Page 2 of Rescued By the Operative

And let’s face it: these polygamist groups have more intersecting branches on their family trees than any of them can account for.

Just for an extra layer of safety, I even brought with me a phony letter from the Prophet of that rival clan, praising my aptitude for redirecting wayward women.

As such, I was given a job at the women’s detention center here. That letter had the added effect of lowering tensions between rival groups. If one is freely letting members migrate to another, there’s no point in putting hits out on each other.

This is precisely the kind of subterfuge that gets me excited about working for the FBI, even on days when I’m ready to pull my hair out because sometimes our work is slow.

And this assignment? Agonizingly slow. They put me in charge of investigating whether the Prophet and his eldest can be charged with federal crimes. Specifically, forced domestic servitude. So far, the sister-wives I’ve spoken to aren’t giving me much.

“Sit up and eat, Georgeanne,” I say sternly. “I need to talk to you.”

How long is this going to go on? I’ve planted enough sneaky bugs and tiny cameras all over the compound, they should have enough evidence.How long until the Bureau wakes up and sends an evacuation team to get this girl out and a hundred more like her? How long before someone demolishes this whole place? That’s what really needs to be done.

Hell, how long until I can get the hell out of Montana and go back to sitting on my porch in North Carolina?

The end of this assignment can’t come soon enough.

What I would give for Georgeanne to get the hell out of this cell and feel the sun on her face. Have a picnic in “big sky country,” as my surprisingly sentimental handler, Special Agent Carl Williams, describes it.

Sometimes I wish Georgeanne would just get the gumption to bust her way out of here.

Slowly, the girl sits up and blocks the light from her eyes, wincing at the brightness.

“What day is it?” she asks.

“That’s not your concern,” I remind her. Every morning when I check on her, she asks. And I tell her the same thing. “You need to eat.”

“What’s the point?”

Here is where I always cross the line. It is an actual performance, and if I believed in God, surely I’d be struck down.

“As you know, our Heavenly Father wants us ladies to be fit and strong. We are to be healthy so we can support our brethren, give them comfort, and bear them children. When was the last time you had a period, Georgeanne?”

I want to vomit just saying those words out loud.

She sniffs. “I wasn’t aware I was supposed to keep track.”

“Those reports are supposed to come from one of your mothers. But Gloria says she doesn’t know that,” I say, referring to Georgeanne’s biological mother.

Georgeann gets agitated.

“You can tell my father I won’t be promised in marriage. You can tell him he can lock me up until eternity and I’m not ever going to marry an old lech or have his babies! You tell that to my father!”

At least she has the energy to be coherent and feisty. I hope Carl, my handler, heard every word of that.

“Tell me more about the man your father wants you to marry.”

“He’s old and gross. What else do you need to know?”

“Do you have a name?”

“No.”

I try, “Aren’t most girls your age already married for years and have several children by now? Or caring for several sister-wives’ children while you run the house?”

“What?” She looks at me like she can’t believe I don’t already know the answer to that. As if she knows I’m somehow on the outside, looking in, and she’s just realized it. She cocks her head. “Why are you asking me that?”

I lean in, getting her close to the wire that’s taped to my chest under this ridiculous frumpy uniform. “How often are you allowed to leave the house once you’re married? What’s the youngest you’ve seen someone having to parent other wives’ children?”