Read Last Exit in New Jersey Online
Authors: C.E. Grundler
Hazel was thrown against her seatbelt as Micah slammed on the brakes. He stared toward the Dumpsters in the far corner of the lot, shaking his head. “No fucking way.”
“What?”
Then she saw it, parked in the shadows. A dark blue Fairmont.
The Trauma Center was the last place Hammon wanted to find himself again, even as a visitor. Annabel flat out refused to enter the building. But if Stevenson was there, intent on finishing what three bullets started, it was up to Hammon to stop him. If only he could get that far. At every turn harsh whiteness and sharp right angles closed in; voices echoed all around and carried through the halls, suffocating him. The building seemed to pulse with unseen birth and death, sickness and pain, sucking him under. His worst nightmares lived within these walls, and the farther he went, the harder it became to move, as though gravity was increasing. Horrifying memories assaulted him and he stared down, terrified that anyone might look too close. There were too many people who might recognize his face. They should. It was their creation.
This was a mistake. He couldn’t find his way, and he couldn’t find Stevenson, not that he knew what he’d do if he did. Without Annabel’s calming guidance, he stumbled along, disoriented and anxious, whipping his head around at every noise, certain someone would peg him as a lost psych patient and drag him back to treatment. Then he’d never escape. He’d never be able to see or help Hazel. Terrified, gasping for air, Hammon finally found his way back to the soothing darkness of the parking lot.
Stevenson’s car was gone. He could track it, but he’d made up his mind. He’d stick with Plan A: get Hazel alone aboard
Nepenthe
and take her far from Stevenson and whatever dangers he presented. He had one problem, though; Annabel would try to stop him. There had to be a way around her interference and the blinding headaches that went with it. Maybe those medications; they were supposed to make the voices go away. There was a time he couldn’t imagine living without Annabel. That’s why he’d thrown them out. But now…
Annabel emerged from the shadows as he unlocked the Fairmont, and Hammon’s heart sank. She knew what he was planning. She always knew. She stood, hands tucked demurely behind her, staring with solemn intensity. A single tear ran down her cheek.
“It’s not that I want to get rid of you,” he mumbled apologetically. “You got to understand, it’s what I have to do.”
“I do understand,” she said, her voice breaking. “Nothing’s coincidence…”
“Huh?”
“Haze, no!” Micah shouted, rushing over as she swung a tire iron, hitting Hammon square across the right knee with a sickening crack. He dropped like a sack of bricks onto the pavement beside the Fairmont and stared up through crooked glasses, seeing double as pain rippled through his body.
Annabel strolled past Hazel and glared down with zero sympathy. “Serves you right, after all I’ve done for you.”
Hazel stood over him, tire iron raised for another strike. “Don’t move,” she warned. “Or I swing again. Understand?”
Hammon nodded numbly, blinking to clear his vision, noticing with detachment how his right leg twisted in a disturbing angle. By the look of things, it was unlikely he’d be able to stand. Hazel wiped her cheek against her shoulder as Micah stepped between them.
“Hon, I thought we agreed I’d handle this,” he said, his voice gentle. “You know how you get.”
“I think I’m being remarkably restrained, considering.”
“You are.” He tried to take the iron. She wouldn’t release it. “But someone might hear him screaming.”
“He isn’t screaming,” she pointed out. “Yet.”
“Oh, that’s not good,” Annabel said. “What’d you do to piss her off?”
“I don’t know…” Hammon choked.
“Don’t know what?” Micah studied the unnatural angle of Hammon’s leg and cringed. “Damn, he’s got some amazing tolerance to pain.”
Hazel placed the iron against his damaged knee. “Let’s see how much,” she said, each word razor-sharp, her eyes focusing hatred like sunlight through a magnifying glass.
Hammon gazed up, helpless and confused. “Why?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Hazel said. “I guess Stevenson figured I’d fall for the sweet, shy act, and I guess he was right. You really had me fooled.”
Micah held out the envelope with all his notes and cash. “I warned you not to upset her.”
Annabel groaned. “You left that in your coat?”
He was going to be sick. “That’s not what it looks like.”
“It looks to me like Stevenson paid you a stack of cash to steal our truck, burn our boat, and…” She pressed down on the iron. “My father’s in that hospital and it looks
exactly
like someone tried to kill him.”
Hammon moaned aloud. THAT was who Stevenson shot? This was even worse than the worst he could imagine. “I didn’t do it!”
“We saw Stevenson leave,” Micah said, his voice low. “Why was he here? What does he want?”
Hammon shook his head. “I don’t know.”
The pressure on his knee increased, and he choked back a sob, more from frustration than pain.
“Where’s our truck?” Hazel demanded. “And what’s Stevenson doing with it?”
Hope rose in Hammon. He could prove he wanted to help! He knew where Stevenson stashed the red Freightliner; he could show them! He was about to speak when a jolt of agony ripped through his brain and he shuddered, gasping incoherently.
“No,” Annabel warned. “You do that, you could lead them straight to Stevenson.”
She was right, but pain choked his words. Annabel said, “Tell her you don’t know.”
“Don’t…know…” he whimpered obediently.
“Who is he working with?” Hazel demanded, again pressing down.
“I don’t know!”
Micah sighed in disgust. “Give it up, Haze. He doesn’t know anything.”
She didn’t look convinced. “Then what’s Stevenson paying him for? I saw him in Piermont; he must’ve turned around and followed me straight to Forelli’s.”
“No,” Hammon stammered. He wished she’d just hit him again; that hurt less than the way she was looking at him, like she could see straight through him and hated what she saw.
“Tell her the truth,” Annabel said.
The truth? He didn’t know it himself. He only knew she and Micah were in trouble, and they were running from Stevenson. “I didn’t tell Stevenson anything. He doesn’t know I found you.”
“Not that!” Annabel said.
“And I didn’t shoot your father.”
Hazel’s eyes narrowed. “I never said he was shot.”
“Stevenson did…”
“Stop saying Stevenson,” Annabel snapped. “You’re digging your own grave.”
“I swear…I…uh…oh…God…” he choked, his voice edging toward hysteria. He banged his head against the pavement, fighting back a giggle. This wasn’t funny. Headlights swept through the lot, casting long shadows beneath the Fairmont. The car stopped, lights shut, doors slammed, and voices receded. He could call out, but if help came, Hazel and Micah would leave and he might never find them again. He had to make them understand he wanted to help. Through one lens of his glasses, he watched Micah open his backpack.
“Rope. Duct tape. A paintball gun.” Micah dug out the compact neon-pink-and-green “toy” Glock, inspecting it, feeling the weight. “Holy shit! This thing’s real.”
Hazel took it from Micah and leveled it at Hammon. “You painted a real gun to look like a toy?”
Micah reclaimed the gun. “It hasn’t been fired in a while.”
“He could have cleaned it.”
“Then it’d be clean. It’s hard to fire with a petrified gummy bear wedged behind the trigger.” Micah flipped through Hammon’s wallet. “Driver’s license says he’s John O. Hammon, from Manasquan, New Jersey. Fairmont registration in Stevenson’s name. Jersey boat registration, thirty-six foot, wood, diesel, also Stevenson. One library card.”
Hammon heard the
thunk
of the trunk releasing. “Oh shit,” he mumbled.
Annabel looked back. “Oh shit.”
Micah surveyed the contents. “Oh shit.”
“What now?” Hazel walked over. Micah blocked her. She pushed past then turned back to Hammon. “A shovel and a tarp?”
“For burying things,” he admitted.
“Things?” Hazel said.
Annabel shook her head. “Your communication skills suck.”
He couldn’t remember the word. Think…damnit…“Dead things.” Hammon winced from the pain in Hazel’s eyes. “I know last night…I talked about hurting you…I meant that…” he struggled, breaking into nervous giggles. “I was only gonna kidnap you, then…”
“Otto, just shut up already!” snapped Annabel.
“Haze, give me the tire iron,” Micah said.
Hammon’s brain itched as the stitches inside came undone. He moaned, rubbing his skull against the pavement. “I WON’T HURT YOU!”
Micah looked around. “He’s getting loud. Someone might notice.”
No! If anyone came over, they’d leave and he would never see Hazel again. He couldn’t let that happen.
“I’ll be quiet,” he insisted, desperately looking as cooperative as possible, lying next to the tire like…“Roadkill!” he said brightly, at last recalling the elusive term. Somehow, it only seemed to further infuriate Hazel.
“Hon, let’s go,” Micah said. “He’s just hired help. He doesn’t know anything useful.”
She looked down at Hammon. “We can’t leave this here.”
He’d been reduced to “this.” “Hazel…” he pleaded.
She knelt down, looking at him with those beautiful dark eyes, hating him.
“Tell her the truth,” Annabel said.
“I was just looking for
Revenge
. I…I’m…” Hammon choked, searching for the words.
“Sick. You’re sick.”
He knew that. “I’ll follow you. I promise.”
“No.” Micah wrapped a strip of duct tape across his mouth. “You won’t.” Another length bound his arms behind his back.
Hazel wiped her face against her shoulder and turned to Micah. “We have to get rid of…”
Hammon flopped around like a landed fish, and he struggled to speak against the tape, desperate to get their attention. Micah glanced down and Hammon stared up. Please don’t kill me, he pleaded silently. Micah turned away, talking to Hazel too quiet for Hammon to hear.
“That’s not encouraging,” Annabel said.
They turned back to him. Micah grabbed his shoulders, and Hazel took his ankles, lifting him and rolling him into the trunk, onto the muddy, stinking tarp. The shovel dug into his spine.
“His leg isn’t broken.” Hazel shoved the twisted right limb into the trunk. “It’s a prosthetic. That’s why he didn’t scream.” She snapped open a vicious little knife and lowered the blade to his throat.
“Haze,” Micah said gently. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” Her troubled eyes met Hammon’s for a second that lasted an eternity. “He found us once, he’ll find us again. And you saw what he’s got with him.”
He tried futilely to explain through the duct tape. Annabel leaned against the car. “I think you’re doing better not talking.”
Hazel was in danger, and once he was dead, he couldn’t help. He’d failed. The blade pressed to his flesh as Hammon gazed up, helpless. He’d given up on struggling. It was pointless. He couldn’t stop her. He was doomed.
“We kill him,” Micah said, “Stevenson just sends someone else.”
“We’ll worry about that when it happens.”
Hammon studied Hazel, so beautiful even as she was about to kill him. Her eyes, so innocent and deadly, looked straight through his broken soul, and his heart wrenched the same way it did that first time her gentle fingers caressed his scarred cheek. He leaned his face against her arm, savoring the bittersweet sensation of his damaged skin pressed to her smooth perfection; it felt so good, but it was the last time they’d ever touch. A single tear caught beneath her trembling lip.
“No.” Micah closed his hand around hers, lifting the blade, pulling her away. “I won’t let you do this.”
It didn’t matter. His heart would seize first from the horrible, crushing anguish.
“Go back to the truck,” Micah said. “I’ll deal with Hammon.”
“But…” she protested. “You…
you
can’t.”
Micah handed her the backpack. “Go.”
Hammon heard a door open, then close. He twisted sideways, trying to catch the edge of the tape, hoping to scrape it off. He struggled to figure a way out of the tape, out of the trunk, and out of a terrible misunderstanding rapidly approaching an unpleasant conclusion.
“You look uncomfortable,” Micah said.
Hammon bobbed his head frantically, wondering why that would matter. Micah rolled him forward, pulled the shovel out from under him, and straightened his glasses.
“I warned you not to hurt her. She actually trusted you, and you broke that trust.”
Micah looked around, then raised the shovel over his head like an axe.
Hazel watched, barely able to breathe. Just one swing, then Micah surveyed the results with grim satisfaction. He returned the shovel to the trunk, slammed it closed, and tossed the tire iron into the bed of the yard truck.
“Well, that’s that.” He climbed in and started the engine, pulling out.
For several miles neither spoke. Hazel wanted to break down but she couldn’t. Not yet, maybe not ever. She curled up, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs.
Micah sighed, breaking the silence. “On the bright side, things can’t get much worse.”
“You keep saying that, but they do.”
“I’m just trying to cheer you up. Your dad’s got Nurse Chris watching over him so he’s probably safer than any of us. He’ll be back to his mean old self in no time.
Witch
’ll get fixed…”
“And now you’re killing people.”
He switched on the radio and flipped through stations, stopping on a Chili Peppers tune. “Your point?”
Her throat was tight and she felt sick. This was what they’d come to? “You’re not a killer.”
“I guess all the video-game violence must’ve desensitized me. You shouldn’t let it bother you; you’re just tired. And I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry.”
Hazel stared at Micah, stunned. “How can you eat after…?”
“Hammon?” He shrugged. “I did what I had to. You wanted him dead, right?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“Don’t blame yourself. I never would’ve figured him for a hired thug. He seemed like a nice kid.”
“With an emergency roadside burial kit.” Had that been meant for them? She shuddered at the thought. Why did she let Hammon get so close? It was a careless, dangerous mistake. She’d lowered her guard, put their lives at risk, and turned Micah into a murderer as a result. “Can we not talk about this right now?”
“I’ll give you, that stuff in the trunk was pretty creepy. Still, something doesn’t fit. Like, why didn’t he call for help instead of just staring at you like a lost puppy?”
“I don’t know and I really don’t want to discuss it.”
“It’s like he didn’t even try to defend himself. I don’t get it.”
“You mind telling me what you’re driving at?”
“That diner there.” Micah pointed toward the lights up ahead. “I’m just trying to figure it out. You trusted him, and that’s not like you.”
Was he deliberately trying to upset her? “You don’t get the concept of ‘drop it,’ do you?”
Micah pulled into the diner’s nearly vacant parking lot. “You actually liked him, didn’t you?”
“Will that shut you up? Yeah, fine. I fell for the shy little boy-scout act. But he’s dead and so is the horse. Stop beating it.” Hazel stared out at the neon lit windows. “And I said I’m not hungry.”
Micah chuckled. “Relax, hon, I didn’t kill your boyfriend.”
“What? I saw you.”
“Scare the piss out of him. I hit the spare tire. I said I’d take care of things. You were angry, not like I blame you. But it messed up your judgment. First off, I don’t think he shot your father and neither do you, or that swing you took would’ve been at his skull. Alive, he’s leverage and potential information. We’ve got his phone. Let’s see who he’s dealing with and what they know. Second, I might know where
Tuition
is. And lastly, I’ve got a feeling Hammon’s part of something he doesn’t understand any more than us. Let’s eat. We’ve got a busy night ahead.”
Micah killed the headlights and pulled onto the shoulder, just down the road from Turner Speed. Floodlights shined across the lot surrounding the drab cinder block building. Massive roll-up doors covered a pair of service bays. On the second floor, the blue flicker of a television danced.
“Tell me that’s not a perfect place to stash a rig,” Micah said.
Hazel nodded. “Unfortunately it looks like someone’s home.”
“Watch and learn.” Micah set Hammon’s cell phone to speaker and pushed the speed dial for “Gary.”
“Zap? Where the hell are you?” grumbled an aggravated voice.
In an official tone Micah said, “We’re sorry. Hammon can’t come to the phone right now, he’s a bit tied up at the moment. And gagged, so he wouldn’t have much to say anyways.”
“Who is this? You’re the one who beat up Stevenson and took his goddamned boat. Where’s Hammon? What’d you do to him?”
“He’s okay, for the time being at least. You tell him, next time he crosses us he won’t be so lucky.”
“Tell him how? Where is he?”
“At the hospital. Go to Hackensack. When you get there, call me back.”
“Look, you got issues with Stevenson, that’s your business. Leave the kid out of it. He’s fucked up enough already, he doesn’t need this. I don’t need this.”
“Neither do we.”
Micah shut the phone. Hazel said, “And that accomplished what?”
The TV blinked off and a figure rushed outside, climbing into a black Dakota pickup. “I’m guessing that’s Gary.”
“Ever seen him before?” Hazel asked as the Dakota screeched out. “No, but now we’ve got roughly two hours, and we’ve got keys.”
They waited as the taillights moved down the road, heading toward the Parkway, then they stalked closer. Aside from a cat with part of its left ear missing, no one took notice. A second cat, also sporting a tipped ear, appeared as they approached the boat racks.
“Damn,” Micah commented as he looked over the storage racks, occupied by an assortment of sleek fiberglass speedboats, each gaudier than the next, with tacky graphics and names like
Liquid Assets
and
The Dominator
. There was one exception: a stodgy battleship-gray twenty-eight-foot plumb-bowed cruiser with a flush deck and round bronze ports, resting on a custom cradle.
Micah said, “What’s this relic doing here?”
Hazel read the name,
Temperance,
and smiled. “She’s a Sea Bright skiff. Tough, stable, and very popular with rum runners during Prohibition. They could launch and land in beach surf and outrun the Coast Guard cutters. I’ll bet this thing’s got some serious balls.”
They moved toward the buildings, hanging in the shadows. Three more cats appeared.
“Guard cats?” Micah mused. “Weird…they’re
all
missing part of their left ear.”
“They’re feral. Otto said his friend Gary feeds the local strays. The tipped ears mean they’re part of a maintained colony and they’ve already been captured, neutered, and released.”
“Clearly we’re dealing with some bad-ass hardened criminals.”
A sign outside the door warned the premises were protected by Smith & Wesson, though the length of heavy chain and an oversized, slobber-stained water bowl were far more ominous. Inside, they could hear nails clicking on cement and noses snuffling at the door.
“Otto told me Gary’s dogs are mushes.” Hazel held up crackers she’d brought and jingled Hammon’s keys as she unlocked the door, hoping to elicit a friendly response. A massive mutt sized her up and eagerly accepted her offerings as they entered. “The big one’s Charger, and the little one was some kind of snack food…Twinkie or Ring Ding…”
“Yodel!” Micah petted the black-and-white dachshund. The whole dog wagged enthusiastically, then rushed to grab a grungy tennis ball. From then on searching presented no problem so long as they tossed squeaky toys and tennis balls as fast as the dogs brought them. Under observation of several cats, they entered the rear shop, which housed assorted automotive and marine projects in various states of completion.
“Nice toys.” Hazel inspected an ’89 Mustang Coupe, hood off to reveal a spotless 351. “But no
Tuition.
”
Escorted by the dogs, they opened the office. Invoices and bills blanketed the desk, and a quick jiggle of the mouse woke the computer from its screensaver. Micah double-clicked the QuickBooks icon and grinned when he saw it set to “Remember password” box. A quick search under “Stevenson” revealed large deposits starting five years earlier, funding the property purchase and business incorporation. Tools and equipment, jobs in progress and completed, inventory, payroll, insurances, utilities; all standard business expenses, nothing suspicious or alarming. They headed upstairs with the dogs right behind. Hazel liked having them along: they’d be the first to know if anyone was returning.
Aside from the stacks of car magazines and catalogs, the apartment was tidy. Laundry in the hamper, clothes folded in drawers. No weird drugs. A reasonably clean kitchen. Dishes in the dishwasher, some beer, milk, and leftovers in the fridge. Hazel dug through the cabinets, and the dogs perked up, hoping for handouts.
Micah checked inside the hall closet, stepping on a squeaky alligator. “Hammon uses this address, but I’d venture he doesn’t live here. It’s too neat.” He flung the toy and Yodel bounded after it. Charger picked up the alligator with a ferociously growling Yodel still dangling.
Hazel looked as Micah searched around the TV. “You see anything?”
“
Star Trek
,
Terminator
, a whole bunch of Marvel movies. If they weren’t the bad guys, they’d be cool to hang with.”
Micah bounced a soggy tennis ball down the stairs, wiping his hands on his pants as Yodel raced after it. Charger had it figured out; he’d let Yodel do all the hyper scrambling then claim the toy after Yodel retrieved it.
“This was a waste of time.” Hazel sat on the floor and scratched Charger’s head. Yodel pushed in and climbed onto her lap.
“No. We just established one more place
Tuition
isn’t.”