Chapter Twenty-Five

The one-story weathered house was small against the wide expanse of a flat gray sky. A fine mist rose from the muddy yard, and Raven could see patches of standing water from the recent rains.

“Hello, Raven,” Stella said from the porch of the farmhouse, her voice high and lilting like music. Although she wore a pair of all-weather work boots over her gray sweatpants, she didn’t venture into the wet yard to greet them. Raven smiled as she slammed the car door, and waved. Stevenson came from around the passenger’s side to stand beside her.

“What in the hell are we doing way out here?” he said. He twisted around to get a good look at the country road, the muddy front yard, the surrounding marsh, and the woman waiting for them on the porch.

“You remember Stella, right? ” Raven said. “From Noe’s birthday party. She owns this place.”

“I remember her, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to her at all,” Stevenson said. “Still doesn’t tell me why we’re out here, Raven.”

The way he said her name bugged her. He said it like he knew her. The fact was that he did, but not all of her. She turned and contemplated him like he was a stranger who happened to wander into her field of vision. He flinched.

“I need to get a feel for where this killer is coming from,” she said, making sure her voice was devoid of all emotion. “Billy Ray suggested I talk to her.”

He still didn’t understand. Raven wasn’t about to waste time explaining. She started across the muddy yard, feeling the wet coolness through her boots. Stevenson muttered and swore behind her. She didn’t have to turn around to know that he was hitching up his pants so the cuffs wouldn’t get muddy. On the porch Raven pulled her boots off without waiting to be asked. Stevenson followed suit with his shoes.

“Thank you,” Stella said, pulling her own boots off before holding the screen door open for them to walk inside.

“I appreciate you seeing me,” Raven said as they entered a small open room.

“No problem at all. Any friend of Billy Ray’s is a friend of mine. Plus I love the company.” She smiled and turned to Stevenson. “Wynn, right?”

“Sure,” Stevenson said with a quick look toward Raven, who was glad that he didn’t confuse things with an explanation that wouldn’t make any sense to Stella.

Once inside, Stella gestured to an old but perfectly maintained couch patterned in pink tea roses and told them to sit. Raven sat on the couch while Stevenson took a seat on a wooden ladder-back chair near a black pot-bellied stove.

“Would you like some tea?” Stella asked.

“No, thank you,” Raven said, but Stella, as if she hadn’t heard, kept walking, saying something about putting the kettle on.

Stevenson stared at Stella’s retreating back. White pieces of scalp shone through the woman’s wispy red hair. He swirled a big hand over his own bald head and gave Raven a questioning look.

“Hair extensions,” Raven whispered, assuming that he was referring to the night of the party when Stella was a newly made-over woman rocking pink lip gloss and a head full of red curls.

Restlessly, Raven picked up one of the magazines that had been arranged alphabetically on the coffee table. She flipped through a couple of pages, not seeing anything, before replacing it. Stevenson rubbed his hands together as if he were freezing though the Louisiana weather was mild, especially after all the rain.

Stella returned a few minutes later with a tray of cups, saucers and a tea kettle. She began fussing with the tea, not looking at them as she did so. Without asking, she placed two lumps of raw sugar into each of their delicate china cups.

“It’s nice to have company,” she said, finally sitting back on the couch next to Raven. “Being way out here by myself sometimes has me making things up, you know, seeing things.” She laughed brightly. “Sometimes I swear the sheep are talking to me.” She brought the tea cup to her thin lips and took a delicate sip. “So, Billy Ray said that you were interested in my process?”

“Yes, for a case,” Raven said.

“I didn’t know you were also a detective?” Stella said, looking at Stevenson. “Are you with the BLPD as well?”

“This is just a friendly conversation,” Raven said before Stevenson could answer. “I asked him to tag along for company. Long drive. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Stella said. “The Sleeping Boy case, correct? A lot of buzz in the farming community about how those boys are being killed. It puts unnecessary attention on what we do, especially with animal rights activists. So you think these boys are being slaughtered?”

“That’s right,” Raven said. “Throats cut, exsanguinated.”

“Except, that’s not right.” Stella took a deep breath. “I’m glad the police are trying to find out how slaughter really works. These murders have nothing to do with how we treat our animals. I’m happy to help any way I can.”

“We appreciate that. It’s just you on the farm?” Raven asked, blowing on the tea. She didn’t know what kind it was, but it smelled strong and bitter. She took a sip.

“Yes, since my husband died. It’s not that hard to care for this place. I grew up on a farm. The animals are a handful but I manage it.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Stevenson said.

“Thank you. Unfortunately, his loss wasn’t my first. My parents died before he did. They left the place to both me and my sister, who was going to sell it, but I went to court to stop it. God arranged the stars in my favor, and I won. This farm is a piece of them, though. It brings me some comfort.”

“Where is your sister now?” Stevenson asked.

“Dead, thank God. Good riddance to bad rubbish. She and my no-good husband, who, I might add, she was fucking before they kicked the bucket.”

Stella stopped when she saw the look of horror on Stevenson’s face. “Sorry. Don’t mean to offend. But it’s the truth. If you had known her, you would have been glad to be shut of her, too.”

“How did she die?” Stevenson said.

“They die,” she answered. “They both died at the same time. Murder, suicide. Years ago. God,” she shuddered, “what a mess.”

Raven sipped the tea, enjoying the warmth of it, and laughing quietly inside, knowing the effect Stella’s oddness was having on the usually straightlaced Stevenson.

“Don’t you get lonely way out here by yourself?” Stevenson asked.

“Sometimes,” she said. “Billy Ray has been a good friend. We hang out now and then when he’s not too busy. Other than that I have my animals. They keep me company, and I’m pretty sure not one of them would ever run off with my husband….”

“But doesn’t that make you sad when you have to….” Raven stopped and waved her fingers beneath her throat.

“Do you mean the slaughter?” Stella asked. She put the teacup back on the coffee table. “It’s hard to say goodbye to them. But otherwise, it’s all very peaceful.”

“You must mean for you,” Stevenson said.

Stella smiled, her eyes only on him for a brief second. “You sound like someone who doesn’t know where his food comes from.” She turned to Raven. “It’s better if you see what I’m talking about. Would you like to meet them?”

Raven said that she would. She knew that the interview wouldn’t be a question-and-answer session. The minute she saw Stella standing on the porch in her no-nonsense work boots, Raven knew that it would be better if she let Stella take the lead. She was far from the shy redhead they had met at Noe’s party. They followed her back to the front porch, where they reclaimed their boots and shoes.

The air was wet, earthy. Stella led them around the house. Stevenson, more worried about the mud on his pants than paying attention to where he was going, tripped over an old weathered storage box beneath what was most likely the kitchen window. He cursed.

Raven laughed. “You all right, there?” she asked, not caring if he was.

“I’m going to have to buy some new pants,” he said, righting himself again.

“Sorry about that,” Stella said. “I need to get rid of that old thing, but I never seem to be able to get around to it.”

She led them into a huge clearing that held a sheep pen and a large barn. The colors of the sheep amazed Raven. She had expected white like in the movies and storybooks. But Stella’s sheep were brown with legs the color of deep russet. Several smaller, white sheep were scattered among them. Stella indicated two bales of hay for Raven and Stevenson to sit. Raven sat but Stevenson stood with his arms folded across his chest, examining the mud on his pants and caked on his dress shoes.

Stella opened the gate to the pen. “Come here, Tatiana, come on, beautiful,” she called.

“You name them?” Stevenson said in a disgusted voice.

“Of course,” Stella said mildly. “I number them, too. But feels kind of odd to call Tatiana number 26.”

She sat on the bale of hay next to Raven, rubbing the sheep’s neck and scratching its head.

“Would you like to give her a pet?”

Raven got up from the bale and squatted. She offered both hands for the sheep to sniff as if she would have done with a strange dog.

“You have to be very still,” Stella said in a low voice, gently pushing Raven’s hands down. “She’s very friendly, but you’re a stranger to her. Show that you aren’t a threat. Look like you don’t care.”

Raven did as she was told and soon felt Tatiana’s wet nose touch her forehead. She touched the sheep’s neck and stroked until the animal buried its face in her curls. She laughed.

“Isn’t that cool? She likes you,” Stella said.

“What’s that building over there?” Stevenson asked abruptly.

“That’s for the slaughter,” Stella said. She turned back to Raven. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Stella returned Tatiana to her pen and began quickly walking to the abattoir, a long wooden building with a slanted roof and no windows.

Raven lifted an eyebrow at Stevenson, who was lingering a little too long at the sheep’s pen. “Coming?” she asked.

“No,” he said, without looking at her.

“What a scaredy cat.”

“Okay, fine, fine.”

When they reached the building, Stella pushed open the double wooden doors, which opened onto a room without a back wall. Where the wall should have been were two thick columns with rolled-up metal doors that could be pulled down when privacy was necessary. Beyond appeared to be miles and miles of wet fields with mist hovering like smoke, and cypress trees rising from the water.

Several thick chains along with hooks hung down from the ceiling. On Raven’s right was a pegboard of tools attached to the wall, beneath which was a low wooden cabinet. The top of the cabinet held a host of knives. Raven slowly walked over to them. The deadliest knife of them all lay next to a sharpening stone.

For some reason Raven’s hands twitched. She itched to test for herself how sharp the knife really was. When she noticed Stevenson staring at her, she stuffed her hands in her back pockets and walked away. Soon she was next to a sign on the wall that read, ‘The place where an animal dies is a sacred one’.

“So, how does it work?” Raven asked, sitting on a stool and hooking her feet behind the lower rung.

“Efficiently. I follow the teachings of Temple Grandin in my treatment of these animals,” Stella said. “I pick the day of slaughter in advance, and I do give thanks for what they are about to provide.”

“Like a sacrifice,” Raven said, thinking about the Sleeping Boy victims.

“No, not like that at all. It’s more like a trade. I give them a good life, and I don’t stress them. In return, they provide sustenance for you, me, for all of us. That’s why I was so eager to talk to you when you called. People are really misinterpreting what happens here.”

“You slaughter all these sheep alone?” Stevenson questioned.

Stella smiled. “No. I’d like to think I’m a badass, but I need help just like everybody else. I hire locals from other farms, people from town. Not too many to choose from these days. Everyone seems to be moving away from here, especially with the encroaching marshes and the powers that be wanting to declare them as protected places. They don’t care that they’re killing small farms like mine.”

Stevenson looked at the marshes surrounding the farm. “Seems it would be a little hard to grow anything out here, anyway. Maybe its best if they use this land to protect endangered species.”

“Not everyone grows crops,” Stella said. “Except they don’t ask us any questions. They just make assumptions before deciding to ruin people’s lives.”

“You sound bitter,” Stevenson said.

“I’m not bitter,” she said. “Just sad. I’ve given up a lot to stay here, but when it goes, it goes. It’s not about the place. Home is in your heart. I’m going to fight like hell to keep it, but if I lose, I’ll find another place for my animals. It’ll just take a little time, and unfortunately, a lot of money.”

“What happens on the day of slaughter?” Raven asked.

“I tell my helpers when to show up. Before they arrive and just before sunrise I go down to the pen. I thank my animals, and I walk my favorite to the shed.”

“So for the next slaughter it’ll be Tatiana who goes first?” Raven asked.

“Yes, because I just want to get it over with, you know. Like I said earlier, sometimes it’s hard to say goodbye.” She stopped, stood up and touched the chains hanging from the ceiling. They rattled in the quiet shed. “I’ll stick her, use the chains to hoist her up, and bleed her into the buckets.”

“Stick her?” Raven said. “You don’t cut her throat?”

“Of course,” Stella said. “But I start with a stick so I’m deep enough to slide the knife across her throat. I don’t want her to suffer.”

“How long will it take her to die?” Raven asked.

Stella considered. “For her it’ll be about ten, fifteen seconds. And I always make sure I do it right.”

Raven stood up and joined Stella, who was making her way back to the wooden cabinet.

“May I?” Raven asked.

“Of course. Just be careful.”

Raven picked up the largest knife she had been itching to pick up earlier. She flicked it through the air once or twice, amazed. She felt like a god.

“So you bleed the sheep?” Raven asked, admiring the way the late evening light slid down the blade.

“Yes. And you have to be careful. You don’t want the blood to contaminate any of the flesh or other edible parts – heart, liver….”

“Where does the blood go?” Raven asked.

“Into these buckets,” Stella said. “I sell it. Some people use it for things like blood sausage. It’s a pain because you have to be so careful not to contaminate it, but it’s good for me because I’m able to make a little extra money. I need every penny I can get to keep my business going.”

“But I thought you were a patron of Heron House?” Stevenson said. “That must be expensive.”

“I don’t give money,” Stella laughed. “I give time. I work there once or twice a month to help out, and to be with other people.”

Raven ran a finger along the blade. It was so sharp that it cut her with only the thinnest of cuts. The pain was almost pleasurable. She put the drop of blood to her lips, tasted the iron in it.

“Put the knife down, Burns,” Stevenson said. “You’re creeping me out.”

Raven returned the knife. Her OCD kicking in, she carefully lined it up with the others.

“Men,” Stella said. “You’re all so squeamish, just like my husband. He couldn’t bear the slaughter. Except for Billy Ray.”

“Billy Ray?” Raven asked.

“Yes,” Stella said. “When he first started buying meat from me, he wanted to watch the slaughter. Unlike your bald friend, he likes knowing where his meat comes from.”

That troubled Raven. Billy Ray never mentioned that he knew how the slaughter worked. Why not just tell her instead of pointing her toward Stella?

“Why do you do the first sheep without help?” Stevenson asked.

“It’s just something I want to do for myself before all the stamping boots and men shouting. In the quiet I can see the animal doesn’t feel any pain. Just a little reminder for me.”

“How do you know they don’t feel any pain?” Stevenson said. “Do you ask them after you cut their throats?”

Stella picked up a long, slender black instrument from the top of the cabinet.

“This,” she says. “It’s called a non-penetrating captive bolt gun.” She touched her forehead and rubbed a circle there with her index finger. “I’ll place it against Tatiana’s forehead right here to stun her. I like the non-penetrating kind because the bolt doesn’t penetrate the brain. No contamination. I can sell it with the rest of the meat. After she’s unconscious, I hoist her, stick her and cut her throat. She’ll die quickly. She won’t feel any of it. But those boys? I bet they suffer, right, Detective?”

Raven didn’t answer. There were things they kept out of the press on purpose, and one was the wound on the boys’ foreheads. Stella didn’t know about that.

Stella continued, “So, please, tell the press to stop comparing the murders to a slaughter. We have enough trouble trying to hang on to our farms without adding the wrath of animal right activists to the mix.”

* * *

Back in the Mustang, Stevenson turned to her. “What was the point of all that? To get back at me?”

“It’s not all about you,” Raven said. “I’ll worry about getting back at you when we find Noe.”

“Then why are we here?”

“You’re my partner, aren’t you?” Raven countered.

“Not so you notice with you picking and choosing how you let me participate in this case.”

“Look, you may think this trip is a waste of time, but at least we have a lead on what the killer may be using to incapacitate his victims.”

“The bolt gun?”

“Right. Not as dumb as you look.”

“I’ll let that one slide.”

“Don’t do it on my account. But sure as crapping, the bolt gun is how our perp is incapacitating his victims.”

“That’s what you think?”

“No, baby,” she said. “That’s what I know.”

“How?”

She looked over to the house, the mist rising off the yard, and the figure of Stella standing motionless on the porch watching them drive away. She thought about how sharp that knife was, the taste of her own blood in her mouth.

“Because if you haven’t figured it out by now,” she said, “it’s what I was born to do.”