“So they’re the type of folks who reject laws and conservation.” While we’re trained to deal with misguided citizens like this, it might be different when it’s an entire community.
He grunts. “They’re under investigation for other crimes too. The IDFW is part of a task force working to bring them down.”
My gut tenses. A task force is serious shit. “What kind of crimes?”
“For sure there’s systemic abuse baked into their social structure, though we have yet to prove it. Recently, we discovered a link to human trafficking. Possible food stamp fraud. And now, kidnapping.”
“What?”
Rowdy adjusts the brim of his Stetson. “Six months ago, Sadie Travers left the cult, taking her two daughters with her. They’ve been missing for over two weeks now. We have reason to believe they were abducted by cult members.”
An unexpected wave of emotion tugs at my chest, but it quickly flashes to anger. The mother must be losing her mind. And the girls…they must be terrified. Confused. “That’s awful.”
“I’ll bring you in the next time the task force meets,” Rowdy says just as we crest a rise in time to see two guys on horseback cutting across the meadow to spook the Lost River herd.
The bunkhouse isa two-story structure built next to the barn with individual rooms upstairs and two rooms with bunk beds downstairs, plus a community kitchen, shared bathroom, and a sparse lounge with a sagging couch and a shelf of dusty paperbacksand board games. Because it’s winter, only three other guys share the space, all of them employed by the horse ranch and they’re so busy I hardly see them.
I check the time on my laptop screen, grab my spare blanket and the mug of tea I proudly made for myself, and settle into the creaky desk chair.
The laptop chimes and Dr. Keats appears on my screen. She’s mid-forties, with calm brown eyes and straight brown hair that is always tucked behind her sorta big ears—ears she jokes are big for a reason, because her profession depends on them. Today, earrings made of pale blue feathers and silver beads hang from them, and she’s wearing a caramel-brown sweater. Behind her is the familiar yellow wall of her Boise suburb office. I’ve been there a handful of times, but mostly we video conference thanks to my nomadic life these past few years.
Her smile is warm and genuine and coaxes an easy breath from my tight chest.
“Nice to see you, CJ.”
“Nice to see you too.” Before I went to rehab, I had never been in therapy before. I always thought it was for whiners who just needed a couple of days of good, hard labor. But opening up was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Probably the most rewarding, too, because it’s given me the insight I needed to turn my life around.
“Is that your new living space?” she asks.
I glance at the bare walls, the tiny window looking out over the snowy pasture, my single bed. “Hopefully not for long.”
“Tell me about that.”
What I like about Dr. Keats is that she never tries to steer us into the deep end. Sometimes we get there, sometimes we don’t. So I tell her about my search for a place in Finn River, and the challenges. Though I’m employed by IDFW as a conservation officer, I don’t yet have a district. For the next two months, I’m training with Rowdy Whittaker. He’s retiring soon, but there are a few otherpositions opening up. I don’t have much of a say regarding my permanent posting. So I can’t exactly commit to a long-term rental here in case I don’t end up staying. And that’s frustrating because I’m ready to put down roots. Ready to quit living out of milk crates and duffel bags and forcing Jasper to adjust to a new barn with new roommates.
“You’ve had a few days in your new job, how has that been?”
My chest feels so full and light that I laugh. “It’s fucking awesome.”
She smiles, the wrinkles around her eyes creasing. “That’s so great.”
I tell her about the two days of fieldwork with Rowdy and bringing in the two scumbag shed hunters.
Even though she’s paid to listen, the kindness in her gaze feels genuine, and makes the contentment echoing inside my heart feel even more powerful. More real.
“My first day was kind of intense, though. We recovered a dead body.”
Dr. Keats’ expression sobers. “That sounds awful.”
Her simple validation is like a permission slip to feel, and I heave a full sigh because itwasawful. “It was a young woman. I found out yesterday it’s not Molly, but I’ve been dreaming about her.”
Dr. Keats makes a compassionate hum. “What happens in the dream? Does it wake you up?”
It’s not like I wake up screaming or anything. “She’s walking down our driveway just like she did that day.” If I closed my eyes, I could picture it. My sister’s dark brown hair trailing in the afternoon breeze. She’s wearing a lacy tank top and the tight jeans Grandma would tut about every time she wore them. Her makeup makes her look older than nineteen. “But this time, she looks over her shoulder at me before she disappears.” Before she melts into the bright June sunlight.
“How do you react? In the dream.”
A familiar heavy sadness sinks through me. “It’s the same. The words I want to say are locked down tight inside me.”