Last Exit in New Jersey by C.E. Grundler

“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