DEAD OR ALIVE a totally addictive thriller with a breathtaking twist

by T. J. Brearton

  “I really didn’t get a chance to . . . ah . . . to thoroughly look — I put someone else on the Hawkes thing . . .” Skokie sputtered out.

  “You mean maybe it’s a fake registration?”

  Skokie cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

  “I’m still going to talk to him.”

  “All right. I’ll notify FHP.”

  “Tell them to be cool.”

  Tom ended the call, dropped the phone and put on his blinker, watching the mirrors. The driver of the Yukon didn’t use his indicator but slowed when Tom slowed. For a just a moment, time hung suspended, like maybe he was imagining things, but as the tires of his pickup bit into the soft shoulder he saw the other vehicle pulling over, too.

  Tom stopped and the Yukon stopped, still several car-lengths back. The wind scraped away the dust cloud. Tom just sat, the turn indicator ticking as he watched the Yukon’s reflection.

  “Come on,” he muttered. “Come on, buddy. Make your move . . .”

  He opened the driver’s side door a crack, waited until a tractor-trailer blew past, curling road dust in its wake, then stepped out onto the faded asphalt, leaving the engine running.

  The soft shoulder afforded views of nothing but a sea of green, stretching as far as the eye could see — sand pine and mangrove and watery muck beneath that smelled of peat. It was the same on both sides of the road. The sun was hissing down toward the Gulf side behind the Yukon, getting into Tom’s eyes. He kept his sunglasses on, wrapped his hand around the grip of the Beretta at the small of his back and watched the Yukon’s driver side door open.

  The driver stepped out, and it was definitely the guy from the diner — same jawline, same short black hair. He looked Latino and a little taller than average, but he could have been American Indian, though, it was true.

  More vehicles rocketed past and Tom moved around behind the pickup, taking his time. The stranger mirrored him, getting in front of the big Yukon.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d stop!” Tom called over.

  The guy tilted his head to one side and shrugged. Tom wondered where his piece was and guessed he was keeping it at his back, same as Tom himself. Both his hands were visible; either he was unafraid or just real fast and cocky about it. He wore a black suit and a cowboy tie that was like two ropes hanging, whatever those were called, and pointed boots on his feet — either snakeskin or gator, hard to tell from the distance.

  “So what now?” Tom’s voice was still raised over the traffic. “You want to talk?”

  “Nothing to talk about!” the guy called back. He spoke without any discernible accent. “Thought maybe you were a troubled motorist.”

  The guy turned his head toward the swamp and spat, keeping his eyes on Tom the whole time. The sky had been churning and threatening all day. Thunder rumbled in the west.

  “You with the Miccosukee?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said are you a Native American?”

  “I look Native American?”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  The stranger grinned and shook his head. “Some detective.” After a moment he showed his hands and began easing himself back toward the driver’s side door. He opened it and got in.

  What the hell was going on?

  “All right then,” Tom muttered. He released his grip on the Beretta and walked backward to his own door.

  Tom got in and watched the stranger in the side mirror. Just sitting there. Tom waited for a break in traffic and hit the gas. And the Yukon followed.

  * * *

  Skokie was on the phone. “Well? FHP said they didn’t see you or see anything.”

  “I don’t know. You know if the Madras family hired anybody with a private ticket?”

  “No. No way. They barely have two sticks to rub together.”

  “Could be working for Evvy Vasquez. He was dressed like a rock star. Like Garth Brooks or something. Some of these contractor guys get flashy, but most of them look pretty run of the mill.”

  A lariat tie. That’s what those ropes were called — or a bootlace tie.

  “Then maybe he’s in the family,” Skokie said.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. He’s a cousin or a nephew or something. He wants to see what I know. He’s reporting back. Because you gotta figure that, at this point, the little girl has seen at least two faces. Maybe Lupton’s, but more likely the guy who took her. They’re afraid we find her, show her pictures, she points someone out and it comes back to them.”

  Thinking out loud churned up other ideas, thoughts that felt like they’d just been sitting there, waiting to have a little more light shed on them. But presently, he was arriving in the city of Homestead. It was time to see some Pure Spanish horses.

  “Hey, Ed, let me call you back.”

  “Yeah, uh-huh.” Skokie was getting used to it by now.

  * * *

  He was among the second wave of cops to arrive on the scene. When he got to the gate of the horse farm property, there were a dozen vehicles around, including several unmarked ones. Everybody around him was putting on vests and checking their firearms. Green hills rolled off to the north and the west; to the east, distant Miami skyscrapers shimmered in the haze like a mirage.

  Malone was talking with another FBI agent as Tom walked up. Malone looked over and smiled as the two exchanged a quick handshake. “Lange, this is Agent Ricardo — he’s a hostage negotiator. We got a child psychologist on board, too. You need anything from us?”

  He meant guns. The last thing anyone needed was a bunch of gung-ho agents and deputies running around with loaded weapons if there was a little girl in their midst, but the Vasquez people would be armed to the teeth.

  “I brought my own,” Tom said. A few seconds later he was pulling his Remington 870 out of the truck and loading in shotshells as a Sheriff’s Deputy used bolt cutters to sever the chain holding the gate.

  Less than a minute after that, a large black vehicle came racing down the dirt road toward them on a cloud of boiling dust.

  “Guys, we got company and they’re coming in hot.”

  The cops took aim over the hoods of their vehicles. Tom readied the Remington as he stood behind his pickup, his heart knocking against his ribs. The oncoming vehicle slowed, then stopped. For a few terribly long seconds, nobody moved. The dust settled. Then the door opened.

  “Hold . . .” Malone said into his radio.

  Two guys got out, dressed as cowboys, but with Armalite rifles slung over their backs. They had their hands up. Thank God.

  Next, Tom was back in his pickup, driving in behind Malone and two Sheriff’s Office guys with the black vehicle leading them. They crested a rise and the ranch came into view. It was just about the prettiest thing Tom had ever seen, with two long, low buildings and various barns, a fenced area with horses grazing, and a corral. In the corral, Tom could see a horse and, on its back, a young woman in tan riding pants. Watching her, arms up on the fence, was Emilio Vasquez.

  Emilio wore a cowboy hat, jeans and a buttoned-down white shirt. He greeted the members of law enforcement warmly and invited them to search every inch of the property even before Malone showed him the warrant. Tom joined the deputies in the main house, going through rooms calling Lemon Madras’s name while turning out drawers and pushing aside garments in closets. Emilio had hired help. In the kitchen, a white woman wearing an apron stood back with her hands folded as the police moved around kicking things over and checking the oven and the refrigerator and anywhere else where you might hide a seven-year-old.

  The whole thing lasted an hour and when it was done Tom walked back to his truck feeling greasy, like a spy. He caught Emilio’s gaze. The son of Pedro Vasquez had stood placidly by as cops and agents crawled all over his property. Malone was beside him, thoughts collecting in his eyes. Probably coming to the conclusion Tom had already formed: the girl wasn’t there and never had been. They were chewing at this thing from the wrong end.

  * * *

  Sit
ting in his truck, vest removed and Remington unloaded, Tom dialed Jack Vance and waited for the voicemail to pick up, but this time Vance answered.

  “Jack — you all right? How you feeling?”

  “I’m all right, Tommy. Had to go in for some tests.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Just the usual stuff. They call it ‘practicing’ medicine for a reason.”

  Vance wouldn’t say any more about his health, so Tom brought him up to speed on the connected burglary and missing person case, revealing only what he could, and that they’d hit a dead end.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t talk to you about this sooner. We suspect that Lemon Madras’s kidnapper was once in the armed forces.”

  “Which?”

  “Not sure. He was in Iraq.”

  “Army, probably.”

  “Somehow he wound up involved with Pedro Vasquez.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Selling dope seems to be the story. And then this burglary. He didn’t want to hurt this girl witness, but he’s got his own family to think about, too. He’s got someone, at any rate.”

  “What makes you think he’s got a family?”

  Katie’s face flashed in his mind just as a crack of lightning split the sky to the west. “Because having a family makes you do things you might not otherwise.”

  “Isn’t that what they call circular logic?”

  “Probably.”

  Jack coughed a bit, bringing Tom out of it. Then Jack said, “Okay, so?”

  “So what do you do?”

  “You leave the girl somewhere safe, maybe alone, maybe with someone you can trust, and then you get your loved ones and run. I guess.”

  “But who can you trust? Who’s safe? You need some outside party.”

  Tom considered the guy in the alligator boots who’d faded back and eventually dropped the tail as they’d come into Homestead. But he was around somewhere, not far off. He’d been following Tom not to stop him but because he didn’t know where the girl was, either.

  The Miccosukee Indian Village was fifty miles back the other way, right on Route 41. Valentina had said the roads were washed out in the aftermath of the hurricane, but she’d bent the truth. He’d checked with the NOAA and the National Weather Service and everywhere else he could find, and 41 was clear going east across the state.

  Tom imagined the lookout riding a wave of adrenaline. The little girl is freaking out and Lupton doesn’t like it. The guy can’t take the girl and run away with her on foot because there’s a hurricane in progress. The Hollisters’ time of death had occurred right around the eye of the storm and the lookout would have known he’d have to ride out its whole second half. The storm was moving north, the worst direction if you want to leave the state. So, the lookout follows through with the plan: they go to Evvy’s to deliver the spoils. And there he makes his move — the bullet holes, the dark patch of dirt, Lupton’s bruises — the ex-military guy fights his way out of there.

  Maybe he leaves the girl behind. Tom had to concede that. Desperate times, desperate measures. But what if he hadn’t? What if he kept some of the cash, fought off Lupton, took the girl and ran?

  It was still just an idea, but it felt right to him — more so with every minute — and to hell with what they said about misleading intuition. And who cared if Tom was projecting his own values onto someone he’d never met. The thing to contend with was the stuffed animal and how Emilio’s property fit into the picture — why the girl was ever there in the first place.

  At this point, if Tom’s theory held, the ex-military guy — having made it to Evvy’s with the girl — is faced with two options. He can head to 41 and take it north to Tampa. Or he can get over to 75, but 75 is not a good bet if you’re running from the law or anyone else — it’s just too easy to cover. Both the local route and the interstate formed an L, running north to south on the Gulf side and east to west across the southern tip of the state. And anyway, 41 was blocked north of Naples during and after the storm — Valentina was right about that much. Same with 75. That left heading east towards Miami.

  Right past the Miccosukee Indian Village.

  “Tommy? You still there?”

  “Thank you, Jack. Hey listen, I’m coming to see you soon.”

  “You stay away. You’ve got enough to do.”

  “You let them practice their medicine on you and I’ll be along soon.”

  Tom saw Malone standing amidst a bunch of cops. Malone made eye contact with him. Then Tom hit the gas and spun the wheel to head away from Emilio’s Andalusian horse farm, passing a new van that was driving fast, coming up the other way.

  Tom called Malone from the road.

  * * *

  Only feds had jurisdiction on an Indian reservation, but it wasn’t long before Malone caught up. They met at a long-house-turned-novelty-shop that sold colored blankets and feathers and beaded necklaces to tourists right off the shoulder of 41. They stood beside their vehicles with the sky dark as coal above their heads and about to pour buckets.

  “The stuffed animal was at Emilio’s camp,” Malone said.

  “I think someone put it there. Planted it. I think she’s here on the res somewhere,” Tom said.

  It took several phone calls and much talking to convince the FBI and most of it was done inside the pickup truck while the rain hit like a bag of dimes dumped on the roof. When they finally went in, it was to meet with the Miccosukee tribal police who spoke English and Mikasuki.

  There were other reservations in south Florida, the biggest sitting atop Everglades National Park, but this one was pretty sizeable with twenty thousand acres of developable land, mostly used for cattle grazing, and fifty-five thousand acres of wetland.

  “What if she was moved?” Malone asked in a low voice. They’d relocated inside to a room occupied by a dozen Miccosukee, plus freshly arrived state and federal agents, including the guy from the other day who’d asked Tom where he was from. Malone went on, “And then you got these non-Native hunting camps in the swamp — they’re all over. We’re opening a huge can of worms here. You better be right, man.”

  Everybody needed a place to put the weight of this thing, and they were putting it on him. But they were here because this was all that was left.

  “And there’s modern housing forty miles west of Miami,” Malone said. “Some of these Miccosukee people live in suburban Miami. You got the Resort & Conference hotel, the gaming and gambling. She could be anywhere, man, even if she came through here. Passed along like some kind of underground railroad.” Malone gave a nod to indicate the Miccosukee in the room. “They could be holding on to her because fuck the white man.”

  The chief was named Collie Billie and he arrived at dusk after the rain had subsided. He was at least eighty and dressed in blue jeans and a short-sleeved plaid button-down. With him was a tribal attorney.

  At some point, Tom realized his feet were getting tired and Malone whispered, “They got this matrilineal system. Kids are born into the mother’s clan, not the father’s. The father’s not important — it’s the mother’s older brother who gets all the attention.”

  Then everyone was leaving, and Malone explained that word was going out: if the girl was with any member of the tribe, she needed to be turned in to tribal police right away.

  And then, at 7:43 p.m. that evening, she was.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE GIRL

  Miguel Madras had thick, calloused fingers, a broad face and a shock of pitch-black hair. He wore a short-sleeved button-down shirt and a tie that stopped inches short of his big pewter belt buckle. Whatever joy and relief had characterized his daughter’s return in him was already gone, and his face seemed to sag from the bones beneath. He stood behind Lemon as if posing for a picture, his hand never leaving her shoulder. Lemon, in return, kept one of her small hands on his. She’d been missing for seven days.

  Beside her was her ad litem, a heavyset man named Spalding. Spalding had brought a child psychologist. The F
DLE was represented by Blythe, Skokie and a specialist for child cases named Keith Swayzak. The FBI, too, had its own special investigator present. Finally, a lawyer from the Office of Statewide Prosecution was there on behalf of the Attorney General and Stephanie Balfour. There were more degrees and credentials and combined years of experience in the crowded room than Tom had ever been around at any one time and yet all he could do was stare at the little girl.

  She was alive. Unharmed. Medical had looked her over from head to toe and found her in good shape, even properly hydrated. She looked a bit bewildered by all of the attention, her eyes big and brown, but some kind of understanding registered in her smooth, oval face. She’d seen things. She’d seen two people killed in cold blood. She’d been on the run with a couple of criminals and then — well, they had to get her story now — but then it was just one criminal, who’d delivered her here for reasons of desperation, convenience — or something else.

  Determining where to interview her had turned into a jurisdictional pissing match. The decision had been made to keep her where she was on the res, at the tribal long house. Tom stood against the wall at the back. Only he and Blythe were on their feet, everyone else was seated around the big table. Two cameras were running — one in the upper corner of the room and one on a tripod aimed across the table at Lemon Madras. Her long dark hair was tied back in a braid. She’d dressed, or had been dressed, in a light pink dress with yellow flowers.

  Keith Swayzak spoke first. “Hi, Lemon.”

  Her voice was light and airy, but she wasn’t shy. She seemed alert and highly intelligent. “Hi.”

  Swayzak smiled. “Lot of people here today, huh?”

  She looked around the room. “Yeah.”

  “How does it feel? To have so many people asking you questions?”

  She paused for a second only. “Weird.”

  The response elicited soft laughter from the adults. Except for Miguel, who smiled wanly and glanced down at his daughter. At the same time, Lemon let go of his hand. She picked at the fabric around her neck, as if the lace trim on her dress was tickling her. Tom decided she was a tomboy, and not ordinarily disposed to wearing dresses. When she’d been abducted, she was wearing a pair of boy’s athletic shorts and a tank top. When recovered, she’d been in cut-off jean shorts and a V-neck t-shirt with some colorful embroidery.