A Voice from the Field (14 page)

Tia stopped and took in a deep breath through her nose. A cascade of proud moments flashed through her mind. The academy. Major arrests. Returning to work after the shooting. Making detective. Good times with the Sawyers. She forced herself back into the moment at hand, put her shoulders back, and walked into the chief's reception area. She did all she could to sound at ease. “Hey, Caroline. Sergeant Jackson tells me the Chief asked to see me.”

Caroline, already picking up the phone, smiled, but Tia picked up on the pity in her voice when she said, “Have a seat, Tia. I'll let the chief know you're here.”

Caroline no more than put the phone down when the office door swung open and there stood Ben Sawyer, his face somber but impossible to read.

“Hey, Suarez. Get in here.”

 

FIFTEEN

Angelica moved her palm lightly across the dirt surface beneath her, back and forth, tiny pebbles rough against her skin. The feeling of the earth was familiar to her. It was the stuff of a farm, and in her seventeen years Angelica Mendez-Ruiz had memory of little else. Sure, there had been occasional celebrations in the local plaza, with her mother always nearby, monitoring Angelica's every breath. There was the pilgrimage to Mexico City when she was seven, an event heavy on suffering and piety by design. But save those few worldly adventures, most of Angelica's earthly experiences were drawn from the clay of the earth. Honest work. Hard work. Even God's work. She understood all of that, but it hadn't seemed wrong or evil to hope for something more.

She lay flat and unmoving so that the cool dirt of the floor could offer some minor relief to the pain in her breast and stomach, to the searing burn between her legs. Where her cheek was pressed against the ground, a thin line of light snuck down through the outline of the trapdoor above her head. Beyond that there was only black. There were stretches of time when even that strip of light was gone—Angelica assumed those were the nights. She had come to welcome the blackness, thinking that perhaps it meant death was near. But it never came and Angelica realized she wouldn't be allowed to die. That she would be kept alive in this place. This place that she had become convinced was hell.

She was in an underground pit of some sort, with dirt walls supported by thick wooden beams. Far above her head was a wooden door that led to the world outside. There was nothing like this place on the farm in Michoacán where she had lived her entire life, not even the graves where her ancestors had been buried for almost three hundred years. Graves didn't have doors.

She thought again how wonderful it would be to just die, to have a grave, but she knew this was not death. This was hell and people didn't die in hell. They suffered. Suffered for their sins. Hell was a grave without the benefit of death.

Angelica was certain she was no longer near the place of her crossing. How long had it been since she'd made that trip? She had started her journey on foot, heading for the train called La Bestia. She and hundreds, even thousands, of others from all over Mexico and Central America, clinging to all parts of the train, had ridden for days until the tall fences of El Norte could be seen on the horizon. From there, the long walk began. Always at night, hiding during the day. No food and almost nothing to drink. Every day more people would fall from thirst and exhaustion, left behind to die in the desert sun. The coyotes led the survivors to a house that stood alone in an arid wasteland that left Angelica regretting her decision to come to this godforsaken country. There they stayed for many nights. She slept in a room with a dozen other women and children, locked inside as if they were prisoners. Every night the coyotes would come and take away another woman, sometimes even a child. Some returned. Others did not.

Then he came. The one called Tanner. And the other. The man with the terrible smell and a long beard that was the red color of Mexican dirt. Angelica had seen them standing in the doorway, pointing at her. She saw the exchange of money. Even now, she cursed her foolishness. To have gone with them. To believe that men who reeked of evil would want her for anything other than their own devilish pleasure.

The days after that fell into a miserable pattern. They would drive for hours, then stop and take her into a dingy
posada
. There would be a bed and little else. Men would come. One after another. She could hear them outside the door, waiting, even while one was on top of her. Then it was back to the van, hours of driving, another room. After many days—she didn't know how many—the rooms vanished. Now they took her in the fields. Day after day. Field after field.

If only she had listened to Antonio. Her oldest brother had been to America and he thanked God every day he had been able to return safely home. He had warned her. He had refused to even consider allowing her to take the journey that had killed their father. That had nearly killed him. Antonio spoke of a wall that rose up from the ground. Of helicopters and soldiers. Government agents along with vigilantes, all of them armed and eager to use their guns. Full of hate for the people of Mexico. He spoke of a crossing that covered hundreds of miles of arid wasteland. A desert riddled with the bones of people from all over Mexico and beyond. People who, like their father, had believed in the lies up until the time they lay down in the sand to die.

Antonio chastised her, calling it a sin to have such a
pasión de viajar
. Angelica preferred the English translation. Her
wanderlust.
It was a lust. She had inherited it from her father, who, like her, had felt a desire he could not ignore, to see the world beyond their farm. But she had not intended to desert her family. She had heard the stories of girls who disappeared and were never heard from again, but she knew it would be different for her. She would be smarter.

“I'll be careful, Mama. You'll see. I'll send money and before too long I'll come home.”

She had been a fool. Why had she allowed them to take her away? Why hadn't she fought harder? Screamed? Did anyone even notice that she was gone? Did she even matter?

It was quiet now. No noises came from outside. She knew the rattle of keys would eventually break the silence. The heavy footsteps. The opening of the door. The cackling call. But for now it was silent and she lay still, her body numb, her mind dull. She closed her eyes and tried to picture her home and family, but instead a voice called out from somewhere in the blackness. A voice of hope.

Come to me, mija.

 

SIXTEEN

Tia walked into the office and took the chief's extended hand, making sure to hold her breath. “Good morning, Chief.”

“I was starting to worry.” Sawyer shook her hand slowly and gave her a hard look. “Figured you got caught in all that Newberg early-morning traffic.”

Tia understood the not-so-subtle message but let it go without any comeback. The episode in the locker room remained fresh in her mind, not to mention in her throat, and her voice was genuinely humble. “Sorry, sir.”

Ben turned to the other man in the room, who got up from the couch as Tia walked toward him. “Detective Suarez, I'm sure you recognize Sheriff John Solo. He tells me you two have never met.”

Tia offered her hand to the man, whose face and public image were well known. Solo was in his third term as sheriff of Waukesha County and Tia thought he was holding up pretty well. The rugged good looks of his campaign posters were apparently not the work of Photoshop. His thick, wiry hair was more white than gray, and styled in a crew cut that sat well on his angular face. His muscular physique was wrapped in deep ebony skin, smooth and unblemished, giving the impression of a healthy lifestyle. His crisp khaki uniform shirt was tailored to his V-shaped torso and the four stars on the lapels were polished silver. A Western-style hat bearing the emblem of Waukesha County sat on the coffee table.

Still uneasy about the nature of the meeting, Tia offered the easiest greeting. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff.”

Solo smiled and a map of deep, ancient laugh lines appeared around his brown eyes. He looked down from his six-and-a-half-foot vantage point and Tia felt swallowed whole by his personality. He pumped her hand and said, in a booming voice, “Call me John. Good to meet you, Tia. How's the gut?”

“I'm, uh … I mean, it's great. Never better.” Tia patted her midsection with an open palm. The story of her near-death encounter had stayed in the local headlines for several weeks. All the attention had gotten old, but if the sheriff wanted to remind her boss of all the shit she'd been through for this department, who was she to stop him?

“Have a seat, detective,” the chief said, leaning back against the edge of his desk. Tia dropped into the visitor's chair, doing her best to appear at ease, though her skin was clammy and her stomach had roiled back to life.

Tia hoped whatever the chief and sheriff needed to talk about would take less than fifteen minutes. Any longer and round two might be all over the chief's carpet. The sheriff resumed his seat on the couch.

Watching her carefully and speaking coolly, Ben said, “Sheriff Solo came by to talk about your run-in with Gunther Kane.”

Tia swallowed hard. “Well, chief, like you and I have talked about, that was a pretty messed-up operation and I know we made some mistakes. But I get it. Kane is off-limits. I was out of line before, so—”

“Suarez?”

Tia looked at her boss. “Yes, Chief?”

“Can I finish before you mea culpa yourself right out the door?” One of Ben's eyebrows was arched, an expression Tia knew well.

“Sorry, sir.” From the corner of her eye Tia saw the sheriff look down at his boots and stifle a laugh.

Ben took a breath and started again. “Sheriff Solo, maybe it would be better if you explained why you're here.”

The sheriff leaned his tall frame forward on the couch that took on the look of doll furniture. He put his forearms on his knees. “Tia, are you familiar with the North Aryan Front?”

“The militia group?” He nodded. “Yeah, I've heard about them in various intel briefings and training seminars. White supremacists, right? Preach all that ‘hate the government, love the land' bullshit?”

“Those are the ones. They've been a minor pain in my ass ever since I took office, mostly low-level stuff. Demonstrations at public events. Membership drives out in front of the county office building. Every once in a while they'll hold a public meeting to try to drum up support for their cause.”

“Which is what exactly?” Tia asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing too specific. It's not like they work off a manifesto or anything. Mostly a bunch of pissed-off, down-on-their-luck farmers. Lately they've been recruiting a few younger guys, vets coming back from overseas. They're pretty much convinced the federal government is conspiring to take away their guns and turn them all into vegetarian socialists. Most of their get-togethers are glorified bitch sessions. I've written them off as peddlers of harmless nonsensical bullshit.”

“Okay, sir.” Tia smiled at the sheriff's colorful description and shrugged. “What's that got to do with Kane?”

“Gunther Kane came onto the local scene about two years ago. In his younger days, going back ten or twelve years, he rode with the Hells Angels chapter out of Milwaukee. Full-patched member. A one percenter all the way. He got busted for felony assault and did three years in Waupun. While he was locked up, he parlayed with the Aryan Brotherhood.”

“Yes, sir.” Tia wanted to move the conversation along. Her stomach was at a full churn. “We got all that off his rap sheet when we arrested him. Didn't mean much to the prosecutor in Milwaukee.”

“Yeah, so I've heard,” Solo said.

Her stomach gurgled loud enough that she was pretty sure both men heard it. “Again, sir, no disrespect, but what do you need from me?”

“Kane discharged parole two years ago. He's been free and clear of the law ever since. He stumbled onto a job at the Roadhouse Score out on Highway 53. Started off as a bouncer and worked his way into management.”

“That's the old strip joint, right?” Tia asked. “Can't say I spend a lot time there, but it sounds like just the place for him.”

“A bunch of the regulars are some of the more hard-core element of North Aryan Front,” Solo said. “That's where they hold their get-togethers. Look out for new members. That's where Kane comes in.”

Tia thought it over. “So the guy goes from riding with HA and being a soldier in the Aryan Brotherhood to hanging out with a bunch of yahoos who like to run around in the woods dressed in camouflage? Pretty big step down, wouldn't you say?”

“You'd think so, but it seems Kane may have found his niche. When he was running with Hells Angels and the Brotherhood, he was a face in the crowd. With the NAF, he can run the show.”

Tia and Ben exchanged a glance. Tia knew she wasn't the only one who was starting to get interested. The sheriff went on.

“Kane helped the boys of the North Aryan Front set up an LLC and take ownership of the Roadhouse. It's a strategy he learned from his days with HA. Those bastards own enough legit businesses to have their own Chamber of Commerce.”

Tia found herself warming to the distinguished sheriff, beginning to understand why, in a county that was 90 percent white, he kept getting reelected.

“Kane avoids the spotlight,” Solo said. “He lets the old guard bang the drum with all the philosophical bullshit. He seems more interested in raising capital. We think he's doing pretty well.”

“So they make their money through the club?”

He shrugged. “Some of it, yeah. Probably running dope and I'm sure they've got some special hanky-panky going on with the dancers—the usual strip joint stuff. But it looks like they've got another income stream, outside the club.”

Tia cocked her head. At this sign of interest, Solo cleared his throat and leaned in.