Read Last Exit in New Jersey Online
Authors: C.E. Grundler
By the time they reached Paramus the sun had set. Micah fiddled with the satellite radio, turning up the Clash. In Hillsdale, deer stared out from the grassy median, eyes glowing eerily as they stood beneath a sign for the upcoming service area. At Exit 171, Hazel spotted a fox stalking dinner. Micah pulled into the left lane, glancing silently at the yellow “LAST EXIT IN NEW JERSEY” sign as he circled through the Montvale service area.
“Last exit,” Hazel said as they passed the main building. “It sounds so final.”
The first wave of Fourth of July travelers had passed through on Friday, but traffic was still heavy, and minivans, sport-utilities, and station wagons loaded with kids, dogs, luggage, beach chairs, and bicycles filled every available parking space. Occupants of the southbound cars were, for the most part, pale and restless, the northbound crowd sunburned, weary, and subdued.
“Over there.” Micah pulled up beside a rusted red Corolla parked off toward the commuter spaces. The sight of Atkins was as repellant as it was relieving. Hazel had come to question her trust in everyone, but she sensed Micah was right: beneath the skeevy exterior, Atkins was a genuinely good person.
He nodded a greeting. “You kids okay? I was getting worried.”
“Yeah, we’re fine.” Micah smirked. “But getting a car was a pain in the ass for Hazel.”
“Ignore him,” Hazel said. “What’s up?”
Atkins flashed the few teeth he had in a revolting grin. “I was down at the police station back home chatting with our nice law officers, discussing my barbequed trailer, an’ I overhear your dad’s rig turned up down the road from here. I came up and took a look for myself. Door’s painted over, no plates, but it’s a match.”
“Welcome to the retail center of the universe.” Micah said as they followed the Corolla down Route 17 south and Hazel studied the passing scenery of shopping centers and strip malls. “I was studying this place in Economics. Even with some of the most restrictive blue laws in the U.S. closing the entire town on Sundays, this little town still ranks first nationwide for retail business. You know,
Paramus
is the Indian word for ‘shopping center.’”
“Seriously?” Hazel looked across the vastness that was the Garden State Plaza, teeming with traffic and people. It was the largest mall in the state and one of four major malls within Paramus.
“Actually, it means ‘place of the fertile soil.’”
Hazel scanned the traffic; threats could lurk anywhere in the endless ebb and flow of vehicles, and they’d never know it. A black Mercedes cruised toward them, and she tensed until she saw the driver was a blonde woman, chatting merrily on a headset. Micah glanced over.
“Hon, relax. We’ll be fine. You’ve just got to watch your ass.”
Hazel glowered at the dart in the dashboard, knowing she’d have to ride out Micah’s jokes until he got bored or found something better to tease her about. She couldn’t blame him; it was somewhere between funny and absurd, and it made no sense. Hammon made no sense. Everything he did contradicted every fact she knew. She didn’t say anything, but she really wished Micah had stayed with the plan and stuck Hammon in the trunk. It shouldn’t have mattered, but she wondered how he was. Had Micah hit him too hard? Was he still lying unconscious or dead in the bushes? Maybe they should have called Gary to check on him and make sure he was okay.
“Quit sighing,” Micah said. “Cheer up. I’ve got a feeling things are going to start happening.”
“Things
have
been happening. We could do with a few less things.”
“Good things, I mean,” Micah said as they crept past the mall. “Would you believe this used to look like Down Jersey?” He wove through the dense traffic fighting to squeeze into the acres of overflowing parking lots. “I read this was once all celery fields. People think these malls always existed, like George Washington shopped there and they planned the American Revolution in the food court.”
Hazel knew he was only trying to keep her preoccupied by pretending he wasn’t as nervous as she was. She shifted, checking behind them.
“Sore butt?”
She shot Micah a dirty look. “How do you know someone didn’t follow us?”
“Not someone. Hammon. You figured he would, and you’re disappointed he hasn’t.”
“If I never see Hammon again, it’ll be too soon.”
“Bull.” Micah chuckled. “You get within ten feet of each other, sparks fly. You two go together like alcohol and firearms.”
“He shot me!”
“With a tranquilizer gun. I think he wanted you alive, unharmed.”
“That’s reassuring.”
Micah followed Atkins’s Corolla around the perimeter service road, pulling up behind the Freightliner. Despite spray paint covering all identification, there was no mistaking the truck, from the mirrors and grill to the port and starboard clearance lights and the satellite radio antenna. The trailer hung open and empty.
Hazel scanned the area. There was too much traffic, too much activity. The back of her neck prickled as she climbed out. Maybe it was how easily she’d been shot, but her radar was on high, and she couldn’t shake the feeling they were in the crosshairs of a gun sight. Atkins stood watch while Micah unlocked the truck. The cab light flickered on. He climbed in, opening the passenger door for Hazel. She inspected the tidy cab as Micah slid behind the wheel.
“I can’t reach the pedals. Whoever drove last has the seat way back.”
“Don’t move it.” Hazel leaned over and looked at his feet. “You’re back about four inches. Who do we know that’s around six foot two and can drive a rig?”
“Joe,” Micah said hatefully.
“Maybe.” Hazel spotted something under the edge of the driver’s side floor mat; she picked up the small sliver of bleached wood, smooth in her fingers, with the faintest scent of mint. “Maybe not.” She passed it to Micah, who made a sour face as he held the toothpick splinter up to the cab light. He slipped the key into the ignition, turning it enough to power up the accessories. Music burst from the speakers, proclaiming with rapturous enthusiasm, “And Jesus said, I will make you fishers of men.” The Christian hits station: praise set to a pop beat.
“Someone didn’t shut the radio,” Micah observed.
Hazel switched it off before the next chorus of hallelujah. She thought of her father with tubes running into his arms and down his throat, and some very un-Christian thoughts crossed her mind. Micah squeezed her hand.
“Got anything?” Atkins called up.
Hazel’s eyes met Micah’s. Micah said, “Nothing.”
They’d discussed it on the drive north. Atkins had already helped enough. He’d been shot at, and his home was destroyed; they didn’t want to put him through further risk. They climbed down from the truck.
“Think we should take
Tuition
?” Micah said.
Hazel looked from the Fairmont to the truck, considering. “Not yet.”
Atkins nodded. “I’d say you two come with me, but that’d make the lot of us a bigger target. I’m what you call conspicuous, and no haircut’s gonna help much. You got my cell. You kids get any ideas, you call. I’d give my left nut to strangle whoever the fuck’s behind this all. You,” Atkins gave Micah a punch on the arm. “Cut the jokes and take care of that little girl.”
“Stevenson, Joe, and Keith,” Micah said, back at the wheel and heading south. “Who’d’ve figured?”
“We can’t keep running. It’s time we start setting things straight.”
“Yeah. But how?”
“We want to stay out of range. I’ve got an idea, but we’ll need to set things up. And we need a boat.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
Hazel broke into a cold smile. “We’re going to listen to Jesus. We’re going fishing.”
Micah grinned. “Can I get a hallelujah?”
Hammon caught up to the Fairmont on the trip north, moving close enough as the Garden State Parkway cut through the middle of the Holy Sepulcher Cemetery to see two heads in the car.
He was relieved to see Hazel conscious, and, he imagined, quite pissed. He pictured the anger in her eyes and he grinned. Next time they met things would definitely be interesting.
“You have issues,” Annabel said, studying the endless rows of headstones lining both sides of the Parkway.
“You should know.”
He lowered his speed. The tracker allowed him the luxury of following a mile back. They wouldn’t spot him, and fortunately as a rule, Gary never let the fuel drop below a half tank. Unfortunately he also kept the little pickup spotless, leaving nothing edible to forage. Hammon didn’t dare stop, not for chips, soda, or some much-needed aspirin. He watched Hazel and Micah meet with the Corolla and inspect yet another red semi. Hammon parked behind a van, far enough back to watch without being seen. All identification had been painted over or removed. A thick haze of dust coated it and it looked abandoned, but where did it fit in the grand scheme of things? His heart skipped as Hazel talked with the skeevy dude in the Corolla.
Annabel said, “Captain Whitetrash is definitely the same guy we saw the night Stevenson got shot. I think he’s on their side.”
Hammon settled in his seat, feeling dejected. He was on their side too. They just didn’t know it.
“Otto, look.” Annabel pointed across the lot at a glossy dark blue quadcab Ford F350 with dual rear tires. “That truck was at the rest stop.”
“Shit…” He had a feeling she was right.
“Of course I am. It’s got the same stupid boat prop hitch cover.”
Inside the Ford someone sat motionless. Maybe they were just having a beer or smoking a joint. Hazel and Micah locked the semi, speaking for another moment with Capt. Whitetrash and then returning to the Fairmont, with Micah driving. The Corolla pulled away, then the Fairmont, followed seconds later by the Ford. Hammon followed as they all pulled onto the Parkway south.
The Corolla exited to Route 80, but the 350 stayed on the Parkway, hanging ten cars back, the chrome boat prop a spinning blur. Hammon pulled close, memorizing the license plate. He had no phone and no way of warning Hazel or Micah, even if they would listen. He could speed ahead and signal them, but after shooting Hazel, he imagined his credibility was lacking. His best bet was to hang back and watch, ready to assist. How, he had no idea. He was unarmed, barely able to walk, and driving a truck half the size of the one he tailed.
The road ahead lit up as thick clouds flashed pink from within. The sky opened up, thunder shook the truck, and the line of taillights before them became obscured. Inside the Dakota the mood matched the weather, and neither Annabel or Hammon spoke as the wipers pounded away on high.
Miles passed, the rain passed, traffic thinned, and the Dakota’s fuel gauge crept toward “E.” The Fairmont had to be on fumes by then as well. Ahead, crisp white lights at the service area shone like a beacon, summoning drivers to the petroleum oasis, and Hammon knew he’d have to stop or he’d be pushing the truck.
He breathed a sigh of relief as the Fairmont exited, gliding up to the first open pump beneath the shelter, then panicked as the 350 pulled off, circled like a shark, and stopped on the far side of the farthest island of pumps.
Neither Hazel or Micah noticed either of the pickups, and whatever the 350 intended likely didn’t involve a public setting. Hammon parked directly behind the 350, swiping Gary’s credit card and shoving the gas nozzle in, not waiting for the attendant.
A clean-shaven man in his forties stepped out of the Ford, filling the truck himself as well. Neat and well-groomed, dressed in slacks and a casual button-down shirt, he wasn’t what Hammon expected, but there was no question he was following the kids, watching them intently. He’d left the driver’s-side door open, and as Hammon hobbled past and picked up a window squeegee, he spotted the keys still dangling in the ignition. He paused beside the man, holding the squeegee out so it dribbled dirty water between them, and leaned against the Ford’s open door for balance.
“Cute girl.” Hammon grinned, all fangs. His elbow discreetly pressed the door lock down. “A little young for you, though. Or are you checking out the boy?”
Mr. 350 glanced at Hammon, assessing him, and turned away in disgust. Hammon shrugged, “accidentally” bumping the 350’s door closed as he limped clumsily back to the Dakota, squeegee in hand.
“What the hell?” the man called after him, but Hammon ignored him. Hammon was finishing a hurried, half-assed job on the Dakota’s windows when the familiar sound of the Fairmont’s engine rumbling to life carried through the damp night air.
Across the way, Hazel had taken the wheel, Micah riding shotgun. Hammon tossed the squeegee aside and leapt into the Dakota as the Fairmont pulled away. A stream of obscenities rose from Mr. 350; he grabbed the fire extinguisher beside the fuel pump and smashed the truck’s window, unlocked the door, and jumped in. Mumbling a quick apology to Gary and the Dakota, Hammon accelerated around the 350, cut across, and braked abruptly as the big truck tore away from the pumps. The Ford’s front end smashed into the Dakota’s passenger side, wedging the trucks together. The F350’s enraged driver fought to clear the deflating airbag from the wheel, gunned his engine, and rammed the Dakota aside as he accelerated away.
A family in a minivan stopped, kids pressed to the windows and gaping out in awe. Mom in the passenger seat called over, “Are you okay?”
Hammon nodded blankly. “Fine…” He struggled clumsily to get the Dakota in gear.
“You want me to call the police?”
“Yeah. Police. Yeah.” He scribbled down the plate number, passing it across. “Tell them that guy’s chasing the girl in the Fairmont.”