“Officer Miller, 10-20,” the radio crackles. I hate that goddamn thing. There’s so much static it’s always just barely comprehensible, so I’m never sure I heard dispatch correctly. It’s not like I can fucking concentrate on that when I’m driving.

Whatever. I rest my left arm over the wheel and slow down a bit as I reach out to grab the handset. Turn the volume up while I’m at it. “Officer Miller here, I am on Elm and proceeding to Way residence. Was delayed by 10-45 on Bide. Another moose got hit by a truck. ETA,” I glance down at the clock, “9:30.”

“Copy. Chief says he wants a report on that 10-15 as soon as it’s done.” And the First Annual Award for the Most Unnecessary Use of 10-codes goes to, Elly! Our dispatcher who thinks she’s subtle.

“Tell the chief I won’t get us sued by crazy cultists.” And that breathing down my neck won’t help, I pointedly don’t add. The handset goes back in its cradle, and I get both hands back on the wheel like you’re supposed to. Put on a little speed. Elm’s only a forty road, but it’s got seaside cliffs. I’d like to not be a statistic about blind corners.

“10-4,” Elly answers.

It takes me about another ten minutes to get to the Way’s driveway, and another five minutes past that to find the house. If I had any doubts as to where the Ways fell in the Local/Tourist/Rich-Fuck scale, that pretty much did away with it. The driveway curls back around through the forest towards the bay, and from how it’s clearing out, I’m pretty sure I might be looking for that big house up on the ridge.

Yeah, that’s it. The one with all the glass. My patrol car comes around the last bend, and I bring it to a stop in the circle out front. I get out, and take a moment to see just what it is I’m walking into.

It’s a hell of a house. It’s built into one of the huge rock outcroppings up by the seaside—hollowed out and such. I can’t see it from here, but I know the far side is pretty much one giant sheet of glass. On my side, there’s a big gravel circle out front that marks the end of the driveway, and a huge set of steps carved into the stone that must go up two stories. Or, one and a half. I can see the garage door under the steps on the left side, so I guess that door they run up to is the front.

Peeking around a bit, I can also see that the far left side of the house has what I think is a yard, or at least, a place where all the trees have been cleared out. Probably where things went down Monday. Hard to see from here but I think there are some glass double doors down there. Worth checking out.

Still, that makes, what? Three stories, custom made, seafront property, a half mile of forest all around, cliffside. This place must have cost something like ten million? Christ. And who the fuck called in a noise complaint on this guy in the first place?

I’m just getting out of the car when I hear the click of a latch, and a voice calling out: “Something I can help you with, Officer?” Fuck, I guess I lingered a bit. Looking back, the front door is open, and there’s someone looking out at me: tall guy, yellow polo shirt, slacks, bandage over his left temple. Yeah, that’s it.

“Good morning, sir!” I call, all polite and friendly like they taught us. It’s not like I wear this shit on my sleeve. Taking the stone steps two at a time crosses the distance to the front door quickly. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for a Mr. Owen Way? I’m here to ask him some questions about an altercation that occurred on this property two days ago.”

“Well, you found him,” Mr. Way replies, waiting for me to come the rest of the way up the steps. Now that I’m a bit closer, I can see his face better. He’s an older guy, forty-something. A few lines in his face but not bald yet. Caucasian. Short brown hair. Good enough shape. Doesn't look too nervous to see me. Guy like that I guess he figures his lawyers can take us if we try anything.

“Come in, please.” Once I’m closer, he opens the door the rest of the way, and gestures me inside. The interior is more or less what I expected. A small foyer, hardwood floors, huge two story living room off in the back with a giant glass sheet for a wall. Ocean view. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Juice? I was just finishing up breakfast.”

“No, thank you.” It’s an automatic reply. He squints his left eye as he turns to face me, and I glance up at the bandage on that temple. “Sir, are you okay?”

“Technically, no. I have a cracked skull,” Mr. Way replies, though his tone remains polite. Even a bit conversational. “Practically though, yes. The doctor’s say I’ll make a full recovery and I won’t need any surgery.” He seems to brighten a little bit. “Thank you for your concern though. And please, David, call me Owen. ‘Sir’ sounds strange.”

I frown. The fuck is this? “How did you—” He taps the spot on his chest where my name tag is on mine. “That just has my last name.”

“You’re Bob Miller’s son, aren’t you?” he asks. “It’s a small town.”

It’s not that small. I narrow my eyes, give him the good stare. But he doesn’t look suspicious or anything. I’m about to tell him that no, I’ll call him what the fucking manual tells me to call him, when I remember the chief’s instructions.

“Owen it is,” I say, keeping it cordial. “But, ‘Officer Miller’ when I’m on duty, please.”

“Sure,” he agrees. “Do you mind if we find a place to sit down?”

I spy a kitchen table through the side hall, still with a plate of pancakes on it, but he leads me into the living room instead. Gorgeous view of the harbor, two couches facing in, bookshelves against the wall, that sort of thing. It all looks new and modern. And there’s a bunch of pictures on the walls. I stop on the way in to examine one. Mr. Way, a blonde woman about his age, and four children. Two boys and two girls.

“Is your wife home, Owen?” I ask, taking two quick steps to catch up with him. He sits on one couch, so I sit on the other, a short gap and a table between us. Nothing to write yet, but I pull out my notebook anyway.

“Oh, no. She’s almost never here.” He spreads out his hands and waves the notion off with his left. “She’s out with the kids in San Francisco. I love Glenwood, but she wanted the kids to grow up somewhere a bit more… I don’t know.” He shrugs with his palms, holding them up. “Worldly? She’s not much on small town charm.”

“Grew up here?” I ask. He seems pretty open, but a few preliminary questions never hurt. Establishes a friendly dialogue before I start asking the pointed stuff.

“Oh, yeah.” His tone gradually slides from polite nearing conversational to conversational nearing friendly. “Four generations. My great grandfather settled here after he came back from the First World War. Started fresh as a logger.”

“I take it you’ve gotten out of that business?” I gesture around the room. There’s a word for this. Starts with O. Opulent? Shit. Now that’s going to bug me.

“After a fashion. My great grandfather was a bit of a tinkerer.” He points up at more of the photos on the wall. They’re old black and white things, or, tan and white. I can’t see them well from here, but a few of them have trees. “He invented the mechanical skidder—that’s the device that transports logs from the logging field to the main road. It’s how the family got established. He used the money to send my grandfather to college, and he became a chemist. He invented a bunch of plastics that...”

After a pause, he shrugs, “Well, that you’ve never heard of because they’re extremely boring. But also extremely useful. And my father kept the trend up. Went into computers back in the IBM days.”

Hell of a fucking legacy. “What about you? Are you a brilliant inventor as well?”

He smiles and shakes his head. “I did go to medical school, but, no. I’m mostly a philanthropist. Doctors Without Borders, that sort of thing. It’s very rewarding, and besides, it’s not like you can take it with you.”

Not that that stops you from enjoying it here while you have it, is the thing I don’t say. That’s not a fair thought anyway. The guy seems pleasant enough. Time to start fishing for a natural transition. “That’s very true. Do you do much philanthropy in town? Old ties in the area?”

“A bit.” He nods. “I did more in the old days, back when things were bad. But this tourism boom has really brought the town around. I do have a lot of friends from the old days, but not as many of them live here as they used to. A lot are like me, you know. Own a house in the area but usually live somewhere else.”

Yeah, I know. You’re a type. “Was that the people you had over two days ago?”

“Yes, mostly.” He agrees, with a half nod. Still no concern in his face. And he nicely provided that segue. “A few people drove in from out of state.”

I nod, and put the pencil to the paper. “Would you describe, in your own words, what happened that night when Officer Tucker arrived?”

“Well, the barbeque was in full swing when he arrived, so that would have been about one minute after midnight.” Barbeque? I jot that down along with the time. Just nod for now. “The officer’s patrol car pulled up, he got out. A lot of people were surprised to see him—it was kind of a private function. Then he said there’d been a noise complaint? Which, um.” He clears his throat. “Forgive me, is a little ridiculous. It was just us talking and there’s no one for a thousand yards around.”

“We’re looking into who called in the original complaint, yes.” I nod extra firmly this time. Being all reassuring.

“Someone heroic and nosy, no doubt,” he says, a little dry. “Please let me know if you find out.”

“We will,” I assure him. “Please, continue.”

“Well, Officer Tucker pushed his way into the crowd and started asking a lot of questions about what we were doing. I think people felt intruded upon, since we weren’t doing anything wrong. And my friend—” He gestures out to the harbor. “Casey Smith. From the little blue house over there? Got a bit uh…” He coughs. “Fighty. I really don’t think he meant any harm, he’s just always had somewhat poor impulse control. Even from when he was a kid. And he still had a knife from cutting the meat in his hands, and, well.” He shifts in place, and curls his lip a bit. Seems a bit embarrassed.

“That’s when Officer Tucker tasered him?” I confirm.

“Yes.” He nods. “The officer tasered him, he spasmed or, leapt, or, fell onto the officer. I don’t know. The officer fell over and hit me. And my head hit the stone surface we were using. Although honestly, everything around there is a bit vague until the next morning.”

“So the officer fell because Mr. Smith struck him?” I confirm, pencil over the notebook.

That makes him chuckle. “Yes, ‘Officer.’” I can hear him using my first name in that pause. Fucker. “The Officer acted entirely appropriately. Him hitting me was an honest mistake. I don’t think Casey meant any harm, like I said, but he did start the whole thing.”

Well, the chief will be glad to hear that, and I’m careful to write every word. That makes him smirk again, but I ignore it. “Good. I’m sure Officer Tucker will be glad to hear you didn’t suffer any permanent harm.” I flip to the next page, and consider his face carefully. “Now, you referred to the gathering as a ‘barbeque’?”

“That is usually what you call it when a group of friends get together to slaughter and cook an animal, yes.”

“You slaughtered the animal yourself? Then and there?” I add a bit of doubt to see if it opens him up.

“Yes, that’s correct.” He nods. “One of my guests, Andrew, is a licensed butcher. He handles most of the preparation.”

“At midnight?” Okay, let's try a lot of doubt instead.

“The time has religious significance.” He explains, not missing a beat. He goes on before I can ask the obvious followup. “It’s a starlight gathering. Go out, look at the sky, that sort of thing. It’s why we always hold it out here, where there aren’t any city lights to blot it out.”

“Uh-huh.” I scribble the bit about religious significance down. “And Officer Tucker said something about a large statue and a stone block you were using as a butcher’s table?”

“It’s an altar, not a table.” Owen shakes his head.

And here comes the train to crazytown. Fuck, I was really hoping Tucker was wrong about this. “An altar, sir?”

“A large stone surface used in religious—”

“I know what an altar is.” The words come out a lot sharper than they should. He folds his hands and gives me an expectant look, as I let out an angry growl. Fine. “Sir -- Owen. Whatever. Are you telling me that you took an animal, laid it out on an altar, and butchered it?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” He nods, just like he did before. Cordial and open. Still talking with his hands.

“Because…” I give him a promptly look, and swirl my hand in the air to let him go on. He doesn’t take the hint, and after a moment I finish, “That sounds a lot like animal sacrifice.”

“Once again…” he nods slowly, for exaggerated effect. “Yes. The stone table was an altar, and the statue is an icon. We get together once a month to pray and sacrifice a deer to Yangyrril, the Caretaker.”

Christ almighty, I have no idea how to respond to that. After a moment, I manage to give a reasonably calm, “Sorry, how do you spell that?” and listen as he rattles the letters off.
“Sir, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.” So illegal.

“Owen, please. And actually, it’s not,” he says, firmly. “As long as the animal is prepared in the proper manner, and in compliance with the Humane Slaughter Act, it’s my deer, I can kill it however I please. Like I said, it’s a barbeque.”

He can’t be serious. Like, forget the idea that any of this bullshit is legal. I’m not even sure he’s serious about the whole thing. This has to be a prank or something. “A barbeque to Yan-Girl the Caretaker.”

“Yangyrril,” he corrects. “Say it with your throat.” And hey! A bit of a glare. Well fuck him too. I think that’s the first emotional reaction I’ve gotten so far.

“Yeah, I’m going to need to see this,” I insist, rising from the couch. Technically I don’t have a search warrant, but that doesn’t matter if he shows me voluntarily.

He looks a little annoyed and doesn't get up right away, but it passes after a second. He shrugs, seems to calm down, and rises from his couch as well. “This way then.”

I’ll admit, I feel a little sting of alarm when he starts leading me down into the basement. Stay a few steps behind him, surge of adrenaline, that sort of thing. But then the stairs widen out, and it turns out it’s more of an open first floor than a serial killer lair. Big windows, yard out there, carpet, another couch, all that jazz. I’m pretty sure this is the room I saw from the outside, with the double doors that lead out into the yard. The sun goes behind a cloud as we approach one of the cabinets, casting the room into a hazy darkness. He finds the latch, and pulls it open.

I have no idea what the fuck I’m looking at.

“Is this… like. Abstract art?” I manage, peering over the whatever he’s apparently showing me. It’s hard to make out in the dim. I guess you could call it a statue, in that it’s a big physical thing that’s… a thing. Lots of weird loops and jagged angles. It’s made from scrap iron, crudely beaten into place and covered in rust, with unfinished bits of raw quartz stuck into it. About three feet fall. And doesn’t seem to serve any useful purpose. The cabinet it’s in is certainly a shrine, complete with candles and a fancy star-chart drawn all over the back and sides. But I have no idea what this is.

“This is the icon of Yangyrril my great grandfather made,” Owen explains, brushing two fingers over the metal. I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten tetanus by now. “He didn’t have very much money back then. Other associates of mine have fancier ones made from newer materials, but this is the legacy.”

“So she’s like a… tumbleweed?” I manage, careful to keep an eye on him. That’s the thing about crazy people, they go from zero to spiders in their brain in nothing flat. He just looks a little stern though, and reaches out to touch it again.

“These are her legs,” he says, touching one of the long, spindly metal bits. I guess it looks kind of like a leg, if it had too many knees and one them didn’t bend the right way. “This is her body.” It’s not a solid piece so much as a knot of metal fibers, but I guess it does connect to the legs in a way that looks more or less stable. I squint, trying to put the rest of it together. “The jagged parts are her wings. This is—”

“Her head, yeah. And the quartz crystals are eyes. I get it.” I wish I didn’t get it. Fuck that is one ugly critter. It’s like a beetle crossed with an octopus that has somehow learned to walk on land. Too many joints, legs that bend the wrong way, and a body right out of children’s nightmares. It’s head is held out towards the front. It’s looking at me. Is that a beak? And, five eyes: two sets on each side of its face, and one right in the middle of its forehead.

“And, what are these up here?” I count twelve limbs in total. Four on the ground, three sets of wings arranged in a fan like a dragonfly, and two of whatever the fuck those are.

“Talons,” Owen says, straightforward. Yeah, that makes sense. I think I can even see the original metal parts under the rust and aging. Like, a hook knife or something? It really emphasizes the caretaker theme.

“And you say your great grandfather made this?” I step away from the thing. It’s wigging me out, and getting some distance helps. Plus, the sun comes back out, and that thing isn’t half as scary in the light.

“Back then it was more of a secret,” Owen explains. “You understand, while being pagan has always been technically legal in the US, it hasn’t always been a good idea to be open about it.”

“I can see why you’d want to keep this a secret, yeah,” I agree quickly. He looks annoyed again but that’s about it. “And the altar?”

“That’s right here.” He pulls open the next cabinet, revealing a stone sheet with a metal handle on it. When he grabs it and heaves, the altar rolls out on… I don’t know. Ball-bearings or something, coming to rest in front of the statue. And, yup. That’s a pagan altar alright. Fancy stone engravings, grooves in the top for all the blood, and plenty of bloodstains from when the grooves overflowed. Charming.

I’m not freaking out yet because most lunatics are harmless, but when I get back to the station I am definitely making sure this guy's wife and kids are alive in California. And looking for any other mysterious disappearances of sacrificable individuals. “And, how long has this been—”

“Another promise, another seed, another packaged lie to keep us trapped in greed!” My pants are shaking. And it’s Mindy. Fuck!

“I’m sorry, Owen. I need to—”

“It’s quite alright, Officer.” He waves it off. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be upstairs finishing breakfast.”

I nod as I slide my notepad to my off hand, fish the phone out of my pocket, and swipe the green icon to the right. “Hey there, Sweetie.” I put on my best husband voice. And pull open the sliding door to the yard. I don’t want that nut listening in on this from the stairs. “How you doing? Is this an emergency? You know you’re supposed to text me when I’m at work.”

“Only if you consider us having food to be an emergency.” Mindy says, already getting short. I take a breath and keep my cool. “I called you three times today already! Why aren’t you picking up your phone?” It’s a bright sunny day outside. Got warm fast too. I look around for the sun, but I don’t see it. This must be the West side of the house. I was hoping to find something interesting in the yard, but there doesn’t seem to be too much here. It’s not even a real yard so much as a particularly thin patch of forest. There’s plenty of trees around, and I can even see a few deer watching from the distance.

“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t get your other calls. And yes, not starving is good,” I agree, poking around the yard a bit. Looking for… I don’t know. Bloodstains? Shallow graves? Something. “Why are we in danger of starvation?”

“I went down to the bank this afternoon to make a withdrawal, and the teller said there was some kind of account freeze thing?” Oh fuck, she found out about that. Motherfucker. Motherfucker, this is gonna suck. “She said that withdrawals are capped at rent + $200 every month without the permission of both account holders.”

“That’s what we agreed on, dear,” I say, sing-song, poking around as I go. It keeps my mind off things. Ground seems pretty clear. “That’s how much we can afford every month and still have something left for a rainy-day fund.”

“David!” she snaps. “I did not agree to be locked out of my own bank account!” Well, you did, actually, but that’s because of your tendency to sign forms without reading them.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t realize.” I keep it calm. Actually, now that I think about it, the ground is really clear. Wouldn't that big stone altar have… I don’t know. Torn grooves in the dirt? Then again, Owen pulled it out on his own, so maybe it’s not as heavy as it seems. Hollow or something. “We’ll talk it over as soon as I get back from work today.”

“No, David, I need you to come in now so I can do my grocery shopping.” I get down on my knees, and lower my head to the ground, examining the dirt around the glass door. Mmph. I get back up and head inside.

“$200 should be plenty for food for a month, dear. You’ll be fine.” I say, knowing perfectly well that’s not true. But as long as she returns whatever she bought before I get home, we can both politely pretend it didn’t happen. I step back inside, and the sun goes behind a cloud again, casting the basement into that menacing gloom. There’s the altar.

“No, it’s not fine, David!” she snaps into my ear. “This isn’t the fifties! You cannot lock me out of the joint bank account!” I give the altar’s handle a yank with one hand. Yup. Still fucking heavy, must have taken two strong guys to get it outside, but lighter than it looks. Probably hollow inside.

“Dear…” I step away towards the door, and the sun comes back out. “We agreed when we got married that credit card debt was not a…” Wait. I look back. “Uh… hold on.” I hover in the doorway for a moment, and then close the distance to the statue in two quick steps. The sun goes behind a cloud, and the room is dark. I retreat again, another two quick long steps, until I’m back in the glass doorway. It brightens again. “What the fuck?”

“David!” she snaps. “Don’t use that—”

“Dear, police stuff, I gotta call you back.” I hang up before she can object, and tuck the phone back into my pocket. Okay. Think about this. Theory #1. Tinted glass. I push the sliding doors open as far as they’ll go, and step back over to the statue. The room gets dark. I turn around, looking at the patch of carpet on my side of the open door. It’s in shadow. Fuck.

I spend a moment thinking, looking between the outside and Yag-Gril the Huggable. Okay, second theory. Stupid fucking coincidence. It was kind of a cloudy day. Bullshit happens sometimes. I step back over to the door to check where the clouds in the sky are—sun comes out again. I look up.

No, it’s not a cloudy day. Actually there’s not a cloud in the sky. Shit. Okay.

Right, think about this rationally. Let’s assume that my standing near an ugly statue did not slow the Sun’s stellar fusion, dim the earth, and cast the whole of the world into a doomsday panic. So it’s not actually getting dimmer outside. The room just makes it look dimmer. Light-absorbing panels or something. That makes sense. How do I test that?

Easy. I fish around in my pocket change until I find a particularly shiny quarter, then step back over to Yurt-Gripper the Fluffinator. It gets dark. Fuck her. I aim at the doorway, and flick the quarter over, letting in land right in the spot that should be lit.

And it shines. Sparkles like a star in the sky. Bingo. Can’t reflect sunlight that isn’t there. The carpet the quarter is on looks dark, but that’s just an optical illusion or something. I step back over, and the sunlight reappears, making the metal beam. There we go. I kneel down to pick it up. Silly thing actually had me freaking out there for a moment. I straighten up.

“Jesus fuck!” It’s right in front of me it’s right there! I fall back, something trips me! The room spins and I hit the carpet. Fuck fuck fuck! Gun! Need gun! I fumble with the holster, rip it out and hold it up. Safety off! I stop before I pull the trigger.

It’s a deer. It’s a fucking deer. One of the herd from outside or something. It wandered right up into the doorway. Fuck. Fuck.

I put my gun away before I get myself kicked off the force like a dumb shit.

“Jesus, you…” My heart is still racing as I put the gun away and push myself up. The deer doesn’t care. It’s not even spooked. Walks up and licks my damn face. I let out half a stiff laugh. “Okay, yes. You’re very friendly. But this room isn’t for you. Time to go be with the others.”

The deer snorts and shakes itself out. Herself out, I guess. It’s a doe. She takes a step back from me, and turns a half step. Towards the altar and the fucking statue. She steps up that way. Then, she puts her head down on the stone, laying it there sideways.

What the fuck?

“You told it it was time to go be with the others.” Owen’s voice cuts in, and I whip my head around to see him halfway down the stairs. How long has he been standing there!? “A rather morose choice of words, really.”

He walks down the stairs, and rubs the deer’s shoulder and neck, pulling its head off the stone. “Hush,” he speaks to it, loudly and firmly. “It’s not your time yet. Go be with your family. Run along.” He gives it a firm shove, and it runs past me out the door.

“What the fuck?” I repeat, a little more firmly this time. I’m not sure if I said it out loud the first time but I might have. I’m fucking feeling it.

“I feed them.” Owen says, still calm. “And spend a lot of time taking care of them. Once they get used to humans, they’re actually quite tranquil. I actually have a deer hutch just a little ways into the forest. Would you like to see?”

I nod dumbly, and he leads me out. I’m keeping a close eye on him, but I’m not even sure what I’m looking for at this point. We head out the door into the light forest, towards that herd of deer I saw watching. There’s four or five of them, plus some fawns. As we move around the herd and deeper into the forest, I can see some feed troughs stuck against the base of trees. There’s a few shelters, with mats on the bottom. And there, a cluster of outdoor electrical sockets sticking out of the ground. Nothing’s plugged in though.

“I add heaters to the shelters in the winter,” he says. He must have followed my gaze, but when I look at him he’s looking off in another direction entirely. “Poor things get cold in the winter and I make some extra effort to confirm they’re okay. Spring is much easier though. I just refill the feed bins every morning, spray the shelters down with the anti-tick-and-lice stuff, and have the vet by once a month to check on them.”

I nod again, watching as he approaches a doe sitting in the shelter with her fawn. They don’t run away, or even look alarmed. She lets him pick the fawn up like it was a small dog, checking the thing over and rubbing its side. “So how did this whole thing get started?”

“My great grandfather had a vision,” he explains, as he gently returns the fawn to her mother. “After the horrors of the Great War, he had considerable difficulty adjusting to civilian life. He married, but it wasn’t a good relationship at first. What was the point of bringing new life into this world just so it could suffer and die? And in his torment he cried out for something to save him.”

“And Yang-mere-al answered?” I ask. Maybe a little quieter than before. But fuck it. I’m allowed to be a little rattled after that.

“Yangyrril,” he insists as he straightens up. “And yes. From her distant star, the Caretaker heard mankind’s suffering, and struck an accord with my great grandfather, that his family would not know the horrors that he knew. And she blessed us to be safe and prosperous and free for as long as we should live.”

“In return for dead deer?” In a twisted way I guess that makes sense. It’s still fucking insane, but if alien-talon-god lets you turn the deer into burgers after, it’s not like you’ve lost anything.

“No. The deer are symbolic.” He shakes his head. “We sacrifice them to reaffirm our loyalty to her, to induct new members into the faith, and to pray for the swift resolution of her one hundred year journey to Earth.”

“Oh, so she’s going to show up in person?” I ask, trying to put that incredulity behind it. Fucking lunatic. He nods. “Just like, UFOs and flying saucers? Just any day now?”

“Flying saucers do not feature significantly in her mythology,” he says, with a bit of a dry inflection. And that touch of irritation again. “And no, not any day now. Her journey began in 1919 after the First World War, and it’s a century long voyage. She won’t be here for at least three more years.”

“Well that’s…” Special. I guess. Fuck.

“Officer, I do appreciate getting to share,” he says, tersely. “But unless you have any more questions about the events of two days ago or other official business, I do think I need to ask you to let me get back to my business.”

“Uh…” I flip through my notebook. Fuck, this all went out of my head. “No. I think that’s it.”

“Then your vehicle is this way.” He starts walking, back towards the front of the house, and I follow alongside. I shouldn't let him lead me around like this, but I honestly don’t know what the hell else I was going to ask.

“Why deer?” I ask, before we’ve cleared the woods.

“When my grandfather first beheld Yangyrril’s form, he remarked that she looked ‘kind of like a deer.’” Owen says flatly, glancing my way to make sure I’m not falling behind. “She found this humorous.”

I think back to the twisted metal statue. “I would find that humorous too.” Owen doesn’t respond, and so after a moment I add: “So I get that you’re an animal trainer, but I gotta ask—how did you teach them to lay their heads down on the altar like that?”

“It’s quite simple,” he says, “if you think about it from the deer’s perspective. In the wild, less than one in three fawns survive to adulthood. And of course, many adult deer perish every year, to hunters and predators and the like.”

He makes a wide, sweeping gesture off into the woods. “Here, by contrast, they are guaranteed to be safe. Not merely safe even, but healthy and comfortable. All of their children will survive, and their children’s children, and so on and so forth. And all I ask in return is that, after their children are grown and they’ve had what is, for a deer, a long life, I get to eat them. It’s a very reasonable deal.”

I lick my lips, once. Reach down to rest my hand over my gun. Just making sure it’s there. “How, precisely, did your great grandfather die? Or your grandfather or father.”

“I’m sure you could look that up yourself, Officer.” He waves me off without turning my way.

Dirt turns to gravel as we return to the circular walk. He heads right up to my patrol car, then past it, starting up the steps into his house. “Hey!” I call after him. “The freaky statue thing downstairs. Why does it get dark when I stand near it?”

“The icon has a sacred connection to Yangyrril as she flies through the void,” he answers, pausing halfway up the steps to look back at me. “When you stand near it, you see the darkness and stars that surround her, and you feel time and space distort with her motion.”

I pause a moment, then reply: “No, seriously.”

“I don’t joke about my faith,” Owen replies, resuming his walk up and pulling his front door open.

“I’ll be back about the altar!” I call after him. “I’m not sure what you’re doing is… legal.” Fuck, there’s gotta be something here we can nail this guy on. “With the butchery. I’m going to get the food and drug people to check that out!”

“You do that, Officer,” He calls back, still ever polite. “Have a good day!” He steps in, and the door shuts behind him.

After a moment, I climb back into the car. I put both of my hands on the wheel like you’re supposed to, but the engine isn’t running yet. I take a breath. Fuck. I reach out and grab the handset.

“Dispatch. Officer Mills here,” I call, as the radio clicks. “10-24. I’m on my way back. ETA…” I glance down at the clock. 4:34? Thing’s broken. “Uh… 10-43. Confirm present time?”

“Officer Mills,” the radio crackles back, barely comprehensible through the thick static haze. “Present time is 16:34. Where have you been all day?”

I don’t say anything for a long time.

“Officer Mills,” it crackles again, “10-62.”

That’s an order to reply. I lift the handset.

“Dispatch,” I say. “Delay due to… Uh… the 10-15. Tell the chief we won’t get sued. Returning to station.”

“10-4,” Elly says.

I put the handset away, start the engine, and drive back to town.