Read Last Exit in New Jersey Online
Authors: C.E. Grundler
“You know she’ll try to kill him,” Annabel yelled over the Viper’s rumble.
“Likely. That’d solve lots of problems.”
Hammon stared up at the red light, casting the same soft glow in the darkness over the same intersection where he’d first seen Hazel. Beside him, Annabel tore at his brain as she fought for control, trying to hijack his consciousness the minute he lowered his guard. He wouldn’t let her; she’d only go straight back to Hazel and undo all the heart-wrenching damage he’d done, making things infinitely worse in the process. The light turned green, and he struggled with the clutch. The Viper lurched and stalled. This time there was no one around to notice or care as they sat in silence.
“You can’t let her,” Annabel said, more softly now.
He pulled off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
There was still time to turn back. It wasn’t too late. Start the car, go back, walk in, take her from there, from Stevenson. Tell her he loved her and couldn’t live without her.
“Then do it.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. More than life itself he wanted to go back, take her, hold her, keep her forever. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
“So you’re just leaving her there? She’s all alone. She lost Micah. She needs you.”
“She lost Micah because of me. If he hadn’t come back to help me, I’d be dead, not him. I’m doing what I have to. She hates me anyways.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“She should. It’s better that way.”
“You really believe that? Or are you trying to convince yourself? I think you’re a coward and you’re running away. You swore you’d help her.”
“And that’s what I’m doing.” He had to let her go, even if it killed him, and he knew it would. There was no way his heart could withstand damage of that extent for long.
“You told her you loved her. That you’d die for her.”
“Exactly.”
He shouldn’t have said that. It took the right side of his brain a few seconds to process that thought and set off a barrage of questions he had no intention of answering. He restarted the Viper, the engine’s roar making it nearly impossible to hear himself, or anyone else in his head, think. With his damaged leg, driving that car demanded his full, undivided attention, allowing him to ignore his intangible passenger. Not surprisingly, headaches followed, distracting him from the agonizing ache in his chest. Unfortunately, they also left him disoriented and lost. He looked around for signs. It was New Jersey: there were signs everywhere, only none pointed toward the Parkway. He glanced at Annabel for a second and his heart twisted. She knew what he was thinking. She always knew.
It wasn’t that he wanted to do it, but he had to. He was keeping his promise. His hands were shaking from adrenaline, yet he felt strangely tranquil. Was it peace, absolute despair, or both?
Once he reached the Parkway, he’d see what the Viper’s top speed was. Then he’d see how quick it could stop by swerving into an overpass abutment. It was the only way. If he ceased to exist, Hazel would be safe. Sooner or later Stevenson would use her to get to him, to get answers. And those answers were deadly. Far better they remain questions.
Hammon rounded an unfamiliar bend as train crossing signals flashed, and he coasted to a stop as the gates dropped in his path. The train whistle sounded through the darkness.
“You can still turn back,” Annabel said. “I know the way, it’s not far. Go back for her, get her out of there. Get her away from Stevenson.”
The whistle sounded again, sharper, louder, approaching fast. Hammon sat, watching the reflections of the gate lights flashing across the black paint on the hood, waiting.
“Don’t even consider it,” Annabel warned.
Ironically, the thought hadn’t even entered that side of his mind until she mentioned it. He wouldn’t need the Parkway. The whistle cut the night air. The wobbling gates formed little more than a symbolic barrier between the car and the tracks, one the Viper could easily slip beneath. He was still in gear, his left foot holding the clutch to the floor. He was facing the wrong way for the full benefit of the impact; the train would hit the passenger side first, not that it’d make much difference. In an instant the passenger side would be the driver’s side. Crushed like a soda can, the Viper would all but vaporize beneath the first engine and be scattered in the bushes and trees while the train screeched and braked for a quarter mile, maybe more, dragging bits of debris the whole way. It would make interesting headlines in the local papers for people to read over their morning coffee. Hammon grinned coldly, imagining Stevenson reading the news, a grin that faded as he thought of Hazel seeing the paper. Maybe she’d be glad.
“I’m sorry,” he told Annabel, his voice drowned by the piercing whistle. The ground shook and the engine’s light broke through the trees to his right. Hammon started to lift the clutch. It would be over before the engineer had any hope of stopping.
“I won’t let you!”
His brain throbbed and he blocked the agony, focusing only on lifting the clutch. “You won’t stop me. Not this time.”
The Viper inched forward, ready…ready…
A searing cramp shot through his left leg, locking it down as the ground quaked and four deafening locomotives blurred past the headlights. The freight cars, a wall of rushing metal and colors, roared along, drawing up stray leaves and paper to swirl in confusion in his headlights. And then it was gone. The gates lifted, their red lights snuffed as they returned to upright, leaving an empty silence.
The flashing light on the rear of the train receded, along with the cramp in Hammon’s leg. “Thanks for nothing.”
Annabel’s dark eyes fixed on him with a merciless hatred. “You’re welcome. You know, you used to be someone I liked. I can almost see why she’d be better off without you.”
“Yeah, angel. That’s what I love about you, how you always manage to make me feel better.”
“I didn’t see that on my job description.”
“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”
“That’s what you want? Fine. Remember: be careful what you wish for.”
Hazel knelt beside Stevenson, watching blood rise in the thin slice she’d made along his bound arm. A small cut; nothing life-threatening…yet. She thought about Micah lying lifeless in that freezer and she pressed harder. Stevenson jerked and she stepped back.
“Hello, Jake,” she said softly. “Ready to play twenty questions?”
His head swiveled, zeroing in on her voice. His mouth moved but no words came out.
Hazel rose as the kettle reached a boil, and she made herself a cup of tea. She lowered the flame, leaving the water at a slow simmer, then returned to Stevenson, sipping her tea as he stared up, awareness growing in his fogged eyes.
“God you’re young.” He blinked, unfocused, and suddenly he looked excruciatingly sad. “Years ago,” he slurred, “in a kingdom by the sea…lived a maiden you may know…by the name of Annabel Lee.”
Anger welled up inside Hazel. It was the ketamine talking, but she didn’t care. “Annabel isn’t real, you son of a bitch!”
“Oh but she is, realer than you can imagine,” he mumbled. “Annabel…is you…and you are Annabel.” His eyes closed. “The moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee. The stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes of my beautiful Annabel Lee.” He sighed. “Tragic. She dies in the end. But you didn’t die, dear Annabel. He did.”
Her hand shook and it was all she could do not to run the knife straight through his heart. “Damn you!”
“Too late. Already damned.” His head rolled sideways. “Wake me when we get there.”
Hazel traced the knife along his bicep, slicing through the fabric of his shirt, watching as a stain of blood spread. He winced but remained still.
“Tell me, Jake, who were you talking with that night about me and the truck?”
He grunted. “You won’t believe me.”
She pressed the blade into the meat of his shoulder. “It was Joe, wasn’t it?”
He flinched. “No, princess. It was your father.”
“Don’t lie to me!” She twisted the knife hard. “I heard the whole conversation; that was NOT my father. Tell me who it was!”
Stevenson choked back a groan and nodded. “Your father,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Set a trap…duplicate truck and cargo…and me playing the part of…well, me. Quite convincingly, it seems. The plan was to get both you and Micah somewhere safe, along with
Witch
.”
Hazel pulled the knife back. “Why didn’t he tell me?” she challenged, not wanting to believe him, even as part of her knew it was precisely the thing her father might do.
Stevenson regarded the blood on his arms, trying to focus. “He said you wouldn’t listen. I thought we should, but he said if you had no idea what we were doing, then you couldn’t try to help or do anything risky…playing ‘salvage consultant,’ he called it, whatever the hell that means.”
There was a rushing in her ears, and her hands fell to her sides. “Go on.” Her voice was a whisper; she couldn’t manage more.
“He didn’t want anyone else involved; it was supposed to be just me and him. Even Joe didn’t know the details until after your dad got shot. Plausible deniability, he insisted. If he wound up in jail, he wanted Joe around to keep you and Micah in line. It took me all night to track down a matching truck. Fortunately the graphics shop that did
Tuition
’s logos still had the design on file. Your dad picked up the truck, drove it to the warehouse, dressed it up, and e-mailed me the pictures. Everything was coming together until you overheard that conversation.
“When you attacked me, your dad was more worried about covering your tracks and finding a place to dump my body.” Stevenson tried to grin. “He was sure you’d killed me. We agreed it was probably better if you thought you almost did. You were supposed to stay at Forelli’s boatyard. Hidden. Safe.” He was more alert now and he shifted, managing to sit straighter. “Yes, I knew you were there; I didn’t know you took Hammon’s boat.”
Hazel listened, taking in all he was saying, processing it. “What was my dad doing the night he was shot?”
Stevenson stared down at his bound hands. “He’d gone down to Bivalve to talk to the police. They had some questions regarding ‘human remains’ they found wrapped around your runabout’s prop. He went alone. Nelson must’ve tailed him on the highway afterwards.
“Joe tracked me down, told me what happened.” He half smiled. “Scary bastard, that Joe. He made it clear he had some doubts about my involvement. Once he knew the whole story, he insisted on stepping in. Said you were his family, he owed it to all of you.”
Stevenson made a sound that might have been a laugh but sounded more like a moan. “When you shot Joe, he was only trying to protect you. Joe saw Atkins negotiating with me over the decoy truck, and apparently Hammon ambushed him pretty good, so he figured those two were working together. Joe saw Atkins take your old truck so he tailed him.”
Hazel gasped as it all sank in. “JOE! I ran him off the road!”
“We saw. He’s fine, just a concussion.” Stevenson shifted uncomfortably. “Atkins brought him to the hospital. I guess that’s what your father meant about you getting involved. He said things…how’d he put it…tend to ‘escalate’ around you. Joe said to tell you he’s impressed, he taught you well.” His eyes narrowed. “But you owe me a new Kevlar vest and repairs on the Chevelle.”
“My father…” Hazel began, her voice faint. “Does he know about Micah?”
Stevenson shook his head. “No. Last time I spoke with your father was yesterday, right after you called the ICU. I’m sorry, but you can’t tell your father until after the police notify us first. As far as you know, Micah left you behind at the boat two nights ago, and you haven’t seen or heard from him since.” He paused, contemplating his bound hands for a moment. “You should take Joe with you when you visit your father; you shouldn’t go alone.”
Hazel’s stomach was in knots; she sat on her heels on the floor holding her knife limply. It all made perfect, horrible sense: her father keeping her in the dark like that, and everything had gone so wrong. But one detail still didn’t fit. Why was Stevenson involved to begin with, and why would her father trust a total stranger when he wouldn’t even include Joe?
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said. “I saw that file, you had all those things on me, even those photos from long before you hired my dad to move your boat. You’ve been following me since right after
Tuition
vanished.”
He nodded. “Exactly.
Tuition
vanished, and instead you had to drive that old Kenworth for your next delivery. After all these years of searching I thought I’d never find that god-awful truck—I’d pretty much given up—I figured it’d probably long since rusted away—and then it pulls into that marina in Cape May, with you at the wheel, no less. Talk about dumb luck.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” A shiver ran down her spine, and Hazel rose, moving back. “What is this really about?”
“Are you sure you want to know?” Stevenson frowned. “Yes, of course you are. Maybe you should have known all along.” He tugged at his bound hands and sighed. “I really could use a drink and a cigarette right now, but I guess untying me is still out of the question. Remember your first night here, I said there’d be a prize. You want your answers? Open the cupboard below the stairs. There’s a latch beneath the middle shelf; release it.”
It might have been a trick, but she couldn’t see how. She followed his instructions, and the cupboard wall swung inward to reveal a hidden closet her initial exploration of the house hadn’t uncovered. Light slanted across cobweb-laced shelves, stacked with shoeboxes and papers.
“Bottom shelf,” Stevenson called, his voice weary. “Right side. Brown manila envelope.”
It was there beneath a layer of dust that hadn’t been disturbed in a long time. She took a seat at the kitchen table, sliding out several brittle newspaper clippings. A chill washed over her as she recognized the first headline; the cover page of the
Bergen Record
from nearly seven years back.
FAMILY OF 4 KILLED IN TRAGIC PARKWAY CRASH
Below the headline was the image of a charred, mangled Mercury station wagon smoldering in a blackened crater on the shoulder of the Garden State Parkway. In the background, a bright yellow sign stated ominously, “LAST EXIT IN NEW JERSEY.”
The inset photo of Jeremy Matthews, permanently frozen at age fifteen, grinned brightly beside his big sister Helen and their parents. Hazel sucked in her breath as she stared at the boy. It was
her
Jeremy. She’d met him only two weeks earlier, while he was on vacation in Cape May. He’d seen
Witch
sail in at dawn and went down to the docks for a closer look, fascinated with the ancient schooner and even more so with Hazel. He was awkwardly sweet and disarmingly funny, and he had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. They’d spent every moment of that day together, walking on the beach, eating ice cream, sailing in her dinghy. She remembered laughing when he claimed that they were meant to be together forever. It was the same day she’d had her first kiss, and he gave her that ring, the one she still wore. By night he had to leave, heading back to north Jersey in an over-packed station wagon, but not before they exchanged numbers and addresses, promising to write and to call. Her father assured her they could visit him in a few weeks when they would be passing nearby.
“The funeral ran late.” Stevenson interrupted her thoughts. “Private ceremony. Toward the end, a distinctly ugly old Kenworth pulled in and parked a respectable distance back…too far back to read the name on the door. You waited until everyone was leaving and then you came over.” He frowned, his expression distant. “I remember…you had wildflowers.”
Hazel remembered as well, as though it was yesterday. She and her father were on the Turnpike in
RoadKill
, listening for the traffic report to roll around, when they heard the tragic news about the funeral for a family that died on the Parkway. As the names of the victims were announced, Hazel’s father pulled over. They sat in silence for a bit, and he promised he would take her to the cemetery so she could leave flowers.
Hazel shuddered as she dropped the clipping to the table and stared at Stevenson.
“I know. You have questions.” Stevenson nodded to the clippings. “Keep reading.”
She returned to the stack; the next one was dated three days before the Parkway accident:
ARSON SUSPECTED IN MONTVALE OFFICE FIRE
The building’s occupants were listed as Spirig Insurance and Benjamin Matthews, CPA. Hazel held up the clipping toward Stevenson so he could see what she was reading.
“That was the first try. Jeremy’s dad’s office. The ground-floor office was vacant,” he explained. “Someone placed an accelerant and a timer in it. Ben had a new client meeting that day, a nonexistent one, it turned out, but he got stuck in traffic and ran late.”
The next, dated ten days later, read:
PARKWAY CRASH CAUSED BY EXPLOSIVES
Hazel held that up as well.
“Try number two did the trick. Enough explosives to take down a small building,” Stevenson said. “Enjoying my scrapbook? You wouldn’t have any more of those darts? Good stuff. Better than scotch. I’m nice and numb. Wears off too fast, though. I think I need a higher dose.”
Ignoring his request, she held up the next clipping. This one was from four months before the fire and accident, and mentioned a golf outing to benefit mental health services.
“Other side,” Stevenson whispered, looking away.
Hazel read:
HELEN CHRISTINE MATTHEWS & JAKE EDWARD STEVENSON TO WED
Leaning against the white Mustang, a younger, trimmer, more carefree version of Stevenson grinned beside a young woman with a mischievous sparkle in her blue eyes. Jeremy’s sister. The clipping announced their upcoming October wedding.
Stevenson shifted and winced. “I could really use a drink right now. I’m starting to get feeling back, and I don’t like it.”
Hazel stared at the clippings, mystified. “I’m sorry about Helen. But I don’t see what that has to do with me. There’s a reason we’re having this conversation, and I want to know what it is.”
“I can see that.” Stevenson dropped his head back against the cabinet. “I’m serious about that drink, and you might want one too.” He looked at her. “No? Okay. Helen and Jeremy’s old man was born to be a CPA. Very orderly guy. Liked to keep all his documents up-to-date. Guess who old Ben had just happened to name Jeremy’s legal guardian if anything ever happened to them? Helen and yours truly.” He gave a tired laugh. “We’re scrambling, getting ready for the wedding, and he springs it on us. We say yeah, sure. Whatever. I’m thinking it’s weird, but also kind of a nice gesture. He trusts me.”
“But Jeremy died,” she said, staring down at his picture.
“Did he?” Stevenson laughed humorlessly. “Do the math, princess. Throw in years of reconstructive surgery and take a wild guess who our singed friend Hammon is. Or, more accurately, was.”
Hazel stood so abruptly the chair fell over. She’d been there at the cemetery; she’d placed flowers on Jeremy’s grave!
“Yeah. That’s the same look your father had. You need a minute, or should I continue?”
Hazel righted the chair and sat down, feeling her earlier dizziness returning. There was so much to be confused by all at once. “Go on.”
Stevenson nodded.
“Jeremy had a real talent with computers, and he usually worked for his dad after school. One day he called me bragging about how he’d found something strange with one of his dad’s clients, some sort of error in their records; he was quite pleased with himself.” Stevenson smiled the slightest bit. “He was saving up for a car, and he figured this was worth a guaranteed raise. His dad said he’d look into it, talk with the client, and give the kid a bonus if he was right.
“After the fire, Jeremy had a hunch it wasn’t just a simple error, that the arson was intended to destroy what he’d found. He told me he’d backed up a copy before the fire and put it somewhere else, and he wanted to show me everything. They were going out to dinner, the whole family. I was supposed to go too, but couldn’t make it. I told him I’d come by after I got off work and we’d talk. He was a sharp kid, real sharp, and I had a bad feeling he was right.”