Read Last Exit in New Jersey Online
Authors: C.E. Grundler
Stevenson was right. Hammon didn’t like what he had to say. Hammon listened, saying nothing. This went so horribly beyond the worst he could imagine, it left him speechless even as his brain boiled with all he wanted to say. He lowered his window, watched the passing darkness, and fought to hold down his churning stomach. Any second now he might hurl, but not out the window. Puking inside Stevenson’s Mercedes would more accurately express his current mood.
“It does explain a lot,” Annabel said, sitting between them.
“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” Stevenson said. “You couldn’t handle it.”
Hammon glared back at him. “Screw you. First we find Hazel. Then we discuss…this.” Not that there’d be any discussions. He’d made up his mind; there was nothing to discuss. He wouldn’t be a part of it.
“I don’t think you have a choice,” Annabel said. “Like it or not, you
are
IT.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“See about what?” Atkins said from the backseat.
Stevenson shook his head. “Don’t ask.”
“That boy’s seriously confused, ain’t he?”
“I’m not saying a word,” Annabel said.
“No one asked you,” Hammon said.
Stevenson and Atkins exchanged looks in the rearview.
Annabel said, “Tell them this is a private conversation.”
“What conversation? I’m not talking to you either.”
“Whoa,” Annabel said. “Chill. I’m on your side.”
“Trouble in fantasy land?” Stevenson asked.
Head down, Hammon hunched his shoulders. “That’d screw up your plans big time, eh? You’re worried I’ve slipped one gear too many, and you’ll never get what you need.”
Hammon tried calling Hazel again, but she still wasn’t answering, not that he expected she would. The car swerved abruptly, and Hammon looked back to see a chrome bumper lying in the road.
“Looks like that came off a Chevelle, don’t it?” Atkins observed.
“A sixty-nine SS, I’d bet,” Stevenson replied grimly. “That’s my girl. At least we know we’re headed the right way.”
Hatred surged in Hammon. “She’s not your girl.”
Ahead, black streaks of rubber led to torn-up grass. Beneath the overgrowth, a single taillight glimmered faintly.
“It’s like chasing a tornado,” Stevenson said. “Just follow the trail of destruction.” He pulled onto the shoulder and rushed over to the Chevelle, wedged within some small bushes, tires slowly revolving in the soft mud. The worst damage was concentrated around the sides and the windshield, which bore a clear imprint of Joe’s forehead. Bloody and disoriented, Joe struggled with the door. He looked from Hammon to Atkins and fumbled for his gun.
“It’s okay.” Stevenson reached in, shifting the car to neutral. “They know the situation.”
Joe slumped back in the seat, wiping his face. “Sorry, man. I messed up your ride. Tried to stop Haze but she got away.”
“You need a doctor.” Stevenson turned to Atkins. “Give me a hand. Let’s see if we can get this thing back to the road; maybe it’s still drivable. Joe, slide over.”
“Stevenson left the Mercedes running,” Annabel whispered. Hammon nodded, slowly backing toward the car. Stevenson reached back and grabbed his shirt.
“Where do you think you’re going? Get in the Chevelle, and when I say, put it in reverse.”
Hammon stood firm. “I’m not taking him anywhere. I’m going after Hazel.”
“No. He…” Stevenson pointed to Atkins, “is taking Joe to the hospital, and WE are going after Hazel. Now get in the damned car so we can push.”
Arguing was only wasting time. Grudgingly Hammon climbed in, glaring warily at Joe.
“Now!” Stevenson yelled. Hammon put the Chevelle in reverse, gunning it as Stevenson and Atkins shoved the crumpled hood. Tires spun, flinging clods of dirt, then grabbed, jerking and hopping the car over the branches and soft ground. Hammon eased it onto the shoulder, climbing out for Atkins and returning to the Mercedes as the Chevelle clattered away.
The next twenty miles passed without a word. Even Annabel remained silent; Hammon wasn’t sure why, but this only made things worse. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard then reached for the radio, only to discover it had been dismantled. He began humming Hampsterdance.
Stevenson looked over, irritation simmering in his eyes. “You just don’t get it.”
“Get what?” Hammon picked at his fang with his middle finger. “Your obsession with revenge, or the fact that Micah’s dead? Was that part of your plans? Then again, what’s one more life? Destroying them is what you do. How about you do everyone a favor and go kill yourself.”
It should have been more satisfying seeing Stevenson wince, but it was a hollow victory.
“At least he still has a few nerves to strike,” Annabel said.
“Like it makes a difference. He doesn’t care; he gets off on manipulating people. He hasn’t changed, he never will.”
Stevenson’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Same could be said for you. Still got those demented fangs, still pulling juvenile pranks and talking to imaginary friends. I hoped you would’ve grown up over the last few years. I should have known by the crickets, nothing’s changed.”
Hammon turned away. “Everything’s changed. Micah’s dead. They were safe on the water; they weren’t supposed to come back. He came back to help me. I didn’t know. She…she talked like he was still alive…”
Stevenson let out a weary sigh. “She’s blocking her pain, not letting it stop her, not while there’s still work ahead. When she runs out of people to kill, then it’s time to worry.”
“So her wanting you dead is a good thing.”
“You could say that. Apparently she has trouble dealing with loss.”
“Asshole. Now I remember why I stopped talking to you.”
Stevenson laughed coldly. “You stopped talking to me when you found out I had you killed.”
With the storage unit locked and the trailer uncoupled, Hazel headed out, driving
RoadKill
bobtail. She hated leaving Micah behind, but she needed to travel light, and the unpleasant truth was that it wouldn’t matter to him anymore.
At midnight nearly every trace of central Paramus’s vibrant economy had curled up and gone to bed, with one glaring exception: Hooters. Lights glowed bright, through the windows Hazel could see the building was packed to capacity, and the parking lot bustled with an overflow of activity.
She killed the truck’s lights and switched off the engine brake as she coasted past and pulled between buildings one lot away. Valerie had confirmed Micah’s claim that Hooters was Tom Nelson’s favorite haunt. And sure enough, Hazel saw Nelson’s dented 350 parked in the reflection of the orange signs.
This was a risky step; if Nelson spotted her, at best it would throw her plans off, and at worst Hazel only hoped the public setting might keep him from shooting before she said her part. Fortunately, no one took notice as she approached the smashed-up Ford 350. Heart pounding, she tucked a note under the pickup’s wiper which read MORAN TRUCKING and her cell phone number. She duct-taped a ziplock bag into the corner of the truck’s bed then sprinted back to the relative safety of
RoadKill
’s cab, watching her mirrors as she pulled away. It was time to return to the storage unit, finish setting up, and wait.
But not for long. As she backed
RoadKill
into position, the phone lit up, vibrating. This was it. She knew what she needed to say but her stomach fluttered with panic. She took a steadying breath.
“Moran Trucking,” she answered in a neutral tone.
There was a nervous hiccup. “Hazel…?” Hammon said, his voice breaking along with her heart.
She slumped back in the seat. “Otto, leave me alone.”
“Where are you?”
“You really think I’ll tell you that?” She laughed, squeezing her eyes shut, blocking the pain in her chest. “Trust me. You’re better off without me.”
“Hazel, please. Listen to me. There’s something you don’t…”
The phone beep-beeped, call waiting. “Good-bye, Otto.” She hit END. The phone buzzed like an angry hornet. She hit SEND.
“Micah? You little bastard, you think this is some game?”
“Hello, Tom. I’m going to say this once so shut up, pay attention, and listen carefully. Micah didn’t take your shipment and neither did Atkins, but we know who did and where it is. In fact, we have the whole mess locked away in a nice, tidy package. If you’d only worked with us from the start, we could have avoided all this trouble.”
“And?” He was suspicious, but listening.
The phone beeped insistently. She ignored it.
“Obviously, you want it back. We want you to go away and leave us alone. We figure the only way that’ll happen is if we tell you where it is. And considering the aggravation you put us through, a small finder’s fee is in order…say, oh, fifty percent. That’s fair, wouldn’t you agree?”
She could hear him breathing.
“Consider it a salvage fee,” she continued. “Half of what you lost plus our silence is better than all of nothing. The way I see it, you owe us big for what you did to my father, our boat, and Atkins’s trailer. So it’s fifty percent; either you agree, or we take this information to the police and let them sort it out.”
The breathing quickened. Hazel imagined he was working out how he’d go around her little split. Finally he said, “Fine. You want half, you’ll get it.”
“I figured as much. So here’s how it works: We already took our share. The rest, along with the ‘masterminds’ behind this unpleasantness, are locked up and waiting.”
“Where? Who are they?”
The phone beeped again.
“And spoil the surprise? What fun is that? But you’ll love this part. You’re not on the road yet, are you? Look in the front left corner of your truck’s bed. There’s a bag with a recorder inside. See it?”
There was a moment of shuffling. “Yeah.”
“Listen to it. They give directions and everything. The gate card and keys are in a plastic bag by the gate. We’ve disabled the security cameras. I’d advise you hurry, before either of our friends get free or make enough noise to attract attention.”
“And you and Micah?”
“Already long gone. I told you. You don’t bother us, we don’t bother you. But try anything stupid, and duplicate recordings go to the police, the news, the Internet; you get the idea. If we go down, we’re taking you with us.”
“She’s not answering,” Hammon said in despair. “She won’t talk to me.”
Stevenson looped the Mercedes around the Nelson & Sons Appliance and Electronics Supersaver Store lot. There was no sign of Hazel or the Kenworth.
“Now what?” Hammon asked Annabel.
“I wish I knew,” Stevenson admitted.
Hammon shot him a dirty look. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Stevenson sighed. “I see. So what does Annabel suggest?”
“That he go fuck himself. Some help he is.” She leaned toward Hammon. “Atkins said she’s got that Keith guy in the back of the truck. Why? I think that’s the live bait she was talking about.”
“That’s what worries me.”
Stevenson looked over. “Care to include me in the conversation?”
“No.” He turned to Annabel. “Didn’t Micah talk about somewhere in Paramus his boss hung out?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Usually you remember these things.”
“Yes. But I wasn’t the one banging our head against a Dodge.”
Stevenson said, “Where in Paramus?”
Hammon rubbed his forehead. “I can’t remember.”
“I guess that hasn’t changed either.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Other than Dunkin’ Donuts and the Suburban Diner, that stretch of Route 17 was empty. But farther ahead Hammon saw signs of life. Cars, trucks, and motorcycles filled the lot; through the windows a crowd was visible. Out front, several girls in snug tank tops and orange shorts waved enthusiastically to passing cars, beckoning them to pull in.
“Hooters! Hooters!” Hammon jumped up in his seat, swiveling and pointing as they passed.
Stevenson’s jaw tightened. “Really? I expected a little more maturity from you, considering.”
“Truck…Hooters…” Hammon stammered, struggling to form a coherent sentence as the bashed-up 350 pulled from the lot. There was no mistaking the Ford; he recognized every dent he’d inflicted.
“Say ‘U-turn,’” Annabel calmly directed.
“You turn!” Hammon yelled.
Annabel said, “Say ‘The psycho that shot Micah is pulling out of Hooters right now.’”
“That psycho shot Micah!” He pointed frantically. “There!”
Stevenson floored it, whipping through the jughandle. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. Faster…you’re losing him.”
“I’m not losing him. I’m staying back. I suspect he’s headed right toward a certain helpless little girl and a very nasty trap.”
Lying on top of the disconnected trailer, set parallel to the vine-strewn eight-foot chain link fence bordering the lot, provided Hazel an uncomfortable but unobstructed view of the entrance gate and unit seventy-one. From ground level her prone silhouette would blend into the backdrop of trees that bordered the property’s overgrown perimeter. Darkness covered much of the lot; she’d shot out all but one of the flood lights, leaving only a deliberately small circle of light illuminating the drive separating the trailer from the building. Behind the trailer, outside the fence, four saplings bent downwards, their straining trunks bowed over with the aid of
RoadKill
. Beyond view, the Kenworth waited on the far side of the building, buried in the shadows between two RVs.
The trailer shook faintly as Keith indulged in one of his occasional struggles to free himself, and an odd sound, almost like a cat wailing, carried across the lot. Valerie was coming around, moaning for help.
Leaving the money went against the Travis McGee code, but Hazel didn’t care. This had never been about the money, not for her. It had been about protecting her family, and there she’d failed. Now it was about avenging them, taking down everyone responsible for what had happened to her father and Micah. Once she had Nelson, she’d decide what to do about Stevenson and Joe; she still hadn’t figured their places in this operation, but she was determined to see things through to the end, whatever that might be.
A set of lights slowed on the highway, breaking from the sparse traffic, and Hazel sank down as the 350 pulled up to the gate. The driver’s door opened and the interior light came on as Nelson stepped out to retrieve the gate pass. There was no one else visible inside the truck, which still didn’t guarantee he was alone. Nelson’s left arm was bandaged, likely from Micah’s gunshot, but the injury looked minor.
Nelson drove in slowly and parked beside the unit. Hazel slid back, listening as the 350’s door slammed. Beneath her Keith thumped around like a fish in a cooler as one set of footsteps approached. In the corner of her eye, she saw movement near the gate; by the time she turned it was gone. Had Nelson brought company, perhaps even Stevenson? It was possible, not that she was worried. There were enough snares to go around. She heard Nelson open the trailer and laugh.
“I’m impressed, Keith. Screwing my wife right under my nose and fucking me over. I didn’t know you had it in you. And you almost pulled it off, but it looks like that little Moran girl played you good.”
Nelson only had to step inside and she’d have him. Hazel waited for the sound of the sapling snapping straight. Instead, a gunshot echoed and the thrashing ceased. Footsteps moved away.
Nelson had dealt with Keith more abruptly than she’d expected, and unwittingly dodged her first trap in the process. Still, three other snares awaited, and she had the Glock and the dart gun. Hazel didn’t want Nelson’s end to come from an unseen bullet: that would be too easy. She wanted him to suffer, and she wanted him to know why. It was vengeance now, pure and simple. It would never bring back Micah, but that wasn’t going to stop her. She wondered if she was turning into something worse than those she hunted. If by night’s end she’d finished off Nelson, Joe, and Stevenson, what would remain of the person she once was? But she couldn’t dwell on that, not while she still had work ahead.
Inside the storage unit, Valerie, no doubt fully awake now and panicked by the sound of gunfire, began screaming, luring Nelson straight toward another snare. In her peripheral vision, Hazel saw movement: a figure hobbled through the shadows along the fence, a faint light reflecting off his glasses as he stalked Nelson. Hammon was moving toward the trailer and the unit, heading straight into a minefield of high-tension snares. He was going to get himself killed trying to rescue her.
She should have disabled him when she’d had the chance; then he wouldn’t have followed her and at least he’d be safe. She could shoot him with a tranquilizer dart, but even if it did penetrate his layers of clothes, it wouldn’t immobilize him fast enough and he’d be left helpless and exposed.
Nelson was walking toward the storage unit, drawn by Valerie’s frantic pleas, as Hammon slipped beside the trailer stalking Nelson. Hazel silently slid herself to the edge, peeled off a strip of caulking, and winged it at him. Hammon paused, glancing around anxiously.
“Otto,” she whispered, praying he’d hear and Nelson wouldn’t.
“Not now.” He rubbed his forehead.
Hazel’s voice caught in her throat as Valerie’s cries amplified. Nelson would be steps away from one snare; once Hammon cleared the trailer after him, he’d be closing in on Nelson and another. She could shoot Nelson, but if Hammon ducked for cover in the shadows, odds were he’d end up horribly snared. She put the dart gun into the backpack, tucked the Glock into her coat pocket, and eased down the back of the trailer, pulse racing as she stepped in front of Hammon.
“Otto, stop,” she said, barely audible.
He looked at her, shaking his head, then slipped past as though she didn’t exist. He narrowly missed the closer snare but headed straight toward the next. Nelson was only ten yards away, his back to them at the unit’s door as he pulled the card key from his pocket. She circled around Hammon, blocking his path.
“Stop,” she mouthed, eyes on Nelson as she drew the Glock.
“Annabel, quit it. Hazel’s…”
Over Valerie’s screams, Nelson still hadn’t heard them. Hazel stepped against Hammon, pressing her fingers to his lips. His eyes widened, and she could see the gears shifting.
“Hazel…”
She leaned toward his ear. “I told you not to follow me.”
“I had to find you,” Hammon said—a bit too loudly, at the very moment Valerie decided to stop screaming. Nelson spun, gun raised, to find himself staring into the barrel of the Day-Glo Glock Hazel aimed rock-steady at the center of his head. With only five yards separating them, neither would have any trouble taking the other out. Time seemed to freeze, and a cold sweat ran down her back. She hadn’t planned for this; she was no longer hidden or out of range, and in that millisecond when Nelson’s focus shifted and the smell of cigarette smoke drifted past, she knew she’d failed. An arm closed around her throat and pulled her backward as the Glock was yanked from her grip. The cool muzzle pressed beneath her jaw, forcing her to look up at Stevenson’s chilling smile.
“Good work, Hammon,” Stevenson said. “I had my doubts at times, but you came through in the end.” He turned his attention to Nelson. “Tom Nelson, right? You mind lowering your gun, considering I just saved your life? I knew this,” he stroked Hazel’s cheek with the barrel, “was hiding somewhere. It was simply a matter of using the right bait to lure her out.”
Was that why Hammon was there? She didn’t want to believe it, but as he stood by, watching with detached indifference, clearly unconcerned by the gun to her head, her heart sank.
“Poor thing.” Stevenson’s strangle hold remained firm. “You almost pulled it off, didn’t you? Things were going perfectly until you risked your pretty little neck to save Hammon’s. Don’t feel bad, we all have our weaknesses.”
A low roar had been building inside her skull, like a distant waterfall, and the sweat from Stevenson’s arm burned the cut on her throat. Her fingers found her knife and she flicked it open as Stevenson squeezed harder and everything turned a dim red.
“Hammon,” he said wearily, “she’s still armed.”
Hammon removed the knife from her hand as her grip slackened and air became more a priority than a fight.
“I’ll take this too,” Hammon said, reclaiming his backpack as the roaring in her head grew deafening. Her lungs ached, the ground tilted, and only Stevenson’s choke hold kept her from falling as her world swam into grayness.
“Behave,” Stevenson warned, his arm loosening just enough for her to breathe. Hazel gulped and coughed, filling her starved lungs. Hammon inventoried his backpack, removing the dart gun.
“Who
are
you people?” Nelson demanded. His gun remained fixed on them, his expression suspicious and uncertain.
“Jake Stevenson. And I understand you’ve already had a run-in with my associate, Hammon. I’ve been trying to speak with you regarding some business, but this delightful little creature kept complicating matters.”
Nelson scanned the shadows uneasily. Other than the sound of Valerie scraping at the door with something metallic, trying to pry it open, all was still. “So where are Micah and Atkins?”
“I’ve already dealt with Atkins,” Stevenson assured him. Hazel’s eyes stung and she squeezed them closed; Atkins was only trying to help, and now he’d paid for it. “And Micah’s lying dead in the freezer in that trailer over there, shot by you last night, I’m told. Truly heartbreaking; he died in her arms. Why do you think she set this little ambush?”
“Is that so?” Nelson grinned at Hazel. “I should thank you, catching that dumb bitch and Keith for me. So let me see if I understand. I kill them, you kill me, get yourself some payback and the money. Was that your plan?”
“Go to hell,” she said softly. “All of you.”
Stevenson laughed. “Enchanting, isn’t she?” The gun moved from her jaw as he touched the blood on his arm, still loose around her neck, then lifted her chin, inspecting the cut. “Hammon, care to explain?”
He shrugged. “It was an accident.”
“You wanted to talk business,” Nelson said impatiently. “So talk.”
Stevenson nodded. “This operation of yours: it’s obvious you have distribution connections but you also have management problems. If a little thing like this,” he lifted a lock of Hazel’s cropped hair, “can disrupt things to this extent, you obviously lack a disciplined team. I believe with some restructuring, we could both profit very nicely.”
The nearest snare was off to their right, a few feet back. Stevenson had relaxed his hold and Hazel made a quick jump to escape, knowing his arm would only tighten back into a controlling choke hold, pulling her back against his chest. But now she’d shifted their angle to where she wanted, and she shoved backwards with all her strength, hoping he’d catch the tripwire. She almost succeeded; Stevenson took a quick step to keep his balance, but not far enough. She tried again, managing to inch him further back. Stevenson squeezed her throat and pressed his face to her cheek, his stubble coarse and painful. “Stop the nonsense or you’ll regret it.”
She pushed back again, but he was ready and it was like trying to move a wall. He lifted her chin, twisting her head painfully.
“Such a fierce little thing. Look at the intensity of that hatred.” He smiled darkly. “You need to watch your step around her. Isn’t that right, princess?”
“She’s a problem,” Nelson said. “We have to get rid of her; she knows too much.”
“True.” Stevenson caressed Hazel’s cheek. “But I have some personal plans for this one first. And besides, she’s still useful in other ways. I hate to say, you’ve left one hell of a sloppy trail. Burning that old sailboat, Atkins’s trailer, shooting her father, her cousin, and Keith; those things draw unwanted attention.”
Stevenson paused for a moment, considering. “Now, our sociopathic little friend here could write a suicide note explaining how she killed her disapproving family, only to learn that her beloved Keith was unfaithful. Poor thing, she already has a documented history of instability and violence; a multiple-murder/suicide would seem perfectly believable.”
“You’ll never make me write that,” Hazel informed Stevenson, her voice strained with loathing.
His fingers traced tenderly along her chin. “Princess, you can’t begin to imagine the things I’m going to make you do. We’re going to have so much fun together, you and I.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting not to let herself cry. Backed to Stevenson as she was, he couldn’t see her tears, but she knew he could feel her shaking with rage and frustration.
“We’ll need to hammer out a few details,” Nelson said, “but I think we can work together. From what I understand, the cash from the last shipment is supposed to be in that unit over there with my lovely wife,” he motioned toward the building. “Unless our friend here is pulling another cute stunt. I’d like to inspect it all and make sure everything’s in order.”
“Good idea.” Stevenson turned to Hammon, still holding the dart gun. “That loaded?”
“Yup.”
“Perfect. Stand right here and don’t move one inch. Watch her. She tries anything, shoot her.”
Stevenson nodded to Nelson. “After you.”
Hazel rubbed her bruised throat. “Otto, please…” She searched his eyes for any trace of the boy she’d met under the stars, the one who more than once stood on the wrong end of a gun to protect her, but he only watched her with disinterest.
“You promised you’d help me,” she said, not sure whether she meant it as a plea or an accusation.
He merely shrugged. “And you believed me.”
Hazel froze, stunned. He might as well have struck her.
Valerie must have given up on trying to pry her way out; she began pounding futilely on the door, the clattering drowning out Stevenson and Nelson’s hushed discussion, which concluded with a handshake. Stevenson glanced at Hazel, his face lit momentarily by the flare of the match raised to his cigarette. He stood back, waiting as Nelson unlocked the storage unit and rolled the door up. Valerie shrieked hysterically, Nelson fired, and there was silence. Nelson started to step through the unit doorway and was whipped backwards twelve feet by the stored force of the bent sapling, the snare slicing into his flesh and pinning him against the trailer, where the wire leading to the tree ran between the tires. He tried to scream, but the pressure compressed his chest and left him barely able to breathe. Stevenson took a long drag on his cigarette as a puddle spread beneath Nelson.
“Wow,” Hammon said. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”
This was her chance to run; Hammon was distracted and the dart gun only worked at close range. She knew where the other traps were, he didn’t. But Stevenson was watching her, an icy gleam in his gold eyes, and she knew she wouldn’t get far. “That,” he told Hammon, “could have been either of us.”