Last Exit in New Jersey (18 page)

From the darkness at the end of the hall, a woman stepped forward, offering Hazel and Micah an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. When I heard someone pounding on the door, I was afraid it was my husband.”

She was tall and graceful, and despite wearing no more than Keith’s T-shirt, every inch of her, from her honey-blonde hair and diamond solitaire earrings to her neatly pedicured toes, projected elegant refinement. Hazel had no idea who she was, but Micah seemed to.

“Uh, hi, Mrs. Nelson.”

She laughed uncomfortably. “Please, Micah. It’s Valerie. And this shy thing must be the lovely Hazel that Keith’s told me so much about. You’re correct, Miss Moran. Keith is hiding something. He’s trying to protect my good name and his own. It wouldn’t reflect well on either of us if word of this spread.”

Valerie Nelson, Hazel realized. Mrs. Tom-the-Appliance-King-Nelson. Hazel glanced at Keith, who suddenly couldn’t meet her eyes. In fact, all his color was gone and he looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. This put a whole new spin on his sermons about sins of the flesh.

Micah shrugged. “You won’t hear us telling anyone.”

“My husband…” she began.

Micah said, “What you do is your own business. We didn’t see you, you never saw us.”

Valerie smiled gratefully. She studied Hazel, concerned. “I couldn’t help overhearing you’re in trouble. What happened?”

“We’d rather not to go into details,” Micah said. “Just that your husband’s buddy Kessler thinks I have something I don’t.”

Valerie said, “The other day I overheard Tom on the phone, saying Kessler disappeared. He seemed a bit…aggravated.”

“Yeah.” Keith nodded. “No one’s seen Kessler in days, not that anyone seems too broken up about that. I wouldn’t be surprised if Atkins did kill him.”

“Have you heard anything else around work?” Micah asked. “Anyone talking, anything unusual?”

Keith said, “Only Tom complaining about being shorthanded.”

Valerie said, “When Tom’s home, which is rare, he never discusses business. Or much else for that matter.”

“Either of you ever heard of a guy named Stevenson?” Micah asked.

Keith shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “The name doesn’t ring any bells. What’s he look like?”

“Big,” Hazel said. “Tall, kind of heavy, blond hair. Creepy.”

Valerie shook her head, and Keith said, “No. You think he’s connected with Kessler and Atkins?”

“We don’t know,” Micah said.

“I’m sorry.” Keith spit chewed splinters into the open trash pail. “I wish I could be more help. I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

Valerie looked to Hazel again, worry in her soft blue eyes. “Are you two okay? Do you need anything? Money or somewhere to stay? My girlfriend has a beach house in Long Island, very private; I go there whenever I need some time alone. You could stay there; you’d be safe.”

Micah shook his head. “We’re good for now, we just want to know what’s going on.” Hazel leaned against him, and he squeezed her hand.

Valerie watched Hazel as though she were an injured bird. “If you reconsider, the offer stands.”

“I’ll pray for you. We both will.” Keith looked from Micah to Hazel. “You should open your hearts to Jesus. He can save you.”

Micah nodded. “We’ll take that under consideration.”

Halfway down the driveway, Micah began to snicker.

“The look on Keith’s face.” Micah stretched, yawning. “Priceless. I’m telling you, if there is a God, clearly He’s got a sense of humor. There you are on Keith’s doorstep, the answer to his prayers, and you catch him with his pants down.” He yawned again as they walked up to the Volvo.

“You’re okay to drive?”

“I’m good.” He opened the door for her. “But you need rest. Get some sleep; around Trenton we’ll pull off and switch.”

She didn’t want to sleep. “So that’s Tom Nelson’s wife.”

“Yeah, that caught me by surprise. Not like I blame her. I mean, I never got why Tom would bother cheating, married to that. At thirty-three she’s hotter than most girls our age. She used to be one of those Hooters girls; she was even in their calendar.”

Hazel yawned. “This whole trip was a waste of time.”

“Keith and Mrs. Nelson. How weird is that? Or maybe not.” Micah rolled down his window. “A few weeks back, I’m at the bar with some friends and she comes in, looking real upset. She’s drinking alone, so I go talk to her. Turns out she just realized Tom was cheating on her. I don’t get how she didn’t know sooner—I mean, everyone else did. She was already pretty drunk, so I offered to drive her home. We get there, the house is dark, Tom’s car’s gone, she says lately he’s over at Hooters every night. She loses it and starts crying. I’m trying to make her feel better, telling her how hot she is and what a jerk Tom is not to appreciate what he’s got. Next thing I know she’s got her hand down my jeans.”

Hazel opened her window, hoping the fresh air would wake her up. “Too much information. I really don’t need to hear this.”

“I didn’t do anything. Well, I did; I panicked. I was like, whoa! I started saying all these dumb, noble things on how we should wait, go slow, get to know each other. Pretty stupid, huh? I’m acting like we’re on a first date when all she wanted was to get even with Tom.”

Hazel watched the passing lights; even at that late hour that stretch of road was busy, but she was so tired her vision was starting to blur. She leaned back and closed her eyes, just for a moment.

“C’mon, hon. Get up.”

“Huh?” Hazel yawned, looking around at the empty highway, bordered with darkness and trees, trying to understand how everything had changed so abruptly. “Where are we?”

“Cheesequake. I let you sleep. You needed it. I’ll drop you at the yard and return the rental.”

“And walk back alone? Think again.”

“It’s not even a mile.”

“I don’t care. I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Ever.”

“That’ll be real awkward on dates.” He pulled into the nearly vacant rest stop and returned the car to its original space as Hazel gathered White Castle boxes.

“Leave those. It’ll give the stoners something else to ponder.”

At four a.m., traffic was sparse as they walked along the northbound shoulder of the Parkway. Hazel said nothing. This was her favorite time of day: quiet and peaceful. Most night owls had turned in, and the early birds were yet to rise.

“Haze,” Micah began. “If Atkins hadn’t helped me, I could’ve gotten hurt, or worse. You understand that, right?”

Her throat tightened and she didn’t answer. She understood all too well. She slipped her hand into his the way she had when they were small.

As they hiked up the low hill that bordered the west edge of the boatyard, a car slowed and pulled to the right lane. Hazel watched the old Fairmont rumble past, turn signal flashing as it approached the upcoming exit.

“Weird,” she said.

“What?”

“I saw a Fairmont just like that the night I left Stevenson’s.”

Micah shrugged. “Coincidence.”

“I guess,” she said, recalling the boy in Piermont’s haunting smile.

The boatyard was still dark, but a faint hint of color tinted the eastern sky. Skirting the lit areas, they walked back to the shed.

“Wait.” Hazel grabbed Micah, pulling him to a stop.

Parked in the shadows beside the shed, the Fairmont clicked and ticked as the engine cooled. They looked around but there was no one in sight. Hazel switched on her flashlight and swept it across the car, noticing the wide rear tires mounted on steel rims. Dual exhausts were barely visible. Hazel shined the light into the car. The backseat was loaded with boat bags, fenders, and lines.

“Damn,” Micah said. “Five speed and a full roll cage. You can bet there’s something evil lurking under the hood. Man, I’d love to borrow this one.”

Hazel stared into the darkness and listened to Micah’s steady breathing. How could he just shut off like that? They were no closer to knowing how Stevenson fit in this mess or where her father was and what he was up to. And now there was that blue Fairmont sitting just outside like an enigma. Was the driver that boy she’d seen the night she’d torn away from Stevenson’s place in the Viper? Part of her almost hoped it was; she recalled his eyes, in that brief moment he looked at her, as though he knew her completely, and more important, he understood, absolutely and unquestioningly. She knew it was only her imagination taking that passing instant of his smile and building it into something more. Or maybe it was that same boy, but there was something entirely terrible about his proximity.

She only knew she couldn’t sleep, and the harder she tried the more it eluded her. She rolled over and fluffed her pillow, unable to get comfortable, finally giving up in frustration. Quietly she dressed, pulling on an oversized black sweatshirt and tucking her cropped hair beneath a baseball cap. She slipped off
Mardi
and out of the shed. She didn’t go far, just far enough to see the Fairmont still parked off to the corner, locked, silent, and troubling.

Hazel wandered down the vacant docks, past the weekend toys: open fishing platforms, ski boats, and cuddy cabins. Farther out were a few cruisers, trawlers, and livable sailboats. Was the Fairmont’s owner aboard one of them? The old Chris Craft Commander was a possibility, except the wide stretches of glass lacked curtains. To live on a boat was to live in a fish-bowl: with no privacy from the traffic on the dock, curtains were a necessity. The Grand Banks looked lived-in, but she’d seen a retired couple aboard. She passed the Luhrs, Formula, and Mainship, filing them under “maybe.” A few sailboats joined the list, including an old Flicka she’d personally hauled there two years back, though none appeared occupied.

She was on the finger dock in the shadow of the Blackfin when she heard footsteps and turned as a shadow headed toward shore. He must have exited one of the boats she’d already passed. Hazel followed, walking softly, her pulse rising as the figure moved with the slightest limp toward the Fairmont. Unfortunately he never turned enough for her to see his face as he climbed into the car, started it, and headed out.

“Behind every dark cloud is an even darker cloud,” Micah announced.

“I thought we were making progress.” Hazel tied a trash bag closed. “It’s not so bad with the biohazards gone.”

“It’s another T-shirt.” Micah held up a wrinkled black shirt stating that very sentiment. He sorted the debris, separating the piles of laundry from books, magazines, CDs, and anything else of interest. The batteries remained disconnected, but orange extension cords snaked onboard, providing volts for lights and a Shop-Vac. Armed with kitchen gloves, bleach, disinfectant, and scouring pads, they’d passed the day scrubbing their way through the cabin. They removed cardboard covering the salon windows and scraped black paint from the mirrors. The unspeakable icebox was beaten into submission. The microwave was declared beyond hope and tossed, and a fresh tank of propane connected to the lines for the ancient four-burner galley stove. For Hazel, the worst part was the bleach vapors, triggering flashes of her last night aboard
Witch
.

“There’s quite a collection. Let’s see.” Micah rummaged through the T-shirts. “‘I haven’t lost my mind…it’s backed up on a disk somewhere.’ ‘Everything I need to know I learned from the people trapped in my basement.’ ‘When the pepper spray runs out, can I have your number?’ ‘I’m just one big f#&*ing ray of sunshine, aren’t I?’ ‘Sleep is overrated.’ And my personal favorite, ‘I do very bad things and I do them very well.’”

“How about the notes? ‘Eat something healthy.’ ‘Check for bugs.’ ‘Meteor showers, 1:45 7/1.’ And I keep finding this one.” She held up a Post-it. “‘It’s in the snow.’”

“Meteor showers tonight? Cool. What time’s it now?”

Hazel checked her watch. “Almost seven-thirty.”

“A.m. or p.m.?” Micah dragged a heavy black trash bag to the cockpit. Hazel shuddered momentarily, recalling Kessler’s disposal.

“Does it matter?” Within the windowless shed, there was no day or night, just industrial floodlights. Absolute light or absolute dark. Hours dragged out, unmeasured and undefined, leaving Hazel too much time to think. She wouldn’t have minded if that thinking yielded answers, but so far she’d come up empty.

“These cleaners are giving me a headache.” She peeled off the rubber gloves, dropping them in the galley sink. “I need some air.”

Micah joined her as she exited the cabin and climbed to the bridge. She stared over the wheel at the compass. “We’ve been on the same heading for days, and the horizon hasn’t changed. It’s like ocean cruising without the ocean.”

“At least we haven’t hit any bad weather,” Micah said, returning to his stack of
Maxims
.

“Yet.” She picked up the Westlake novel she’d found aboard and stared idly at the page. Was the Fairmont still out there? Should she go check? Maybe the owner would be near, and then at least she could know one way or another whether it was the boy she’d seen in Piermont.

Micah lowered his magazine. “What now?”

Hazel looked up. “What?”

“You’re sighing. A lot.”

Hazel traced her finger along the wheel. “Ever meet someone…I mean, just see them on the street, not even talk to them, and the moment your eyes meet you feel like you’ve known them your whole life? Is that weird?”

“Nope. Happens to me all the time. Like a few weeks back I saw this girl in Dunkin’ Donuts, and the minute I looked at her, I knew we were meant to spend the rest of our lives together. She smiled back at me, and I knew she knew it too.”

“So what did you do?”

“Nothing. She had a boyfriend the size of a Mack truck and he wasn’t smiling.”

A loud crash sounded from below, and a symphony of graphic, physically unachievable remarks rose from Tony. Micah glanced overboard then leveled a critical eye at Hazel. “Didn’t I say no more snares?”

“You’re no fun.” She climbed down to Tony, lying flat on his back, and offered him an apologetic smile as she helped untangle fish line from his ankles. “Sorry about the security system.”

Tony sat up. “Security for what, exactly?”

Micah climbed off the ladder and helped Tony to his feet. “Haze thinks we’re being followed. You know who owns that old blue Fairlane?”

“Fairmont,” Hazel corrected.

“Same difference.”

Hazel rolled her eyes. “Is not. Ford stopped building Fairlanes in North America in 1971. It’s a Fairmont.”

“Lane, Mont, whatever.” Micah turned to Tony. “Who owns the old blue Ford POS?”

“That thing? That’s the guy who bought
Nepenthe
. You remember, the Flicka Hazel hauled here two years back.”

“What’s he look like?” Hazel asked, trying not to sound too curious.

Tony shrugged. “Hard to say. I never really seen him during the day. Young. Kind of short, glasses, brown hair. Kind of weird. Talks to himself. Why?” Then Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, never mind why. Your dad called. He said he’d be coming soon and he wanted to be sure you weren’t doing any ‘salvage consultant shit,’ whatever that means.”

Hazel brightened. “Soon when?”

“Didn’t say. Just soon.” Tony regarded the tangle of fishing line. “So please refrain from snaring customers. Especially the ones who pay up front.”