Read Last Exit in New Jersey Online
Authors: C.E. Grundler
Just before midnight a white 1986 Volvo wagon heading up from Great Adventure pulled off the Garden State Parkway and into the Cheesequake service area, parking in the southeast lot. Four college-age males with a weed-induced case of the munchies spilled out, unaware that they were under surveillance. Joking and shoving, they piled into the building, oblivious to the figure slipping from the shadows to follow them. They gazed up at the glowing menu over the twenty-four-hour Burger King, debating how to best spend their remaining cash, when a pretty, dark-eyed girl with bobbed curls approached, asking how to find Seaside Heights.
Their eager, stoned attempts to give her skimpy tank top directions were almost comical. Though north and south were alien concepts, the group was determined to help, offering to drive, lead, follow, and in one case, marry her. When at last they agreed on an incorrect route, she nodded tentatively, then tried to repeat it back, even more confused than them. Pouting, she sighed. “Could you tell me again?”
A lanky, clean-cut young man strolled up, smiling. “It’s cool, sis.” He held up a map. “I got it.”
The girl thanked her disappointed new friends, then she and her companion exited the west end of the building.
“See,” Micah said as they headed toward the white 1986 Volvo wagon parked in the northwest lot. “I said the short hair works for you.”
Hazel ran her fingers along the back of her head. It felt light and tickled. “I hate to break it to you, but they weren’t looking at my hair.”
“Exactly. Now they can see the rest of the package.”
“Yeah, well, how about next time I hot-wire the car and you distract the horny stoners.”
“I don’t think I’m their type.” Micah combed his fingers through his trimmed, nonblue hair. “And even if I was, I look like a total dork.”
“You look adorable.”
“I look like I’m twelve.”
Aside from the shark’s tooth tucked beneath his T-shirt, all his body jewelry was gone. It was Hazel’s idea. If they planned to embrace a life of crime, they needed to be less recognizable. She cut her long hair into a loose bob, quite similar, Micah noted, to vintage-porno girl. Trimming his hair was almost paint-by-numbers, cutting off four inches of blue, leaving an inch of brown.
“The way I see it, we’re doing them a favor, stealing their car.” Micah opened the door for her. “They were in no condition to drive. Even if they remember where they parked, I doubt they’ll call the police, at least for a while.”
“We’re not stealing.” Hazel started the engine. “We’re borrowing. By dawn, it’ll be right back where they left it.”
Much as Hammon hated to admit it, Annabel was right: the little boat she’d bought provided them a sheltered bunk in which to grab a few hours of much-needed rest. Within the cavelike cabin, he slept through much of the day and into the evening, waking just after dusk. Under the guise of sending flowers, he’d called the hospital, only to learn that Stevenson had checked himself out. So Hammon pulled into the state park bordering Stevenson’s property then skulked through the woods to get closer and watch the house with a night scope.
“Looks like he’s alone,” Annabel said.
Hammon scaled the wall near the carriage house, lowered himself into the yard, and attached the tracker he’d acquired from Gary’s shop to the Mercedes. Soon after, the Evil One emerged, moving stiffly, and drove off.
Hammon tailed him down Route 46 to an industrial park in Little Ferry and a brick warehouse beside the Hackensack River. Lights out, Hammon stopped short of the lot and waited on the shoulder, noticing as a rusted blue Buick wagon pulled up. Hammon ducked behind rows of trailers then circled to the back. The Buick shut down and a large man emerged, approaching Stevenson.
“Who’s that?” Annabel whispered.
“Someone I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.” He watched them shake hands, joking, it appeared, about Stevenson’s injuries. Then they opened a warehouse door to reveal a red tractor-trailer truck.
“They seem pleased,” Annabel said.
Hammon crept closer, pulled the envelope from his pocket, and scribbled down the Buick’s description and plates. The semi lacked plates, but the door read “Moran Marine Transport,” with a phone number and address, which Hammon copied.
“Bivalve, New Jersey?” Annabel said. “Is that even a real place?”
Stevenson and the stranger inspected the trailer’s contents, closed the warehouse, and returned to their cars. By the time Hammon reached the Fairmont, they were both long gone. He wasn’t sure whether to track Stevenson or look for the Buick, but Annabel decided they check out the address on the truck instead.
Hazel pulled into the White Castle drive-through. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Hell yeah. I think better on a full stomach.” Micah scanned the menu sign. “Get a sack of ten Sliders. With cheese. And four orders of fries. And onion rings. And clam strips. And those fish whatevers.”
“I meant talking to Atkins. You trust him?”
“Completely. He risked his neck to help me when he didn’t have to.”
“Why? What’s in it for him?”
Hazel ordered, paid, and passed Micah the food. The aroma of White Castle filled the Volvo, but she had no appetite.
“Believe it or not, Haze, not everyone has a motive. Some people do the right thing because it’s the thing to do.” Micah shot his straw wrapper at her, missing. “Pull into that gas station up ahead, I’ll call him from there.”
Reluctantly Hazel swung in and parked. Micah jogged over to the phone, but Hazel couldn’t hear his conversation over the passing cars. He returned, shaking his head. “Nope. He’s never heard of Stevenson.”
“So now what?”
“We drop in on Keith, see what he knows.” Micah slid a square burger from its box, popping it in his mouth. He offered her one. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”
“Why not just call?”
“Face-to-face he says more.”
“I guess. He doesn’t think highly of your friend Atkins.”
Micah grinned. “Most people don’t.”
“You sure he’ll be home? We should call first,” she said, still hoping to avoid the visit if possible.
“It’s a weeknight; Keith
never
goes out on weeknights. Saturday he goes fishing, and Sunday’s the Lord’s day; you should know that.” He squeezed the ketchup packet into his mouth and chased it with a handful of fries, smiling blissfully. “C’mon, hon, you’re making me feel guilty. It’s not fair, I can’t enjoy this if you don’t.”
Hazel ate to pacify him while Micah continued to talk, mostly about school, girls he wanted to ask out, and other neutral subjects as the dark miles rolled by. The sparse traffic thinned. Finally Micah said, “So I hear you dumped Keith. What happened?”
“We didn’t have much in common. Why’d you fix me up with him?”
“He kept asking. Keith seemed decent, and I thought it’d be good for you. He asked if you were seeing anyone, and I said you’d vowed to never give your heart again after the tragic death of your one true love.”
Hazel glared at him. “That’s not funny.”
“But it’s true. Seriously, you were what, fourteen? I think it’s time to let it go, and I figured Keith’d be a good place to start. He’s so polite it’s obnoxious. He actually asked permission to date you and vowed he’d treat you with the highest respect.”
“Oh, he was perfectly respectful. He wasn’t after my body…just my soul.”
“I don’t follow.”
“He wanted me to find God.”
“God’s lost?” Micah chuckled. “Oh, right. I saw something on the back of a milk carton. It said, ‘Have you seen this deity?’”
“I’m serious. He’d start going on about Jesus, salvation, and how we must ‘fight temptations of the flesh.’ I mean, Jesus had the right idea with that ‘do unto others’ thing, but sermons on sin and eternal damnation aren’t my idea of a fun date. It got old fast, and real creepy. That, and how what he liked most about me was that I was, how’d he put it, ‘pure and undefiled.’”
Micah raised an eyebrow. “He said that? For real?”
“Yeah, for real. He told me he was a terrible sinner before the Lord saved him, and I should open my heart to Jesus. The more I wouldn’t denounce my heathen ways and convert, the more determined he got.”
“You never told me this.”
“He’s your friend; I figured you knew.”
“Not really. I remember him saying how Christ’s true believers would float into the sky and there’d be empty cars and planes crashing all over the place. I just thought he was stoned.”
“Nope, no drinking or drugs for Keith. That’s the Rapture, and he says it will happen. I figure if it doesn’t hurt anyone, what the hell, believe what you want. But it was scary how insistent he was that I believe it too.”
Micah looked around as Hazel pulled up to the stop sign. “Take a right…your other right. Starboard. Go past the pizza shop, four doors up, and here we are.” Micah pointed to a small house; Hazel continued past and parked two doors down.
She’d never been to Keith’s apartment; she’d kept their dates on neutral ground. The shades and curtains were closed and light glowed from a lone window. She recognized Keith’s Jeep by the surf-fishing rod holder and the stickers. There was a parking permit for fishing at Sandy Hook along with “Got Jesus?,” “CHOOSE LIFE,” and “In case of Rapture, this vehicle will be unmanned.” They left the car unlocked and headed toward the house, skirting around to the back door, not visible from the street.
“He means well, right? He’s just looking out for your soul.”
“Screaming at me that I’d burn in hell.”
Micah seemed stunned. “I’ve never seen Keith even raise his voice.”
“He takes his faith very seriously. He said it was my fault, I made him lose his temper because I wouldn’t be saved. And since then, he keeps calling, trying to convince me to come back. Thanks but no thanks.”
Micah knocked and they waited, listening for movement. He knocked again, harder, while Hazel backed up. She didn’t want to be there; deep down she was sure it was a mistake. Micah offered her a quick smile, squeezing her hand. “I hear him in there. Yo! Keith! C’mon, dude, open up!”
The kitchen window shade shifted. “Micah?” Keith peered out. “Hazel!” He was barefoot, wearing faded Levis and no shirt, as if he’d dressed in a hurry. It was possible they woke him, though Hazel didn’t detect any traces of sleep in his eyes.
“Hazel…you’re all right!” He reached for her hand but she stood clear. He glanced around at the dark yard then ushered them inside, locking the door and switching on the light. The florescent bulb buzzed and flickered, casting drab illumination over the kitchen. The counters and floors were clean, but the room was dull and colorless. On the wall a single print in a plastic frame, titled “Footsteps in the Sand,” showed just that.
“I’ve been worried sick.” Keith stared at Hazel with an odd mix of enthrallment and anxiety. “After your boat sank and I saw your car…I felt like I was being punished. I’ve searched everywhere for you. I kept praying you were safe somewhere and the Lord would bring you back to me. But then I heard you were dead,” he said, his voice breaking. “Both of you.”
“Really?” Micah grinned. “Says who?”
“Kim in the front office. She said her cousin’s boyfriend’s brother heard that the Coast Guard found your old runabout sunk three miles south of Thompsons Beach with a body aboard. The crabs didn’t leave much to identify.”
“Her cousin’s boyfriend’s brother? Cool.” Micah beamed at Hazel. “We’re urban legend!”
“The police came by work asking questions.” Keith stared at Hazel. “They’re looking for Atkins. The warehouse guys think Atkins dumped Hazel’s body somewhere in the pinelands.” Keith cleared his throat and wiped sweat from his forehead. “There’s a pool going for where and when they’ll find her.”
Micah chuckled. “What’s your money on?”
Keith dug a small metal case out of his pocket, opened it, and tucked a toothpick in his mouth. “Gambling goes against the scriptures,” he said hostilely, then turned to Hazel, his expression softening. “I’m just grateful you’re safe.”
Micah nodded. “If you were a betting man, who’d you say wants us dead?”
Keith chewed at the toothpick, worrying. “Atkins. I tried to warn you, both of you. You can’t trust him.”
“Anyone else?”
The toothpick twitched. Keith glanced away and gave his head an odd, rigid shake. “No. No one. Why would anyone else want you dead?”
Hazel heard a small sound down the hall, quiet but definite, and Keith stiffened. His eyes met Hazel’s and then dropped to the floor. He stepped over to the chipped enamel sink, noisily restacking the dishes drying on the rack.
Hazel eased her knife out and the blade locked open with a soft click. Micah’s fingers closed over her wrist. “This is a mistake.” She tried to pull her hand free. “He’s hiding something.” A tall shadow moved in the hall. “And he’s not alone.”
“Annabel, I don’t think we’re in Jersey anymore.”
They had long since left everything familiar behind. The road dissolved into ground fog, and the scenery turned into mile upon mile of scrub pines occasionally opening to lush acres of produce, almost as if to validate that the “Garden State” was indeed just that. The night air was rich with fertilizer and growing vegetation. It was alien to Hammon: beautiful, desolate, and unsettling. Eventually the highway ended, and they wove through smaller roads.
“Maybe this Bivalve place doesn’t even exist,” Hammon said as they passed a “Muskrat Crossing” sign and the pavement turned to crushed white shells.
“Maybe not. But we’re there.”
Hammon shut the engine and coasted into the lot. He looked up at the “Go Away” sign. “I’m guessing there’s no security camera.” He scanned the desolation, not seeing
Revenge
. Or much else, for that matter.
Annabel took in all that was Bivalve at two a.m. “I think I saw this place in a horror movie.”
Hammon wandered past a row of dying tomato plants and over to the docks. The smell of damp smoke lingered, and a few of the pilings were charred on one side. Tilted masts emerged from the water, rising from the ghostly shape of what had been a magnificent boat.
“Spooky,” commented Annabel.
Hammon swept the flashlight along the submerged wreck. Oddly, it resembled a scorched, sunken double-masted version of Annabel’s little sailboat. Burnt rigging lines swayed with the current, and oil still leaked to the surface.
“No slime or barnacles. This was recent,” Annabel said.
Hammon shuddered and backed away. He pulled the envelope from his pocket and made some notes. Parked beside a decrepit Travelift and a mud-encrusted Miata stood an ancient tractor trailer, bearing the same logo as the semi Stevenson had.
“HAZEL.” Annabel read the faded air dam. “Why do I feel like I should know that name?”
Hammon ran his hand across the grill cover to confirm the massive truck was, indeed, real, then added that information to his notes and stuffed the envelope back into his coat pocket.