DEAD OR ALIVE a totally addictive thriller with a breathtaking twist

by T. J. Brearton

  It was the most he’d ever heard Blythe talk. About anything. He unwrapped a piece of gum and offered her one.

  “No thanks. You have to give people time. Things are changing so fast. Sometimes I just . . . I love my country. I love my job. I want to help people, like you do. I try not to get hurt. I think I do a pretty good job of that. But I’m fifty-two. And you can’t . . . You know, you start weighing everything up. Questioning what you’ve done — whether you made the right choices. It’s no good to do that. You just don’t know. You can never know.”

  She grew silent, thinking. “Anyway, I enlisted, went through basic, shipped out right away to Panama and later Iraq. Came back from Iraq, went to Florida State, then sat in a troop car, then got into the drug interdiction team. Fifteen years of slogging. Only after that did I get on board with FDLE.”

  “And then there’s me. I come in straight out of school. That’s what you’re saying.”

  “You had your own . . . I’m not saying I’m more qualified or more deserving. I’m just saying I had the disciplining that you didn’t. I don’t blame you for that, Lange. But you and I both know it’s been a liability.”

  “I don’t mean to be defensive, but it seems like I’m good when you need me but then after that you . . .” He didn’t finish the statement. There was no need.

  “You’re not wrong. It’s unfair. You’re right.”

  They settled into the comfortable silence of the agreed.

  “I grew up near Lakeland,” Blythe said after a while.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Little house, nice little neighborhood, kids playing in the street. My father worked for the airport. My mother stayed home — I’ve got five brothers and sisters. Did you know that in 1940, ninety percent of kids born would go on to earn more than their parents? But in 1980, that dropped to less than fifty percent. So, I get it. I think millennials are just trying to bypass the ladder and grab the prize. It’s not a laziness thing. Look at you — you’re the least lazy cop I’ve ever met. You’ve got the opposite problem. Can’t sit still.”

  Blythe made a lane change on the freeway and Tom saw a sign for Lakeland, thirty miles. She was in a rare sharing mood, so he decided to reciprocate.

  “Katie left me.”

  “Again? You sleeping around?”

  “I’ve never cheated. Not even in the beginning when we were just . . . you know, when we were dating, not exclusive yet.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Katie is good for you. Well, women are funny. I’ll be the first to admit it. But you’ve got to bring something to the table. You’ve got to give as much as you get.”

  After a moment, Tom said, “So you were saying about being born in 1940 . . .”

  “It’s like an open mike night with you. I’m a child of the late sixties. Bell bottoms and free love — yeah, yeah — you can stop staring. We didn’t really have that in Medulla. But we did have that sense, you know — I didn’t know what it was at the time. Just this idea that things had been perfect. You don’t know when life is good, though. It’s just life. It’s just the way it is. And then . . . it changed. It was subtle at first. Probably it was Vietnam. You know, when I think about it, it was like waking up from a dream. Like the whole country woke up from a dream.”

  She didn’t say anything else after that.

  * * *

  The Guttridge house was white with black shutters, a small colonial-style home that looked like it belonged in New England rather than central-west Florida. They parked across the street.

  Tom stepped up onto a front porch while Blythe moved slowly along the driveway, watching the south side of the house, her weapon concealed under her light coat.

  A woman with a baby on her hip answered Tom’s third knock. She gave him a look that combined worry with indignation.

  “Help you?”

  “Mrs. Finley?” Tom asked.

  “What’s she doing?” The woman watched Blythe.

  “I’m Agent Lange with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and that’s Special Agent Blythe. We just have a few questions for you.”

  “Why?”

  “The man who owns this house is Frank Guttridge.”

  “Frank is my ex.” She wore a brown tank top and white shorts and had sandals on her feet. She had the look of a high school homecoming queen who’d never seen things working out quite this way.

  Tom glanced at Blythe as she headed to join them on the porch. “I know,” Tom said to Mrs. Finley. “You divorced a few months after he came back from his last tour. 2008. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Frank was arrested for selling drugs to other vets — that was three years ago, around here.”

  “I know. I know all about it.”

  “You know where Frank is now?”

  “No.”

  “You share a daughter, though. Fifteen years old?”

  Finley just stared back.

  “Have you been in touch with Frank recently?”

  “No.” Her eyes switched between Tom and Blythe as Blythe mounted the porch. The baby stuck several fingers in its drooling mouth and looked around with a wobbly head.

  “But the house is in his name,” Tom said.

  “I got it in the divorce. I just never . . . He makes the payments.”

  “How does he make the payments?”

  “Um, he does it . . . Well, it’s online. Or he sends a check. I don’t really deal with it.”

  Tom thought they would check with the bank that financed the mortgage. They could get a mailing address or at least a PO Box that way. With time and a subpoena, they’d have his tax returns and everything else. But only after something solid showed that this was their man.

  Tom looked at the baby. “Who’s this?”

  The woman held the baby closer, like she was protecting her. “Aliyah is not Frank’s child.”

  “Has anyone else been around, asking about Frank?”

  “You mean police?”

  “Anyone.”

  The woman seemed to shrink from Blythe and only looked at Tom. “No. Nothing like that.”

  He felt the lie echo inside him, like a pebble dropped down a well. “Ma’am, would it be okay if we came inside?”

  Finally, she stepped back and let them in. “Don’t mind the mess.”

  Baby smells were something universal; even if you’d never had kids of your own you knew a diaper pail was around somewhere. The place was shaded and mostly covered in clothes. A colorful blanket was spread over the floor by the couch with a smattering of baby toys. Finley set the infant there on her stomach and her head continued to bobble around.

  “Pretty name, Aliyah,” Tom said about the baby. “And your first name, ma’am?”

  “Sarah.”

  Sarah Finley, which he already knew. But it was always good to hold your cards — as many as possible, regardless of what Valentina Vasquez had to say about it. They’d been talking for more than two minutes and Sarah hadn’t yet asked why they were there.

  Blythe moved into the dining area beside the open kitchen. A small TV next to the sink played a daytime soap. Tom didn’t realize people still watched those — either regular TVs or soaps.

  “What’s in the back here?” Blythe asked from the kitchen. She stood near an open doorway next to the sink counter.

  “Laundry, pantry. Goes into the backyard. Excuse me, but why are you here?”

  Okay, so there it was. Blythe caught Tom’s eye and she tipped her head at the set of stairs going up to another floor.

  “Sarah, is there anyone else at home?” Tom asked.

  “No.” It could’ve been another lie. And she seemed worried that Blythe was nearing the stairs.

  “We’re here because your ex-husband is a suspect in an ongoing investigation.”

  “You mean the VA thing? I thought that was all done with.”

  Blythe stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Ma’am? I would just like to go up and verify no one else is home.�
��

  “I said no one is in the house.”

  “It’s for our safety, ma’am. Everyone’s.”

  Sarah’s face turned red. She looked at the baby as if deciding something. Aliyah was reaching for some chew toy, more drool hanging from her ruby lips. Tom stooped and moved it closer to her chubby hand. She grabbed the toy and tried to eat it.

  “She’s how old?”

  Sarah was distracted. A stair tread popped as Blythe ascended to the upper level.

  “She’s six months,” Sarah said. “Well, she will be next week.”

  “Yeah, with babies I guess it’s more fine-tuned. The aging.”

  “Why are you here? What did Frank do?”

  He’d squatted beside the infant and now stood, feeling the aches in his legs and knees. Like a washed-up football player. Or a tired smoke jumper. He looked at Sarah to see what her face told him, what her eyes said.

  “I’ll be straight with you. We think he might be involved with some dangerous people.”

  “With drugs, you mean?”

  Tom tipped his head to the side. “That’s part of it. Can I ask . . . did you get remarried or is Finley your maiden name?”

  “It’s my name.”

  “You have a . . . are you with someone now?”

  “He’s at work. So, if it’s sort of drugs, what else is it?”

  Tom took a careful step closer. “Do you feel like you’re in danger, Sarah?”

  Her eyes spoke, for sure. She was tough, she was skeptical and trying to suppress her fear, but she had an infant to think about.

  “I don’t know where Frank is,” she said in a small voice.

  “When did you last see him?”

  She didn’t answer. The baby dropped the toy and moved on to chewing her fist. The pristine skin, the little stubby fingers were shiny with drool.

  Tom asked, “When did he last call you?”

  Sarah set her jaw. Kept staring down at Aliyah, unmoving, like she had lead in her shoes.

  “How about this . . . where is your other daughter, Gloria? Frank’s daughter. Is she at school?”

  A slight nod.

  “If you need help, Sarah, you’ve got to talk to me.”

  When she spoke, her voice was barely audible. “He just — he was different when he came home.”

  “Frank was? Different how?”

  A single tear slipped from her eye and ran down her cheek. “His temper. He never hit me or Gloria — but it was there. And he like . . . he tortured himself. It seemed like he did. He couldn’t live here anymore. He didn’t want to.”

  “Lange?” Blythe called down. “You want to come up here?”

  Sarah tensed and Tom held up his hand in peace. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m just going to go see what she wants. Just be cool, okay?” He left Sarah as she bent down to pick up the baby. There was a chance she might run but he doubted it. He took the stairs two at a time, never mind the protest in his legs.

  Upstairs was hotter. A small hallway and straight ahead was a bathroom. A bedroom to the right had a crib and a hanging mobile with dolphins and seahorses twirling, catching the light coming in through the open windows. A second bedroom had a DO NOT ENTER sign on the closed door.

  Blythe was in the third and last bedroom. Tom put his hand on the grip of his pistol and stepped in.

  Darker in here, slightly cooler. A boxed fan on the floor rattled as the blades spun in the listless heat. There was an unmade double bed, a narrow chest of drawers and a longer bureau against the adjacent walls. Blythe stood over a large trunk and lifted the lid as Tom neared. The room became lighter and a sweet aroma filled the air, that drowsy, body-odor smell of marijuana.

  Tom counted five pot plants. The grow light was hot and bright, the trunk lined with aluminum foil. Each of the small trees was loaded with buds, threaded with red and orange hairs.

  “Nice,” Tom said.

  He turned to the windows overlooking the backyard and saw a barbeque grill, some rough-looking lawn furniture and a plastic kiddy-pool. At the far end was a storage shed. He leaned closer, until his forehead was almost touching the glass, and scrutinized the shed from a distance. The padlock hung from the clasp, disengaged.

  “Check that out,” he said to Blythe.

  She moved beside him.

  “You want to call it in?” he asked.

  “Let’s just go see.”

  They left the room and descended the stairs, moving lightly but quickly. The house layout was such that everything circled the bathroom and they passed through the rear doorway of the living room and into the laundry and pantry area, with its smells of detergent and musty air.

  Sarah was in the kitchen, putting the baby in her high chair.

  “Last chance,” Tom said. “Is someone here?”

  Sarah didn’t answer — she didn’t have to. It was in her body language, the tight shoulders and pursed lips.

  “Take her out of there and go upstairs,” Tom said, gesturing at the baby.

  Aliyah started to wail the moment she was removed from the high chair. Sarah hurried with her from the room and he waited until he heard them moving upstairs.

  Tom glanced at Blythe. They left single file through the rear door and then walked abreast through the patchy yard. Blythe pulled her weapon as they flanked the shed. “You in there. Come on out. We just want to talk.”

  Someone moved around inside. Tom raised his weapon, felt the pulse in his neck. The baby’s cries emanated from the house through an open window on the top floor.

  “Easy,” Blythe called. “Come out easy and let us see your hands.”

  The shed door swung open and away, toward Blythe, so Tom had the man in full view. He was covered in sweat, with beads of it glistening in his goatee and shining atop his balding head. He wore a white tank top, shorts, nothing on his feet.

  Blythe came around the shed door and stepped in front of him. “Interlock your fingers behind your head. Good. Don’t worry about the baby. Your girlfriend is in there with her. Now down onto your knees.”

  Sweat was streaming down his face, like he’d run a marathon, as he lowered himself to his knees. It was not Frank Guttridge.

  “Must’ve been hot in there,” Tom said. “What’s your name?”

  “Eric.”

  “All the way down,” Blythe instructed. When Eric obliged, Tom got around beside him. “Now ease your hands down to your lower back,” Blythe said. Tom straddled him, squatted down and holstered his gun, handcuffing Eric while Blythe gave cover.

  The baby’s cries were tapering off.

  His face on the ground, Eric blew out a breath. “Ah, fuck. You’re not even here for me, are you? You’re here for that asshole.”

  “Which asshole is that?”

  “Her ex.”

  “Why do you think we’d be here for him, Eric? You’re the one with the little growing operation in your bedroom. Marijuana may be getting the green light everywhere else, but not here.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s not mine.”

  “Yet here you are, hiding in a windowless shed in eighty-degree heat.” Tom glanced at Blythe and they each hooked a hand under Eric’s arms and helped him to his feet. “Upsy-daisy,” Tom said. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. Do you understand these rights that have been given to you?”

  “Yes.”

  With Sarah’s boyfriend in cuffs, Blythe stowed her weapon and wiped her hands on her pants. Her color was up, strands of hair sticking to the skin around her forehead and ears.

  Eric licked his lips. “I want to talk to a lawyer, please.”

  “We’re getting there,” Blythe said. “Can you just fill in the gaps for us? When did you move in?”

  “About . . . I don’t know — couple of months ago.”

  “Have you ever met Frank Guttridge?”

  Eric stared at the house, raised his eyes to the upstairs windows
. Sarah was up there watching.

  “Yeah, I met him.”

  “You know where he is now?”

  “No.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a few months ago. He’s got no custody of Gloria, nothing. Sarah has placement. He just comes to visit. But there’s nothing regular about it. He always just shows up. He keeps a bunch of his shit here. I keep telling Sarah to throw it out.”

  Blythe gave Tom a nod and they brought Eric out onto the street by going around the house. A neighbor watched from a window across the street as they opened the back and eased Eric into the vehicle. Then the front door opened and Sarah came out with Aliyah in her arms. Eric looked back at them across the distance.

  A passing car slowed in the street and Tom felt a jolt — a flashback whipping through him of a previous case and a drive-by shooting. His hand went to his piece, but the car resumed normal speed — just an older man alone, getting an eyeful of someone else taken by the police.

  Still, he had the feeling someone in a Yukon was close.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE BUS TO ABILENE

  Nobody with the state bureau cared about Eric or his pot plants. The situation hadn’t drummed up much more interest from the FBI, but the marijuana was enough for a warrant to be executed by Polk County. Blythe stayed at the Polk County Sheriff’s Office to work with them as Eric got processed in. Tom went back to Guttridge’s house and hung around with Sarah and the baby while he waited for the crime scene unit to show up. There had been a big debate about taking Sarah into custody as well.

  “But then we’ve got to hand the kid over to child services and it’s a huge emotional scene for everybody,” Tom had argued with the Polk cops. “Let me stay with them. I need to keep talking to her anyway — she’s going to be more communicative in her own home.”