Page 5 of Taken By the Bounty Hunter

I look behind the stack of filing boxes where I’d kept the journals. All gone. The shelf where the recipe binders are is also empty.

What’s worse, no one has watered anything. No one repotted the seedlings I started. Most of the plants are dead.

All I have left is a dirt-smudged hoodie hanging from a hook on the wall.

My throat is already raw, but I’m about to scream when suddenly, a voice sounds behind me.

“I was coming to get you out of isolation, but apparently, the guard let you out already. Must have had our wires crossed.”

I spin around and find my father watching me from the doorway of the greenhouse.

“Dad,” I say in almost a whisper to Elder George, the man I’ve spoken maybe ten words to in the last six months. He has a lot of kids to pay attention to. A hell of a lot.

Why did the guard not tell him I stabbed her and shoved her into my mock-tapioca pudding?

I don’t dare ask that out loud. Maybe she was embarrassed. I would never want another woman who’s also trapped in this hell hole, just the same as I am, to be punished for anything. Maybe she felt the same way about me. Perhaps that’s why getting away from her was so easy.

He notices the incredulous look on my face and reaches out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go get a burger.”

Chapter Two

Jefferson

For the 31st day in a row, my kicking heart threatens to drown out the noise of my 1969 Dodge Charger as I rumble past Georgie’s house.

I wish this incessant ticker of mine would cut it out with the theatrics. Constantly building up hope. Hope that gets dashed, day after day.

I’ve been doing this for a month, and still no sign of her.

Where is Georgie?

I know she lives here with her mom and siblings. With a few keyboard strokes and paid access to county records, her place of residence was easy to find. My job is finding people who skip out on bail, on court dates, on summonses.

And yet, the minute I use my privileges for personal reasons, I can’t seem to glimpse one law-abiding 19-year-old woman.

I search for her like it’s my job. Georgie is at the forefront of my mind when I open my eyes in the morning and when I close my eyes at night. I can still see the thick auburn rope of her hair that hangs to her waist. The defiant chin. The shoulders set in iron resolve, ready for god knows what.

Georgie is the bravest person I know. Crazy of me to think that after talking to her for five minutes, I know. But I’ve learned a few things about her in our time apart.

On this early summer morning, a group of auburn-haired kids play red-light-green-light on the scrubby front lawn of a brick ranch house along the highway, about a quarter mile from the church’s main campus. A political sign stands cock-eyed in the right-of-way, reading, “Mark Lund for Sheriff.” Over my dead body.

One problem at a time, Jefferson. First, find Georgie. Don’t concern yourself with local politics.

I suppose I could invest in a less conspicuous mode of transportation than a classic muscle car named Sonja, which I Frankensteined with salvaged Viper parts. What can I say? I’ve never been one for subtle. This car was my only hobby before I met Georgie.

This group of kids doesn’t glance my way. They’re used to lookie-loos by now. People from Darling Creek love to drive around and gawk at the polygamists, whether they support their right to this lifestyle or not.

As for me, I’d never heard of the Celestial Order of Covenant Kinship (or C.O.C.K, for short—are you kidding me?) before the day I met Georgie and her band of highly paranoid friends at that house in Bozeman while I was trying to pick up OrlynMoffatt. Her friends looked at me like I was in league with the devil.

And when I said that name, they all went white.

I thought that Orlyn was a drifter wanted for questioning about that murder up in the mountains.

Turns out, that guy means something to some important people. Those people call him The Prophet, which is a pretty fucking eerie nickname if you ask me.

The bitch of it is, I also suspect that local law enforcement is aiding the old man in evading capture. I don’t have enough evidence to support that, but the way that murder investigation has been handled has been bad news all around for the county.

Not that I rely on cops to help me do my job, but when they actively try to sabotage and send me on wild goose chases? That is not good.

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