braking a loaded semi could result in more fatalities than just the animal in its path. Even considering this distressing need to stay the course, such an inordinate number of poor creatures had shown a fatal affinity for the truck that it had acquired the unsavory nickname
“RoadKill,”
along with iron grates to protect the headlights and grill. Like kills on a WWII fighter, rows of silhouettes covered the door representing numerous deer, squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, possum, skunks, and one Honda Civic.
Even if the Miata hadn’t been totaled, Hazel would’ve preferred
RoadKill
for the task ahead. After twenty years of looking across the hood’s expanse, the semi offered a reassuring sense of control and invulnerability. Granted, the door didn’t lock, the ignition switch came out with the key, and the heater fan only worked when you didn’t need it. Hazel saw this as character; her father argued the Kenworth was overdue for the glue factory.
The windows were already open, but the temperature in the cab still bordered on lethal. Hazel switched on the oscillating fan and pushed the perpetually drooping sun visor up, then adjusted the threadbare seat until she could press the clutch to the floor. She turned the key and pushed the starter, amused when nothing happened. No cranking, no clicking. Like she wouldn’t notice her father had disconnected the ignition ground. In less than a minute, Bivalve was swallowed by the dust cloud in her rearview mirror.
Dodging potholes along the rutted dirt road that cut through the marsh, Hazel tried to ignore one detail: she had no idea what she was doing. She only knew she had to do something. But where to start? What would Travis McGee do? He’d track down Micah’s friends, acquaintances and co-workers, anyone who might have seen him in the last few days. He’d ask questions, watch reactions, shake trees, and see what fell out.
Hazel leaned forward and lifted the hair off her back, but the hot air blasting into the cab offered little relief.
RoadKill
rattled and hopped; she glanced at the speedometer and eased back. With no load over the fifth wheel, the drive wheels tended to bounce, and airborne wheels didn’t brake very well. Driving 450 horses of diesel with limited stopping power required a degree of care. She had to focus.
Just past the Maurice River Bridge, a dark shape plodded across the baking asphalt. Hazel switched on the engine brake and backed off the throttle;
RoadKill
clattered loudly, the diesel’s compression strokes slowing the truck. Hazard lights flashing, she blocked the lane so passing sand quarry trucks would have to swing around her, then set the parking brakes with a loud hiss.
The mud turtle eyed her with suspicion as she climbed down, then retracted its head and feet. Hazel scooped it up from the double yellow lines, stepping back against
RoadKill
as a Mack rumbled past.
“You realize this is one reason you guys are endangered.” She tilted the turtle, studying its markings and wondering where it was headed with such determination. It blinked out at her as she checked for traffic and trotted across the road.
“Flat pavement equals flat turtle.” She placed it in the weeds on the riverbank. “Stay out of the road.”
With luck it would forever associate asphalt with bad experiences, avoiding roads in the future. Back in the truck, she flipped on the radio as she double-clutched through the gears, cranking up Shooter Jennings’ “4th of July” so loud she couldn’t hear herself think or sing, which was just as well on both counts.
First stop was Micah’s job: Nelson’s Appliance & Electronics in Millville. Hazel had checked there two days back when Micah’s absence still fell into the “typical behavior” category, but his friend Keith was on the road and the girls in the office had no useful information to offer.
Millville was a bustling hub of highways, strip malls, fast food franchises, car dealerships, and discount stores twenty minutes north of Bivalve and a half century ahead in time. Of the three Nelson’s Appliance stores, the Millville location was the oldest and most neglected. The Trenton site was larger and flashier, and, according to Micah, the new superstore up north in Paramus was the grandest yet.
Hazel swung
RoadKill
through the lot and spotted two vehicles in the employee spaces: a silver Jeep Cherokee with a surf fishing rig mounted to the front bumper and a gleaming navy F350 pickup with a chrome boat propeller hitch cover. Micah’s old green Reliant was visibly absent, but her heart jumped when she spotted the white International 4200 delivery truck he usually drove backed to the loading dock, the “SER” peeling, leaving “VICE BUILDS SALES” painted below the Nelson logo. Micah’s “HORN BROKE, WATCH FOR FINGER” bumper sticker had been partially covered by one reading: “JOHN 3:16.”
Keith Riley stepped around the International as she pulled alongside. Sweat trickled down his neck and molded his T-shirt to his broad, muscular frame. He glanced toward the showroom then strode over, concern in his soft green eyes, a chewed toothpick in the corner of his mouth. Hazel set the brakes, killed the engine, and climbed down.
“Where’ve you been?” Keith said. “I called last night but you didn’t answer. I drove by but I didn’t see your car and
Witch
was out. I didn’t know what to do.”
Keith’s calls and visits weren’t unusual. They’d dated briefly, and he was having trouble accepting it was over. But he was Micah’s friend, so she’d planned to talk to him in the hope he might offer some leads.
She pulled her sticky shirt away from her skin. “You could have left a message.” Most times he did: long, rambling ones pleading for her to take him back. Her dad and Joe played them for laughs if she didn’t delete them first.
“Not this time.” Keith straightened the silver crucifix hanging around his neck. “It’s about Micah. Have you seen him?”
“He hasn’t called and he doesn’t answer his cell.” She decided against mentioning
Tuition
’s disappearance, her being shot at and run off the road, or how some sadist had come hunting for Micah last night. “I’m worried he’s in trouble.”
“So am I.” He moved closer and lowered his voice. “But I’m more worried about you. Thank God you’re all right.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Her neck prickled. “Do you know what’s going on with Micah?”
“I’d rather talk to your father.”
“Keith, if you have something to say, say it.”
“It’s about Atkins.” Disgust crossed his face, as though the words alone tasted foul.
Hazel didn’t know much about Wayne Atkins, another of the Nelson Appliance drivers; what little she did she’d learned secondhand. He’d never bothered her, seemed to keep to himself. It was no secret he liked to drink and had served time years back for assault. He had an unsettling blood-red streak through one eye, thin, stringy hair, and a noticeable lack of personal or dental hygiene. He reminded Hazel of something left on the side of the road too long, but Micah insisted he wasn’t a bad guy once you got to know him. Then again, Micah would say that about Attila the Hun. Micah could see good in the worst people and brought out the best in everyone—except her father.
“What about Atkins?” Hazel asked.
“I warned Micah to stay clear of him, but you know Micah, he’ll trust anyone. I told Micah I’d heard Atkins was moving cocaine. I tried to tell Micah he was putting himself in danger, and now he’s gone and put you in danger too.”
Was this about
drugs
? It couldn’t be; Micah had more sense than that. At least she wanted to believe he did. “Who told you this?”
Keith shifted the toothpick and scanned the lot. “People talk, word gets around. Atkins and Kessler were doing business on the side and something went sour.”
The pit of Hazel’s stomach turned to lead, and she tried not to show it. “Who’s Kessler?” After last night she knew the name only too well.
“Some buddy of Nelson’s,” he said. Nelson was Tom Nelson, Keith’s boss. “I’ve only seen Kessler once or twice. He and Atkins got into it, but I couldn’t hear what they said. It was obvious they were both really pissed, looked ready to kill.”
Hazel had to fight to keep her voice steady. “What’s that got to do with Micah?”
Again Keith checked no one was nearby. “Right after he had that go-around with Kessler, Atkins cornered Micah in the warehouse. He didn’t know I was there, and he pushed Micah against the wall, yelling for him to stay out of it, saying if he didn’t, he’d see just how fucked up things would get. Those were Atkins’s words, not mine. He said, ‘Don’t make me come after you,’ and if Micah didn’t listen, Atkins swore he’d break both his legs. When I asked Micah what was going on, he told me to mind my own business.”
“What the hell?” Hazel knew Micah liked Atkins, but he also trusted Keith. “When was this?”
“Last Saturday; the last time I saw Micah…and come to think of it, the same day Atkins quit. Then Atkins called me last night, he said he’d heard ‘that little dark-haired Moran girl’ dumped me and he wanted your phone number. He sounded drunk and he said with Micah gone now and you all alone, you could probably use some company, and he planned on paying you a visit.” Keith’s powerful hands curled to fists. “He said he had something special he wanted to show you. I called but you didn’t answer, and I tried to find you but you weren’t around.” His voice wavered the way it did whenever he was fighting to stay calm. “Haze, I know you’ve been avoiding me, but I’m worried about you. There’s more going on than you realize. You shouldn’t be alone, not now.”
“I’m not alone. I’ve got Dad and Joe.”
“I’m just saying…I was hoping we could try again.”
Was he seriously trying to use Micah’s disappearance to get back together with her? She’d think he was joking, but Keith didn’t joke.
“We could start over,” he insisted. “Things could be different. I realize I wanted too much too fast and you weren’t ready yet. I didn’t mean to pressure you. If you need more time I’ll wait. I don’t mind.”
Hazel almost laughed. With anyone else, that probably would have meant exactly what it sounded like. Not Keith. In fact, it was his chivalrous approach to dating that won her over to begin with. He was polite, respectful, and didn’t even try to touch her. No, it turned out Keith set his goals for her far higher, and it wasn’t until she got to know the real Keith Riley that she’d learned the truth. He was more obsessed with her eternal soul than the body housing it. His sermons on sin and damnation, pressuring her to abandon her godless ways and accept Christ as her savior, quickly grew relentless and scary. She ended it as gently as possible, stopped seeing him, and avoided his calls. Still, Keith refused to accept defeat, and if there was one thing she’d give him, he was determined.
He took her hand. “Listen. If you need me, I’ll help you any way I can, no expectations, no strings. Okay?”
Before she could answer, Keith stepped back and glared as Tom Nelson Jr. strode out of the air-conditioned showroom. Gym-toned, with a flawless smile, salon hair, and matching tan, Nelson looked younger than his midforties and dripped with concentrated charm, much of it directed toward getting into the pants of women other than his wife. Micah said Nelson never wasted time on anything over thirty or under a D cup, though, which so far had kept Hazel, with her moderate endowment and intentionally awful fashion sense, happily below his libido radar. Still, he had a habit of standing too close and touching her arm when he talked. Deliberate or otherwise, it made her skin crawl.
Nelson glared at Keith. “Isn’t there something else you should be doing?”
Keith stiffened and spit the toothpick stub to the side. His opinion of his boss was about as secret as Nelson’s extramarital pursuits. Keith turned to Hazel. “I’ll pray for you. And for Micah.”
Nelson chuckled. “Yeah, you do that.”
Ignoring Nelson, Hazel offered Keith a grateful smile. She might not share his religious zeal, but she appreciated his concern.
Keith headed back to the loading dock and Nelson stepped closer, gracing Hazel with his finest showroom smile. “I saw the truck and thought it was Micah. But that’s not the case, is it?” he said, moving in for the usual “friendly” caress.