DEAD OR ALIVE a totally addictive thriller with a breathtaking twist

by T. J. Brearton

  “I bet it’s weird,” Swayzak said. Tom was behind the man and couldn’t really see his face, but imagined him scowling and getting serious when he said, “And do you feel like you’re safe here, talking to us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now—”

  “Frank didn’t shoot them.”

  The air in the room seemed to tighten.

  “What’s that, Lemon? Who’s Frank — is he the man that took you?”

  She nodded. “He didn’t shoot the Hollisters. They were coming to get me because I was stuck in the storm. And then we were leaving, and we were driving in their car and Mr. Hollister stopped because he wanted to know if everybody was all right.”

  The girl was off and running. Talk before the interview had been about coaxing information out of her since she was probably still scared, mistrustful of unfamiliar adults. Yet, she seemed comfortable, ready to share whatever had been developing in her sharp little mind. Or maybe she’d been coached.

  “He said his name was Frank?”

  The FBI specialist leaned forward. “Do you remember the other man’s name?”

  Lemon shook her head. “Frank only told me his name later. I mean, his own name.”

  “Later. After you drove away?”

  “After they put me in the ice room.”

  The law enforcement in the room exchanged glances. Blythe looked at Tom.

  “Okay,” Swayzak said. He gave the FBI specialist a look, and the specialist sat back, ceding. “Lemon, let’s see if we can talk about this one thing at a time. Like a book. On the first page, the story begins, and then we go page by page to get to the ending. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. So, it’s dark and windy and everything, and you’re waiting for the Hollisters to pick you up.”

  Lemon just stared back at Swayzak.

  “And then they do and, like you said, you’re driving away — they’re going to bring you to your mommy and daddy — but they see a vehicle on the side of the road, you said. If you close your eyes, Lemon, can you see the vehicle?”

  She kept her eyes open. She glanced up at her father, who murmured something to her. Lemon looked at Swayzak again and then closed her eyes.

  “What do you see, Lemon?”

  “It’s a big car.”

  “Like a truck?”

  She shook her head, no.

  “What do you think of when you think of a truck?”

  Lemon opened her eyes. “It has tools in it.”

  Her father spoke up for the first time, his voice soft and the words rolling together. “When she thinks of a truck, she probably thinks about my truck — my landscaping truck. It’s a pickup truck.”

  Swayzak nodded. He spoke to Lemon again. “So, was it like a pickup truck? Like your daddy’s truck with a big open space in the back, tools in it?”

  She shook her head. No. The FBI specialist wrote something down.

  “Okay.” Swayzak asked Lemon, “Do you know what a minivan is?”

  She nodded. “Should I close my eyes again?”

  “If you want to, sure. Good. You know a minivan has a big door on the side of it, right? A big door you slide open. Was it like that?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Do you know what an SUV is?”

  She nodded. Keeping her eyes closed, she said, “It’s a big, um . . . it’s a big car or truck . . . I don’t know.” Her cheeks flushed with a little color.

  “That’s right, though, that’s all right. It’s a little of both, Lemon, you’re right. So, what you saw . . . was it like that?”

  She nodded.

  “What color was it?”

  “Dark.”

  “Dark. Perfect. Okay, so now what happens?”

  “Um, Mr. Hollister stopped.”

  “Did he stop suddenly? Was he afraid, or—”

  “He slowed down. He talked to Mrs. Hollister. He said, ‘what is this guy doing?’”

  Pens were waggling as the legal minds in the room took more notes.

  “He said, ‘what is this guy doing?’” Swayzak put a hand against his face and leaned on his elbow. “Not these guys? He was talking about one guy?”

  Her head bobbed up and down. “Uh-huh. He was talking about Frank.”

  “About Frank . . . Okay . . . did you see anybody in the SUV, Lemon? At that point? You were in the back seat . . .”

  “I had my seatbelt on. I wasn’t in my booster seat.” She looked up at her father. “Mr. and Mrs. Hollister don’t have a booster seat.”

  Miguel gave his daughter’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s okay.”

  “You’re in the back seat,” Swayzak said, “and Mr. Hollister says, ‘what is this guy doing?’ And then he slows down the car? Or what happens?”

  “Yes, he slowed down the car and then they talked.”

  “Mr. Hollister talked?”

  “To Frank.”

  “Where was Frank?”

  “Driving the . . . well, he wasn’t driving it. It wasn’t moving. But he was sitting where, um, the car wheel . . .”

  “The steering wheel? He was sitting in the driver’s seat?”

  Her eyes came back to Swayzak. “Yes. He was sitting there, and they talked to Frank and Frank told them he was okay and he was, um . . . waiting for somebody to come out of the big house.”

  “He was waiting?”

  She nodded, and her mouth opened, and Tom watched the girl’s color change again. She paled and her eyes almost seemed to darken, and then her lower lip started to tremble. “And then the . . . And then the man . . .”

  “Which man? Frank?”

  She closed her eyes and beads of tears popped out from the lids. “No, the other man — the man with the gun.”

  The temperature was going up in the room, the air seeming to thin out, and Tom could sense the people present mentally forming their own line of inquiry, wanting to ask their own questions. Swayzak was doing well, but they needed to know what “Frank” looked like. Needed to put out a BOLO on the guy describing his age, approximate height, the fact that he answered to Frank — if that was even his real name, and he hadn’t given her a surname, either — and get a net around him right away. Maybe even for his own protection.

  Lemon had been encouraged to describe Frank already, but it wasn’t enough. Her descriptions were vague and somewhat variable. They needed to show her pictures, get her with a better sketch artist. If they carried on like this, getting the girl emotional, the ad litem or his child psychologist would surely stop the interview.

  Tom stepped forward. “Lemon?”

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him. Chairs squeaked and leather stretched as everyone seated with their backs to him turned around for a look.

  “My name is Tom. Did Frank look like me?”

  She sniffed and thought about it. “A little bit.”

  “Taller or shorter than me?”

  Lemon got up from the table. Miguel reached for her instinctively but let her go. She circled the table to the other side where Tom was standing and stopped in front of him, looked him up and down. “Same size.”

  “Same size. How old do you think I am?”

  “Um — fifty?”

  “Was Frank old like me? Or younger, like you?”

  “Same as you. Yeah — he was the same as you.”

  “What about the color of his hair?”

  “Brown. Like yours.”

  “Do you remember his eyes? The color of his eyes?”

  She wrinkled up her nose then shook her head.

  “Did he have any scars or tattoos?”

  “Um, he had — on his hand . . . it was like burned.”

  “Burned on his hand. Like kind of — the skin like kind of messed up?”

  “Like red or something. And it wrapped around like this.” She demonstrated like she was looping a string around her palm.

  “Okay.” Tom looked down at her. �
��He didn’t say where he was going, did he? After he dropped you off?”

  “No.”

  “What did he talk about?”

  Swayzak broke in. “Agent — ah — Lange? I appreciate this. But we’d really like to go in order here. Try to get the full picture. Lemon? Would you do me a favor and come sit back down over here, sweetie?”

  Lemon pulled her eyes off Tom, turned and walked slowly back around the table. As she went, Tom caught Blythe’s gaze. She looked at her hand, and Tom looked at his. Frank with the burned or scarred hand. Roughly thirty to thirty-five years old. Six feet tall and 175 pounds.

  Lemon retook her seat.

  “Thanks, Lemon,” Swayzak said. “So, you’re in the back seat, and Mr. Hollister is talking to the . . . talking to Frank, and then another man comes. Now — it’s okay — you don’t need to think about this anymore. We’re going to skip through this real quick and get to the part that happened after. Can you just answer one question?”

  She nodded, having calmed some.

  “Who shot their gun?”

  “The man.”

  “Frank?”

  She shook her head. “No — the other one. Not Frank.”

  “Did Frank tell you to say that to us?”

  She shook her head some more, her braid trailing out.

  “Okay, Lemon. And then—”

  “And then I screamed and they took me out of Mr. Hollister’s car and put me into their car. They didn’t have a booster seat, either. They drove away fast and they were arguing. It smelled in the car and I was crying.”

  “It smelled? What did it smell like?”

  She shrugged. “Like food.”

  “Okay. What were they arguing about?”

  “About me. The man wanted to—” She choked up again and Tom saw the people on her side of the table tense. But she pushed through. “The man wanted to kill me.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “But Frank wouldn’t let him. And they argued. And then the hurricane came back and they weren’t arguing anymore, just trying not to let the hurricane get us.” When she said it, it was her-cane.

  “And where did you go?”

  “To the place with the boats.”

  “To the place with the boats. Do you know which place?”

  “No.”

  “Was it called Evvy’s?”

  She shrugged.

  “Then what happened?”

  “They put me in the room with the ice.”

  “Who did?”

  “The man, the big man — and another man. He had a mean face.”

  “So, the big man, the one who hurt Mr. and Mrs. Hollister, he and someone else — not Frank — put you in a room with ice in it. Like a small room, or—?”

  Tom flashed back to the warehouse with the gaping bays, the smells of rotted fish.

  “The ice was in a big pile,” Lemon said. “Like a hill. And it was melting. It was wet. And then Frank came and got me out.”

  Swayzak leaned back a moment and looked around at the people in the room. He tapped his pen on the desk and sat forward again. “And then Frank brought you here?”

  She nodded. “I think so. He put me in a blanket and I fell asleep.”

  “What happened when you woke up?”

  “Frank was gone.”

  “And you were here?”

  A nod. “Yes.”

  “Who were you with? Were you in a house, or—”

  “I was with a different man. In a bedroom. I watched TV with the kids.”

  “There were kids?”

  “Mmm-hmm. We watched Paw Patrol and Wild Kratts. I like Wild Kratts.”

  “Did the man — this new man who had you in his house — did he tell you his name?”

  Her head swished back and forth.

  Swayzak paused. “Lemon, did someone take your stuffed animal?”

  “I lost him.”

  “You lost him? When you were—”

  “When I was sleeping. I think Frank still has him. Can you check and see?” Her lower lip trembled. “We looked for him, just in case. In the bedroom. The kids helped me.”

  “Do you know the names of the kids?”

  “We checked under the bed and everything, but he was gone.” Tears streaked Lemon’s face, her eyes had gone pink.

  “Special Agent Swayzak . . .” the psychologist expressed concern.

  “All right,” Swayzak said. The pressure building in the room suddenly released.

  * * *

  Lemon was given a ten-minute break. As soon as she left, everyone in the room started speaking at once.

  “All right, all right . . . hold it.” The FBI man was John Akron.

  Blythe piped up next. “The big question I have — that we all have — is why didn’t they turn her in right away? You’ve got a missing child, the whole state is looking, she’s on the news . . .”

  “We’re interviewing everyone.”

  “Well, for Christ’s sake, who brought her out?”

  Akron patted the air. “Special Agent Blythe . . . no one is talking. I don’t think you appreciate how . . . She was brought to us by a Miccosukee woman who we’ve had in a room here for . . .” He glanced at his watch. “Going on six hours now. These people have lawyers rolling in. They could all be brought up on federal charges as accessories. It’s a mess. There are hundreds of people just here in this village.”

  “The woman says she didn’t receive the girl directly? From ‘Frank?’”

  “She’s not saying anything. We’re going through their homes — but they are spread out over thousands of acres.”

  “Why aren’t they talking?”

  Malone muttered something.

  Blythe wheeled around and stared at him. “What?”

  “I said, because fuck the white man.”

  Tom interjected. “We don’t know that.”

  “We need to start showing her pictures,” Akron said. “A six-pack with Lupton in it.”

  * * *

  Blythe left the room. Tom found her talking on the phone outside near the tourist shop. The blankets, beads and trinkets had been stowed away for the night. Blythe hung up and watched him approach.

  “They took her to Evvy’s,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

  “We’re going to go down there. As soon as we can. I want it airtight. We need to know everything that girl saw in detail. We’ll nail Valentina Vasquez and she can sit and rot in prison with her father.”

  “They stuck the girl in with the stone crab packing ice to let her freeze to death while dealing with this ‘Frank.’”

  The two of them fell silent, contemplating the little girl in the cold and dark. Dead fish inside, storm raging outside.

  Blythe reached out her hand. “You have a cigarette?”

  “I’m out. My question is . . . how did Frank survive Valentina?”

  “He fought his way out. You said blood and bullet holes . . .”

  “That came later. He had to have some leverage when they got to Evvy’s — otherwise Valentina would’ve shot and killed him on the spot. Maybe he stashed something somewhere. Some of the money.”

  “The two of them were together the whole time, the girl said.”

  “Well, maybe her memory is off. Or maybe it’s something else. He did something. Had something they wanted. Enough to buy himself a little time. Maybe information . . . he’s their contact for someone who’ll fence the T-bonds. Something like that. So, he’s still valuable to them. They put the girl on ice while they try to cajole Frank. That’s when he fights them and gets away. Maybe kills somebody. All that blood. Anyway, he gets the girl and gets out of there. Drops her with the Miccosukee and he’s gone. But now they want him. Want him bad.” Tom thought about the man with the alligator boots. “Blythe, I need you to level with me.”

  She lifted an eyebrow in the semi-darkness. “Level with you?”

  “From the beginning it felt like you and Skokie . . . you knew something. You’ve got something else. Let me in.”

  She wal
ked away from him down the road shoulder. Vehicles were moving through but slower, rubbernecking the scene — all the official-looking vehicles and the yardage of yellow crime-scene tape. Blythe lifted the tape and headed back toward the Miccosukee “Welcome Center” — the only building besides the shop on the edge of the road that was open to the public. Behind it was the long house and then the residences where people lived, scattered in the palmetto beyond. Tom ducked under the tape and fell in step with her as she kept walking.

  Blythe kept her voice low. “Balfour thought she was ahead of the curve in anticipating downtime during hurricane season. She planned to go after Vasquez, Palumbo and others aggressively as soon as she took the office.”

  “And so — what? This was a concerted effort between Vasquez and Palumbo? Everybody ganging up on the prosecutor?”

  “You give them too much credit. Both Vasquez and Palumbo are behind bars.”

  Tom stopped. Blythe went ahead a few more paces then turned around.

  He gestured to her. “Okay . . . but I think you and Ed Skokie wanted me to find out how bad it was. Yeah, the missing girl, but you also wanted a damage report. Not just on the death threat. Something else — Skokie’s after more than that. Like he wants to know what’s out there, maybe something hit the street.”

  Blythe was as poised as ever, but Tom thought he saw her shoulders sag a little with resignation. Her lips barely moved. “What do you want?”

  He didn’t have an answer for a moment. “I want to track this guy.”

  “Jesus, take a breath. You just got us the girl.”

  “Now I want him.”

  “Everybody does.”

  “If this Frank is out there, I think he’s holding onto something. Maybe you don’t know — maybe Skokie hasn’t told you either. But he’s holding on to it for leverage. And Valentina Vasquez wants it. She’ll kill him for it.”

  Blythe came toward him. She came so close he almost stepped back. And then she put her hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eye. She was tall, so it was dead on, and she didn’t flinch. “Tom, I’ve told you that you’ve done well because you have. Accept it. You did it. You got her back.”