A Voice from the Field by Neal Griffin

Ándale, Tia. Ándale!
    Tia buried her head in the pillow. She could still hear the sound of a body being dragged down the hall, the front door swinging open and banging against the aluminum siding. Finally the young woman’s desperate cries faded into the distance. Tia had her hands clamped over her ears, but she still heard every strangled shout.
    Is she real now? Do I go after her? What if none of it is real?
    All the liquor and prescription dope in Wisconsin wasn’t going to drown out the most terrifying thought: What if I really am losing my mind?

 
    SIX
    In the Milwaukee County Jail interrogation room, Tia sat, drumming her fingers on the wood tabletop as her knee bounced out a nervous cadence underneath. Her head throbbed and her tongue was thick in her mouth, like a crumpled sheet of 80 grit sandpaper. She felt like hell, but she pushed all that aside. Someone had to do something. For her, it was a simple fact: the girl in the van was real. She was part of this world, not a ghost, a memory, or some netherworld image.
    The girl in the van needed help. She needed a cop.
    The cube-like room where Tia waited was nothing more than four gray cement walls with a matching floor and twelve-foot ceiling. Two handle-less doors were cut flush into opposite sides of the room and could only be opened from the outside. A swaying lamp hung from a cable overhead, caught up in the draft of a wall fan that did nothing to lower the stifling heat. The light was intense and the furnishing sparse. It was a place that left Tia feeling exposed.
    That’s the whole idea, she thought. Makes the lies easier to see. Tia wondered what else might be visible: The paralyzing fear that followed her everywhere these days? Her desperation?
    A warning light flashed in some hazy but still-sensible part of her alcohol-sodden brain. Leave. No one would ever know. Just bang on the exit door and get the hell out of here. Chalk the trip up as the ultimate boneheaded idea, a narrowly averted disaster.
    She heard the sound of heavy footsteps accompanied by the jangle of chain. Her adrenaline kicked into high gear. Tia got to her feet at the exact moment the door leading to the cells swung open and a massive figure filled the doorway. Too late.
    Game on.
    Tia stretched to her entire five feet four inches and did her best to don the mask of power and authority. She tried to make it seem as if she had stood up to establish control, reminding him that she was a cop. A glance at the newcomer told her she had failed. This guy reads fear for a living, she thought. He was a cheetah to her tommy gazelle, and as he looked at her his expression went from stoic to predatorily amused.
    â€œWell, I’ll be damned. Lookie here. We gonna finish our little business transaction?”
    Tia kept her response short and simple, hoping to keep the quiver from her voice. “Sit down, Kane.”
    She hadn’t seen Gunther Kane since the night he’d been arrested, and he was even bigger and more repulsive than she remembered. The tight-fitting, triple-XL orange jailhouse jumpsuit, soaked in sweat, was open across his chest, the short sleeves hiding almost nothing of his massive arms, which were covered in tattoos. The mere sight of him reminded her of his weight on her, pressing her into the pavement. He owned you, she thought. If the other cops hadn’t arrived when they did, you were done. She felt the air run out of her body.
    Kane stepped into the room, towing a jail guard a third his size. His hands were cuffed in front of his body. A two-foot-long chain leash attached to a thick leather belt that dug in tight around his waist connected him to the guard, who held the leash with the confidence of a toddler walking a pit bull. With a glance, Kane communicated his intent to stand, and the little corrections officer looked away, avoiding eye contact. Kane turned back to Tia.
    â€œWe got nothing to talk to about. Maybe you ain’t heard. My