Last Exit in New Jersey (9 page)

First she tried reasoning. When that failed, Hazel resorted to tears, pleading with Stevenson to turn the boat, skimming effortlessly at thirty knots over the smooth rollers, back to Bivalve. He refused, claiming she was in no condition to help her father, and even if she was, he promised he’d keep her safe.

There was something he wasn’t telling her, no matter how much he denied it. Fine. He’d had his chance; she knew what she had to do. She sulked, head down, long hair swirling around in the wind as her fingers slid along the bulkhead, unclipping the fire extinguisher while Stevenson fiddled with electronics. The bracket released, and the five-pound metal cylinder settled into her hand.

Still…he did rescue her. If not for him, she would have woken to Pierce’s leering face. She scrutinized Stevenson, uncertain. Was he truly helping or were things going from bad to worse?

Stevenson glanced over. “Don’t do it, princess.”

“Do what?” she said innocently.

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything.”

He stared ahead, a faint smirk curling in the corner of his mouth. Her grip on the extinguisher tightened.

“Right. Well, I’d advise you to hold on with both hands.”

He shoved the throttles forward. The boat responded with a thunderous roar, acceleration ripping the extinguisher from her hand and slamming Hazel back into the seat. At that velocity the smooth water felt solid and the hull pounded like a bobsled over lumpy ice. Stevenson turned, eyes narrowed in the wind, his expression challenging. Moving, either to attack or retreat, was impossible. Braced in the narrow seat, she watched the GPS, horrified as their speed climbed over seventy, and she couldn’t stop trembling as the world streaked past on fast-forward. Tears streamed from her eyes and whipped off her face. Speaking wasn’t an option; the buffeting wind and thundering engines would suck any words away before they were heard.

At last Stevenson pulled the throttles back and shifted to neutral. He let the engines idle a minute, then shut them down. Hazel watched him uneasily as the boat settled into an uncomfortable snapping roll.

“Why’d you stop?” she said finally.

“I wanted to make sure you were all right. You looked terrified.”

“Your demonstration of how well this boat runs didn’t scare me,” she said, her voice wavering. She glanced at the fire extinguisher, thumping across the cockpit deck as they rolled. “I want to go back.”

“As I’m well aware. Now, will you be a good little hostage or do I have to tie you up?”

“What did you tell my father to make him leave me with you?”

Again, that unreadable look. He sighed. “I don’t blame you for not trusting me. You’ve been dumped with someone you know nothing about. You suspect I’m part of the present problem and your father’s trust is a serious mistake. I can appreciate that. I could try to convince you otherwise, but you’ll have to come to your own conclusions.”

“What do you
want
?”

Stevenson leaned back, pushing gingerly under his shirt at his wound, still bleeding but much slower now. “What do I want?” He gave a humorless laugh. “In truth, to let you get on with your life and for me to get on with mine.”

For the rest of the trip Hazel didn’t speak. Stevenson set the boat to a more moderate speed, swinging well offshore to avoid the coastline storms. Hazel locked herself in the cabin and changed into some of Stevenson’s clean, dry clothes, which, predictably, left her looking like a shipwreck survivor. She searched for weapons, explosives, or poison, finding nothing. Reluctantly she returned to the cockpit.

By dark they reached the Narrows, then headed up past Manhattan’s glittering lights, following the Hudson River north. They passed beneath the George Washington Bridge, lit with strings of white, and along the blackness of the Palisade cliffs towering over the Jersey side. The moon rose over Yonkers, huge and orange. Just past the Piermont pier, jutting a mile into the river, Stevenson slowed the boat, turning toward shore. Hazel straightened up and looked north to the Tappan Zee Bridge. At their low speed, the exhaust back-drafted over the stern with the enticing aroma of French fries—the same smell she’d noticed as she woke from the tranquilizer. “You’re running on biodiesel?”

“I heard it’s better for the injectors.”

Mechanically and environmentally, biodiesel offered many benefits, though the trade-off was a slight decrease in speed, which she would have figured would be a higher priority for someone like Stevenson.

“This thing’s pretty quiet, relatively speaking, for all this power,” she said. “You realize muffling cuts performance.”

“It also limits detection.”

“What, for running drugs?”

“Exactly.” He stretched, wincing as he moved his shoulder. “Until it was seized, at least. Friend of mine gave me a heads-up when it came up at auction. He claimed it was built to withstand gunfire, not that I thought I’d ever test that. Guess I owe him a drink.”

Stevenson pulled on a black windbreaker that had been stowed beneath the console, covering his blood-stained shoulder. They idled past the seawall and up the fairway while he scanned the boats. Hazel stood back, not bothering to ready lines or assist as Stevenson maneuvered into the slip, docking skillfully while she made a point of looking unimpressed. Aboard a thirty-eight-foot Viking, a matched pair of leggy redheads emerged, waving enthusiastically.

“Hi, Jake!” they sang in harmonized unison. A robust older fellow in Topsiders, shorts, and a Hawaiian print shirt followed them above, then strolled down the dock, martini in hand.

“Evening, George,” Stevenson said. “Out with the twins today, I see.”

George grinned. “The girls wanted to go swimming.” Drink halfway to his mouth, he paused, scrutinizing the black boat’s hull. “What the hell’d you do, play chicken with a tanker?”

“DUI,” Stevenson replied. “Docking Under the Influence.”

George poked at the windscreen. “Are those bullet holes?”

“You watch too many police shows, George. I hit a seagull at seventy. Not pretty.”

“Sounds like an eventful weekend, my friend.” George turned his attention to Hazel, appraising her. She glared across and George chuckled. “Nice specimen,” he said, ambling back to his boat. “But you know, when they’re that small, by law you gotta throw ’em back.”

Stevenson adjusted the dock lines and began closing the boat up. Hazel took a deep breath, gathering her nerve. “Mr. Stevenson, wait.”

“Mr. Stevenson? Please, call me Jake.”

She nodded. “Look, Jake. I’m sorry. I know I’ve been kind of difficult, and I realize if not for your help, things might be far worse. I want to apologize for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

He sat back and said nothing, but by the look in his eyes, she knew he wasn’t buying it.

“I mean, you’ve already done more than you needed to; I do appreciate it even if it may not seem that way. I just figured rather than imposing on you any further, I’d stay here on the boat tonight.”

“Fine by me. You want to sleep together, who am I to argue?”

“
Together
?”

“There’s only one bunk, princess, and I’m sure as hell not leaving you here alone. No, I’d rather wake tomorrow knowing you and my boat are still around.” He locked the cabin and stepped off, inspecting the lines. “Now, are you coming?”

Grudgingly she climbed to the dock, marching like a condemned prisoner past rows of pricey boats. Near shore, things scaled down somewhat, ending with a row of daysailers, skiffs, and runabouts, though the parking lot was brimming with high-end cars. Stevenson unlocked a massive black Mercedes S600, opening the door for Hazel. The luxurious interior reeked of cigarette smoke, and the remains of the car radio hung from the dash by a bent bracket and wires.

“Rough neighborhood?” she said.

Stevenson seemed weirdly amused. “Doodle-dee-dah-dee-dah-doe-doe,” he chanted softly. “Doodle-dee-dah-dee-dah-doe.”

It reminded Hazel of something Micah had on his computer, where animated hamsters danced to an amusingly irritating melody. She couldn’t imagine how that tied to the vandalized car and decided against asking. Instead, she stared out silently as Stevenson pulled out of the marina.

Brick buildings converted to cafés and boutiques lined Piermont’s narrow main street, retaining their charm in a way that drew the stylish to shop and dine on the warm summer night. Antique sports cars and pricey sedans crowded every available parking space, and strolling couples wandered the sidewalks. Under better circumstances it might have been pleasant; at present it only underscored the feeling that she didn’t belong.

A half mile beyond town, Stevenson turned up a winding hill, passed several Victorian houses, and stopped before a pair of massive, rusted iron gates. Bathed in the cool white of the high beams, they opened ominously. Low branches scraped like fingers along the windows as Stevenson guided the Mercedes up a narrow drive.

Ahead, the unlit form of a Federal colonial, dark and forbidding, took shape in the moonlight. Vines snaked across the power lines and engulfed one corner of the house. In the beams of the headlights, weeds sprang from cracks in the drive and a dead tree stood to the side, bark peeling in chunks. Long strips of toilet paper hung from the branches, swaying in the damp breeze like ghostly Spanish moss. The lawn had grown so tall it collapsed on itself in places, and bushes obscured windows, yet even the neglected landscape couldn’t diminish the classic architecture.

“You live
here
?” Hazel said.

“Timeshares are still available if you’re interested.” He pulled into a carriage house, parking beside a black Viper roadster, a tired white Mustang convertible, and a gleaming yellow Chevelle. Hazel scanned the cars, assessing her best means for escape. Sooner or later Stevenson had to sleep, and when he did, she’d be out of there. It was just a matter of time.

Driven by morbid curiosity, she followed him into the dark house, which looked as though it had been vacant for the last century. Moonlight slanted through the windows, stretching in pale rectangles across the entry foyer, and a broad staircase spiraled up three stories. Off the main hall, the surrounding rooms were filled with sheet-draped furniture like something from a gothic horror. Hazel paused before what might have been an ornately framed mirror, only the beveled glass was a void of blackness. Within the hall a cricket chirped softly, echoing through the open space.

“You actually live here? For real?”

Stevenson led her into an ancient but functional kitchen, the first room with any evidence of regular use. “Define live.” He switched on the light and dropped his keys and wallet on the counter.

The light shut off. Flickered on. Off. On. Off.

Stevenson grumbled, reaching up, tapping the unresponsive bulb. In darkness he located a fresh bulb from the closet and replaced the dead one. Illumination returned. Shaking the old bulb, he tossed it into the trash, where it landed with an implosive pop.

The room went dark. Then light. Dark. Light. Dark. A cricket chirped.

“Son of a bitch.”

He flipped the switch several times in a row, and finally the light remained on. Stevenson retrieved a half-empty bottle of scotch from the cabinet, poured himself a sizeable portion, and lit a cigarette. “Would you like something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” she lied. “I’d like to sleep.” And get the hell out of there, not in that order.

Stevenson leaned against the counter and downed the scotch. “Yeah, it’s been a long day.” He checked his cell phone. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason why your father hasn’t called.”

Or a really bad one, Hazel decided.

Stevenson guided Hazel up a narrow flight of stairs leading from the kitchen to the bedrooms, of which she had a choice. All were furnished with sheet-draped antiques, from the large, grand rooms to the smaller servant’s quarters, and all were unoccupied, save one.

“My room.” Stevenson pointed to a door at the far end of the hall, just off the main staircase. “I’ll have the TV on. If it’s too loud, let me know. I can’t sleep when it’s quiet, but I’ll probably be out cold. You need me, just knock.”

“No one else lives here?”

“Just me and the crickets.”