Last Exit in New Jersey (31 page)

Hazel took a deep breath, willing herself calm. Panic wouldn’t solve anything. How bad was she cut? As Hammon watched in despair, she found her pulse, racing faster than blood flowed from the wound. In the corner of her eye she spotted his vivid gun lying among her wet clothes. He looked over at the Glock but made no attempt to pick it up.

“I’m so sorry,” Hammon said, his voice breaking. “I never meant to hurt you.”

Hazel grabbed the gun, leveling it at his chest. She expected he’d try to wrestle it away from her but he didn’t. He only sat motionless and sighed.

“So this is it, huh?” He smiled weakly. “Okay, I guess. Go ahead; get it over with.”

It wasn’t a dare or a challenge; it was an offering. Still she didn’t move, locked in his eerie gaze. This was her chance. Just shoot him. But Micah’s words echoed in her head, and she wondered if there might be another option.

“How much is Stevenson paying you?”

“I already told you, he’s…” Suddenly he brightened. “Why? You want to make a counteroffer, right? You want my help and, you really don’t want to kill me!”

There was no point in denying it. “I know who has the money. I don’t know how much, but it must be a lot.”

“I help you, I get a cut?” Hammon paused, looking from her neck to his bleeding hand. Ignoring the gun leveled at him, he reached across and pulled some White Castle napkins from his coat pocket. “Is that it?” He blotted his palm and winced. “In exchange for my help, I share the spoils of this war.”

“Yes.”

“No.” He gazed at her, his odd, colorless eyes magnified through the glasses, a strange tranquility barely veneering the madness. “I want more.”

“You can have it all. I don’t want it.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Again he reached past the gun as though it wasn’t there, softly dabbing her throat with a napkin. “I want you.” His eyes almost glowed. “I help you, you stay with me. You can’t leave. Not now, not ever.”

“Stay?” she repeated.

A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek. “Yeah. Forever. Stay with me or shoot me. That’s your choice.” Hammon leaned forward, reaching down, cautiously untaping her ankles. “I know I’m insane, but I’m not crazy. I can’t lose you. Without you I might as well be dead. I love you. I’ll never leave you. I’ll die for you. Maybe you hate me, but I’ll take that chance.”

It was insane, he was insane, and she was insane to even consider it. Slowly, with infinite care, he lifted her chin, his hand trembling the slightest bit. Hazel squeezed her eyes shut, laughing quietly when she imagined what Micah would say. Hammon gently held her face, taking another napkin and wiping away the blood. She laid the gun down beside them and took his other hand, turning it, inspecting a deep slash cutting through layers of scars, still bleeding but not seriously. He flinched and fidgeted, biting back a whimper as her grip on his fingers tightened. Hazel checked her watch. It would be slack tide soon. Too soon. She had so many questions, and time for only one.

“Otto? Yesterday, why did you shoot me?”

“I didn’t know what else to do. You were in danger, and I knew you wouldn’t trust me. The only way I could keep you safe was to kidnap you. I had to protect you, even if you wouldn’t understand.”

There was no mistaking the pure, childlike devotion in his eyes. Micah was right. It made no sense, but nothing did anymore. Trembling, she moved forward, kissing him tenderly.

“I do understand.” Her lips brushed his while her hand found the dart gun in the backpack. “And so should you.”

Hazel sat alone on
Revenge
’s unlit bridge and watched the beach. The moon was a thin crescent, barely visible in the dark sky. From her vantage point, she scanned the empty length of Sandy Hook, spotting the approaching headlights. Through the night scope, she could clearly see Keith park, looking around anxiously as he stepped from the Jeep. She switched on the digital recorder, the tiny LED flickering as it picked up
Revenge
’s quietly burbling engine, and dialed the cell phone. She set the phone to speaker, tucking it and the recorder in her pocket.

“Okay, Micah,” she said softly. “Here goes. Let’s see what we catch.”

Meeting Keith was risky; there could be someone else in the shadows, ready to gun her down on sight. It was naive to expect anything less. Walking onto an isolated pier would be suicide. Meeting somewhere public and crowded might have been safer, but it wouldn’t work for her plans. She was sticking with a lesson Joe taught her long ago. The safest defense was to stay out of range.

Inches above the high-tide line, a folding beach chair waited in the sand, a colorful towel draped across the back and a yellow plastic bucket to the side. An innocent arrangement, as though merely forgotten at day’s end. Hazel watched Keith trudge across the sand, guided by the glowing display on his handheld GPS, head swiveling like a frightened rabbit in an open field.

The stretch of beach left no spot for hiding, not for her and Micah or anyone else. And though the chair faced the ocean, as he hesitantly dropped into the low fabric seat, Keith watched over his shoulder. Due to the height of the chair, getting to his feet would be awkward; he leaned forward, visibly nervous as he scanned the surrounding beach. For a moment he turned toward the empty darkness of the ocean. The surf masked
Revenge
’s softly idling diesel, and her unlit black transom blended seamlessly into the night. Keith removed the flashlight from the bucket, following Hazel’s instructions, shining it on his face, identifying himself, signaling Hazel and effectively cancelling any night vision he had.

Hazel smiled coldly. This was it. This was for her father and Micah.

She yanked up on the line leading down to the cockpit, which pulled free a screwdriver serving as the pin securing two toggle hitches together. Simultaneously the two anchor lines which had held
Revenge
with her stern facing the beach were released. Hazel pegged the throttle;
Revenge
surged forward, drawing tight the three hundred feet of line trailing from the three game-fish rods. Each line, weighted along the bottom and buried under a foot of wet sand on shore, formed a large, sliding loop, the outer edge taped smooth against the frame of the chair, hidden by the towel and the darkness. In the simplest sense it was a giant snare, with Keith perfectly positioned as the loops closed at his chest, waist, and knees, jerking him from his seat and into the breaking surf, leaving only a tilted chair and a flashlight in the sand. A perfect ten-point catch. Hazel only wished Micah could have seen it.

She flipped on the spreader lights and went below, easing the throttle at the cockpit station, giving Keith a chance to catch some air as she dragged him out to sea. He immediately began screaming sputtering threats, and Hazel pushed the throttle until the wake covered his face, forcing him to shut up or drown. That silenced him, but she knew if he was dead he’d be no use to her, so she put
Revenge
into neutral, reeling him alongside, then brought in the line snaring his legs. Ignoring his thrashing, she swung the boom over the water and pulled the heavier line down, tossing a loop around his tangled feet, then powered the winch and hauled him up, dangling head-down like a flailing game fish.

“Hello, Keith.”

It took every bit of willpower she could muster to suppress her loathing at the sight of him, but she knew it was vital she stay with the script. Only, without Micah there, she wasn’t sure whether to play good cop or bad cop.

“Micah!” he bellowed, untangling fishing line from his arms and twisting to reach a pistol secured in a holster beneath his shirt, hanging halfway over his face. “Where is that bastard?” He managed to unclip the gun and search for his target while the boat rolled, alternately swinging him through the air and plunging him headfirst underwater. She gave him credit; he never dropped the gun.

“Please, Keith, lose the gun,” Hazel advised. “Don’t force me to do something you don’t want me doing.”

Through two more rolls and dips he refused, his face contorted with rage each time he came up for another gasping mouthful of air.

“I asked nicely.” Hazel lowered the boom, keeping Keith below the waves. He used all those well-defined muscles to raise his upper body, fumbling and dropping the gun as he struggled to remain above sea level.

“Where’s…Micah…”

“You’ll see him soon enough. First you talk to me.” Hazel began reeling in the now slack wire lines. She didn’t want them fouling the prop. “It seems you’ve broken a whole lot of those commandments you were teaching me. Thou shalt not steal, adultery, and I’m pretty sure you mentioned one about killing. I’m not one to judge; only why else did you have a gun? It’s truly disappointing.”

The backpack had slipped down, dangling behind his head. Hazel leaned out with a boathook and snagged it. Keith clung to one strap and Hazel submerged him further, waiting until he let go. He tried the impressive curl with less vigor, splashing down like a bag of sand. Hazel hauled the backpack into the cockpit, giving Keith another moment to contemplate his situation, watching while his arms flailed wildly before raising him into the air. Coughing violently, he vomited saltwater while she opened the backpack, peeling apart soggy sections of the Sunday
Bergen Record
, stuffed with flyers and advertisements.

“Oh, look. There’s a Fourth of July sale at Nelson Appliance.” Hazel sighed, shaking her head. “Micah said you might try something like this. I hoped you wouldn’t. You know, I wanted to be forgiving and give you a chance to redeem yourself, but you’re not making it easy.”

Keith retched in spasms, struggling to speak.

Hazel leaned against the transom. “I didn’t want to do this.” No, she wanted to use treble hooks on the lines and drag him over some oyster beds first, then question him. “But you’re leaving me no choice. Will you just talk to me?”

He gagged, strings of phlegm trailing from his mouth.

“I’ll take that as a yes. You know, I didn’t even want the money, just the truth. You told me I must seek the truth. But now I’m not sure I can trust you. Can I trust you, Keith?”

“Where’s Micah?” he choked.

“I already told you, first you talk to me. You’re going to tell me where you fit in this whole mess and who else is involved. Then I confirm facts. Wrong information results in more unpleasantness. You decide just how bad this gets.”

“Let me aboard and we can talk,” he pleaded.

“After you showed up with the Sunday paper and a gun? I don’t think so.”

“I wasn’t going to shoot you.”

“Who, then?” she asked, her voice tight. “Micah?”

“He’s a sinner, Hazel. I know you don’t see it, but he is.”

And down he went. Hazel eased
Revenge
into gear, gunning the engine. The sound of the prop biting water would send a clear message: he was dangling beside a diesel-powered Cuisinart. Hazel dropped the boat back to idle and shifted to neutral, hauling Keith up, waiting as he expelled more of the Atlantic. She took a moment to admire the terror in his face.

“Here’s your options, Keith. You start talking, or I test reverse. I’ve heard confession is good for the soul. Who else was involved?”

“It’s Nelson’s operation,” Keith admitted. “They moved drugs. Him, Kessler, and Atkins, polluting the world with their evil, profiting on the weaknesses of others. I was going to purify the money by using it for the Lord’s work. Atkins was supposed to be driving,” he insisted. “He’s a sinner and a blasphemer. He’s damned anyways. They’re all damned, and their greed would be their downfall.”

“Who else?”

“That was it. Nelson kept it small: Kessler handled the dealers, Atkins drove.” Keith coughed. “I heard Nelson and Kessler talking. I knew if the money never arrived, they’d turn on each other. I’d use the money for good and let the evil be punished at their own hands. This was my chance to truly serve the Lord and prove my faith to Him. I followed the truck; when Micah stopped, I took it. You have to understand, it was supposed to be Atkins. But Micah was knowingly associating with sinners.”

“Did you even consider that stealing the truck was a sin? Or does that not apply if you do it for God?”

“I knew Christ would forgive me. I told you, if we confess our sins, He is just and will forgive us and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

Hazel’s hand hovered over the winch switch. His twisted zealousness infuriated her, but she restrained herself from submerging him. “Look, Keith, I know you didn’t pull this off alone. I know there’s others involved. Just tell me who.”

His expression clouded and he shook his head. “No one…”

“Wrong answer.” The winch whined as he descended. She lowered him until waves smacked his head and each roll of the boat dipped him briefly.

“I want names…now!”

Keith twisted frantically, whimpering.

Hazel’s hand hovered over the throttle. “You’re not going to make me go backwards, are you?”

She waited for his reply, and through that pause came a faint squeak, almost like a mouse. Or a hiccup.

“Do me a favor,” she told Keith. “Just hang there a minute.” She stepped into the cabin, closing the door.

Hammon was right where she’d deposited him, taped up and sprawled across the cabin sole. She wasn’t happy about leaving him like that, but she was certain he’d get in the way or get hurt if she didn’t. He blinked with the sluggish, disoriented look of a sedated puppy.

“Annabel.” He gazed up helplessly. “Hazel’s gone again, isn’t she?”

She said nothing. It was impossible to imagine the effect ketamine had on a damaged brain like his.

“She hates me,” he moaned.

Hazel sighed. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“But she shot me.”

“You shot her first.”

“To protect her.”

“Exactly.”

“I have to help her. I’d die for her.”

“And that’s precisely what we’d like to avoid.” She knelt down, brushed the hair back from his face and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. His eyes grew wide, and he smiled a trusting, childlike smile.

“Hazel? You stayed! I don’t feel so good. My head feels weird.”

“I’m sorry.” She ripped off a strip of duct tape, covering his mouth. “Trust me. It’s for your own good.” She returned to the cockpit, shut the door, and regarded Keith, swinging like a pendulum with each roll of the boat.

“So, what to do with you? No offense, Keith. It’s not that I don’t trust you…No, actually that’s exactly it: I don’t, and I can’t. There’s something you’re not telling me. But if you’re not going to, there’s not much I can do.”

“You’re going to kill me,” he choked.

“Do I have to? Personally, I’d rather not. I’m not the devout Christian you are, but I do know killing is wrong. Then again, you said I’m going to burn in hell anyways, so I might as well just run this boat back and forth till you’re chum.” She reached for the winch. “You’ve already got your reservations booked in heaven so you’ve got no worries, and we’ll certainly make the striped bass happy.”

“No!” Keith sputtered.

Hand on the switch, she paused. “Why not?”

“I can get you the money, it’s in a storage center!” he shrieked between waves. “I know where, but I don’t have the key.”

Now she was getting somewhere. “And what trusting soul does?”

“Valerie,” he said, his voice awash in humiliation.

That wasn’t the answer she’d expected, though in hindsight it did connect a number of dots. “I’m listening.”

“She told me about Nelson’s operation. She had a copy of the route Atkins was supposed to drive. She said if I took the truck we’d have their money and it would destroy Nelson.” Keith stared across at Hazel, ashamed. “She came to me after you rejected me. She’d learned her husband was unfaithful, she was crying, and…” His voice faded.

Hazel sighed. “Let me guess. She wanted to get even with Nelson, and she put her hand down your pants.”

“I was weak,” he sobbed.

“No.” Hazel grumbled, furious with herself for not seeing it sooner. “Valerie needed a driver and she used you. You were set up. She tried the same act with Micah, but he didn’t go for it. All she wanted was the money. We don’t. It’s caused nothing but pain. All Micah and I want is to set things right and be safe again.”

Her hand dropped from the winch and she turned away. She knew what she had to do and it wasn’t going to be easy or pleasant. It was Micah’s idea; he insisted she could pull it off. She turned back to Keith.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to do this, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve been so scared. Everyone is trying to hurt us. I didn’t know where to turn anymore. And when I came to you…hoping you could help me, protect me…
needing
you…” Her voice wavered, and she wiped imaginary tears.

“You were with…with
her
.” She looked to him in anguish. “I want to trust you, Keith, but I’m so scared. I need you, I realize that now. You told me once if I open my heart to Jesus, he’d forgive me. But can you? Is it too late for us? Could you show me the way of the Lord? Can you be like Jesus?”

She wasn’t sure whether it was too much inhaled seawater and prolonged upside-down dangling affecting his brain, or, as Micah theorized, Keith was genuinely obsessed with winning her undefiled body and heathen soul. She never believed she’d pull it off with a straight face, and she never figured Keith would buy it, but as Micah predicted he took the bait, hook, line and sinker. His face glowed with rapturous delight. “Yes!”

“Truly?”

“Yes! Do you know how long I’ve prayed to hear you say those words?”