His piercing silver eyes captured hers. She felt cornered.

“Do we have a deal?”

“Why don’t you talk to an undertaker?” she asked, wanting to pick up the crumb.

“An undertaker’s job is to make people look at peace, to preserve death. A taxidermist preserves life . . . a moment in time . . . an experience. I’ve done my homework on you—seen your work in markets, motels, and museums. You work alone, and you’re not sloppy.”

“Yes but—”

“I detest sloppiness.”

“Okay but—”

“And, from the looks of this brand new beautiful barn, I’m thinking you may be a little stretched financially. I’m offering to help—to pay you a quarter million dollars to do what you’re good at. Now, do we have a deal?”

She turned away, feeling the weight of the loan payment on the new barn, wondering if she had a choice . . .

“Do we have a deal?”

“It’s called mounting,” she said.

He looked at the light fixture above them, cocked his head, then smiled a half-smile.

“Mounting, not stuffing. I’m not a pillow maker.”

He turned to her. “Noted,” he replied.

The silver-eyed man shook the taxidermist’s hand on his way out, then she focused on the crumb again, and decided to leave it be.

 

Forty-eight hours later, a driver delivered two frozen bodies in the back of a pickup. They weren’t submerged in dirty ice like animal carcasses. Instead the bodies, one female, one male, were frozen in styrofoam-insulated fiberglass cases. There was also a separate briefcase, which contained seventy-five thousand dollars—the silver-eyed man planned to pay her in thirds.  

 

The taxidermist agreed to create a dramatic set in which the two bodies would be displayed—one side of a card game, the female cheating, the male standing behind her—in on the deception. The delivery driver unloaded the rest of the truck’s contents: outfits, a deck of cards—including one extra ace, a felt-covered table, two walnut armchairs—one to remain empty, and drinking glasses—the taxidermist would stain one with lipstick. The driver was intimidating in strength but not appearance. The ease with which everything was unloaded showed that much heavier cargo could be handled if necessary. Through it all, the driver stayed composed, able to keep a tailored black suit unwrinkled and dust-free. The driver was shorter than her, stout, hair cropped, no obvious gender traits, expressionless.

 

“Will you be needing anything else?” asked the driver, calmly.

The taxidermist shook her head, keeping a safe distance.

“Per the agreement, I will deliver the second seventy-five thousand dollars once you reach the halfway point in the project.”

“How will you know when I’m halfway? Who do I call?”

“I will know,” said the driver.

“What, you’ll be like, staking the place out or something?”

“Or something,” the driver agreed, then left the barn.

 

When preparing her work, it was important to keep a kill as close to its last breath as possible. If multiple game were delivered at the same time, she froze all but one. She never agreed to deadlines. The process took as long as it took. The taxidermist only used the skin-mount method, which required skinning an entire body from head to toe. For this project, she would keep the skull and leg bones, and incinerate everything else. It made more sense to form most appendages artificially—wood and wire were much easier to manipulate than bone, but bone could serve as a good base. She liked to use original skulls for accuracy. She considered the male, then started with the female.

 

The taxidermist hung the carcass over a floor drain in the prep area. As the female thawed, dark and sometimes thick, fluid pooled around the drain. The entire barn floor was concrete so everything could easily be hosed away. A large shutter fan rested in the peak of the barn’s north wall to eliminate smells. She draped a blue tarp over the remains in case any customers dropped by, which rarely happened because she kept the gate locked at the end of a long gravel path, and rarely answered the intercom. But she wasn’t free of the occasional surprise—one month earlier, she’d been out hunting and returned to find signs of a break-in. Strangely, nothing was taken. But still . . . The taxidermist locked the barn doors and covered all ground-level windows. She liked her privacy, although the lifestyle left her feeling lonely at times.

 

While the trophy softened over the next twenty-four hours, the taxidermist took measurements, located her starting point, and made preliminary incisions with the precision of a surgeon. She took photos and studied the female from top to bottom. She noticed thick and unbalanced eyebrows. I’ll fix those, she thought, always the perfectionist. She spotted an appendectomy scar and a smaller broadly-healed scar on the female’s right shoulder blade where a mole had been hastily removed. The taxidermist had no idea who the female was, but for a quarter million dollars, I’ll make you whoever that silver-eyed snake wants you to be.

 

The next morning the taxidermist began to separate skin from muscle, tendon, and bone. The more she loosened, the more an unfamiliar stench was released. She couldn’t place the odor but it was definitely not something from the wild.

 

The taxidermist had always been curious about the complexities of mounting a human. That’s all it ever was though—curiosity. Her grandfather, who taught her the art, used to joke about mounting anyone who crossed him. Once a woman cut him off in traffic and he ranted how he should run her down and display her over a stone fireplace in a fancy hotel. He never took it beyond jokes or the occasional empty threat. When her grandfather died, she was left with his old taxidermy knives along with a set of eight throwing knives in various sizes—tools from his livelihood, and his favorite hobby. The taxidermist was comfortable with the tools, but had only recently taken an interest in the knives.

 

She removed the final bit of hide from the female and smiled in triumph. She’d wanted to release it all in one piece, comparing the experience to peeling an orange without breaking the rind . . . success . . . She laid the large pelt over a four-by-eight butcher block table and immediately began the preservation process—applying a thick layer of non-iodized salt to the flesh side, then rolling the table to a cool, dark corner, and letting it sit overnight. The taxidermist went back to the skinned figure—a large mass of blood, muscle, and bone. Beautiful . . .

 

Then she cut off its head.

 

Over the next three weeks she brought the body to completion by building wood forms for internal stability, shaping galvanized wire to secure the cavity, then packing and patching with wool, clay, and plaster for details. When mounting animals, pre-made molds and forms could be purchased to speed up the process. There were no molds for human taxidermy, not that she’d ever checked. The body was flawless from her perspective. She felt it was a shame to cover, but that was the agreement. To add clothing, the taxidermist cut the garments, dressed the figure in pieces, then re-sewed. She’d stitched some of her own clothes in the past, but was far from a skilled tailor. The unfamiliarity slowed her down. When fully clothed, the taxidermist added jewelry and glass eyeballs—which surprisingly, gave her the feeling of being watched.

 

On a cool spring evening, the taxidermist admired the completed female—confidently seated at the felt-covered table, cards held closely to left breast, the corner of a game-changing Ace poking out from the long sleeve of her black dress. In control.

 

The taxidermist heard knocking at the door and quickly turned out the light over the female. She wondered if she’d forgotten to lock the gate earlier in the day. When she answered the door the delivery driver stood holding a briefcase.

“I have the second installment,” said the driver.

“How did you know?” she asked. “And how the hell did you get through my gate?”

“Upon completion, I will deliver the remainder, and remove everything. Do you have any needs at this time?”

“How’d you know I finished?”

“You have more work to do,” said the driver, motioning past her to the blue tarp, which covered the thawing male.

She gave a startled look, then the driver turned and walked back to the car.

“I don’t appreciate being watched,” she said loudly, as the driver opened the car door and got in.

“You hear me?” She stepped outside.

The driver revved the car’s engine again and again until she gave up and returned inside. The driver pulled away and guided the car slowly back down the gravel path, saluted a man at the gate, who was parked in a moving truck, then disappeared into the blackness.

 

Unable to sleep that night, the taxidermist got to work on the male. In contrast to the female, the hide separated more cleanly—almost with ease. The skin was unblemished and hairless. Every square inch was smooth, a similar texture to uncooked chicken—childlike. She completed a third of the skinning by mid-morning, then finished the work late the following evening.

 

She examined the body when it was free of epidermis. It had more muscle than the female. The surface layer had very few trouble spots, which appeared rough and splotchy from where the taxidermist had to work harder for detachment. There was less blood. The body was thick, without much fat. Athletic—like the classic representations displayed on doctor’s office posters. The body smelled more like metal than death.

 

She spent the next week tanning the skin into leather. She applied salt, removed it, then reapplied, making sure the skin didn’t harden—it had to remain resilient and workable. In some areas she filleted excess layers for pliability. The taxidermist hydrated the work with cool water as she checked and rechecked for bits of fat that clung to the hide. She soaked the skin for hours on and off over a two-day period, then rinsed it several times to make sure it was free of salt. She hung the hide to let it drip almost dry before it was patted out with a chamois and rolled smooth. The taxidermist let the skin rest in the cool dry air of the barn. She heated a small amount of tanning oil then rubbed it into the male’s skin with her calloused steady hands. She continued the process for hours . . . heating oil . . . working the hide. I should’ve been a masseuse, she joked to herself. But then I’d have to talk to people.

 

It was the most time the taxidermist had ever spent with the opposite sex—dead or alive. She was out of touch, but took comfort in the memory of the silver-eyed man’s voice, “A taxidermist preserves life . . . a moment in time . . . an experience.” She thought about the two lives she was preserving, their moment in time, their experience . . . It was the first time she’d considered either of them as people—man and woman. She realized she’d spent most of her life with dead animals. She studied the pair closely. And felt a tinge of jealousy. The taxidermist decided she didn’t like the woman. But she liked the man. She felt alone.

 

The taxidermist worked ‘round the clock to complete the work. She was intrigued, but anxious to finish so she could sleep. When she closed her eyes, the taxidermist saw them—the man, the woman, the delivery driver, and those silver eyes looking through her. The closer she got to the couple’s moment, the more of a struggle it became to think of the assignment as just another project. She took no other work during the time spent mounting the pair. She knew she risked everything by taking on such a gruesome request, but the money . . . She thought of what she could do with a quarter million dollars, and entered unfamiliar territory—dreams . . . fantasy.

 

Four weeks later, after another all-night effort, the taxidermist stood in the middle of the barn and admired her creation—the man stood behind the woman, hand placed gently on her shoulder. Her painted nails reflected the morning light . . . a toothpick rested in the corner of his mouth . . . her poker face in place . . . his posture stately. It took two months to complete the entire scene. The taxidermist felt proud, but the loneliness returned sporadically. She snuffed it out with a fantasy of spending time with the man when he was full of life, not wire and wool.

 

All was interrupted by the diesel engine of a moving truck as it backed up to the barn’s south side, where larger doors were located. The delivery driver parked, stepped down from the truck, then walked around and entered the barn through the main door the taxidermist had opened.

 

“Who are they?” she yelled. “Why did he do this to them?”

The driver looked up, as if trying to find something in the barn’s vaulted ceiling, then faced the taxidermist.

“I want to know their story,” she said angrily. “I feel horrible about this.”

“You did it for the money,” offered the driver, matter of factly.

“Is that supposed to make it okay?”

The driver shrugged and raised both hands, acknowledging an obvious yes.

“Who are they?!”

The driver sighed. “She, was the love of his life, and the man with her is the one who ruined everything.”

“The love of whose life? Your boss?”

“My boss?” the driver said mockingly.

“They had an affair?”

“A one-night stand. She made a mistake.”

“They didn’t deserve this.”

“No. She did not. But him?”

“You knew them?”

“I loved her also. It’s heartbreaking to see her like this.”

“But she was your boss’s wife.”

“My boss? I take his money, like you. Like she used to.”

The taxidermist stared at the couple.

“A high price to pay for everyone involved,” said the driver.

The taxidermist remained silent, motionless.

“Consequences,” said the driver.

“What will happen now?” she asked.

“I’ve already been paid,” said the driver. “So now I disappear, but first I call the authorities and tell them what he’s done.”

She stiffened. “You can't do that.”

“I can. And I will. Besides, with this . . .” the driver picked up and opened a briefcase—inside was the final payment. “. . . you can disappear also.”

“People don't just vanish,” she said, raising her voice.

“Those two did,” said the driver, motioning toward the mounted couple. “I’ve given you fair warning. Do whatever you like. But he's going to pay for this with more than money. She treated me like a human being. He treats me like a servant, as if my only purpose is to clean up his messes.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked.

The driver’s eyes closed, then opened after a deep breath. “I’ll leave you out of it, but this is the evidence I’ve been waiting for.”

Panicked, “Why put me through this?” she asked. “Why didn’t you just report him when it happened? You had the bodies!”

For the first time, she saw a trace of expression on the driver’s face—a smirk. “I will admit,” said the driver, studying a spider web in a window pane, “I wanted to see how things turned out. It’s not every day one sees a stuffed, I mean mounted . . . human. Let alone two.”

“You’re as sick as he is!”

“Do you know what he’s going to do with them?” asked the driver. “He plans to put them on display in a private gallery for his eyes only—where he keeps others who’ve crossed him.”

“Others?”

“Not entire bodies, but pieces. She told me about it,” said the driver, nodding toward the cheating woman. “He has the hands of a man who stole from him—pickled in mason jars. He has the head of someone who outsmarted him in a legitimate business deal—frozen in a block of ice. He has all of the teeth of a child who lied to him once—sitting in a bowl he used to eat pistachios out of. He ha—”

“Stop,” she said. “Just . . . stop talking.”

 

The driver assessed the scene, then moved toward the card table. The taxidermist picked up one of her grandfather’s throwing knives—stainless steel, ten inches in length, and weighing close to eight ounces.

“You can’t call the police,” she said, nervously.

When the driver turned to face her again, the taxidermist flung the knife with the force of all her fear, loneliness, and greed behind it. As the blade penetrated, the delivery driver stumbled backward but didn’t fall. The driver wheezed in pain, doubling over. “THE END!,” the driver growled between clenched teeth. “Roll credits!” Then the driver dropped dead by the drain.

 

She dragged the delivery driver to the freezer, not knowing what else to do. She spent the day running through her dilemma. And as night fell, the taxidermist hadn’t settled on a plan. A liter of bourbon and her feather bed called. She drank straight from the bottle and searched for calm. She stayed in bed through the night, nodding off occasionally but waking panicked minutes later. Her heart and mind raced uncontrollably. The silver-eyed man would soon figure out something had gone wrong. She imagined the consequences, and saw herself spending eternity in his gallery. She had no idea how it was going to play out, but when the sun rose the next morning, the answer arrived with the sound of gravel being crushed beneath car tires, a slammed car door, a knowing knock—the silver-eyed man.

 

He entered the barn as soon as she opened the door, intent on seeing the work. He stepped close to both mountings, squinting to check for accuracy and subtleties. Immediately, he noticed the woman’s eyebrows had been altered. He turned to the taxidermist and raised his eyebrows alternately, letting her know the alteration didn’t escape him.

“Beautiful,” he said, stepping back to admire.

“You’re sick,” said the taxidermist.

“I’m sick.” repeated the silver-eyed man. He continued to examine the scene. “I’m sick.” He patted his chest. “You just sliced up two strangers and filled their skin like bags of garbage. Not only that, you drove a steel blade through the heart of a defenseless human being. And I’m the sick one,” he winked.

Confused about how he was already aware of the driver, she pressed on. “I know about your gallery,” she continued, “the things you’ve done.”

“Why did you do this?” he barked, frightening her. “Why did you agree to take this on?”  

She gathered herself. “For the money. I did it for the money.”

“Yes,” he said. “You did it for the money. Have you ever wondered who the empty chair at the card table was for? Who was actually being played? The mark?”

“I assumed it was for you, so you could square off with your cheating wife and her one-night stand.”

“Aaah, my wife,” he said. “My wife and the one that didn’t get away . . . together forever . . . no . . . no the chair isn’t for me, dear. The chair is for you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“So innocent,” he said, smugly.

“What are you talking about?”

He pointed up to one of the barn’s corners. “There,” he said. He pointed to the opposite corner. “There.” He continued to point to various locations throughout the barn . . . “there . . . there . . . over there . . . there . . . and there . . . cameras, microphones, surveillance equipment.” He opened his eyes wide and broke character. “Smiiiile,” he said, sarcastically.

“You’ve been watching me this whole time?”

 

Without a word, the silver-eyed man walked to the barn’s larger doors and opened them to reveal the moving truck the delivery driver had parked the day before. He walked out to his car, opened its trunk, and retrieved bolt cutters. He then walked to the truck, cut the padlock that had been put there by the driver, then unclasped the handle and raised the truck’s door. Inside were two men, relieved to be freed. The silver-eyed man put up his hand before they could speak. They were surrounded by monitors, a control board, headsets, cables, receivers, random audio visual production gear. The younger man opened and closed his eyes repeatedly, while the other stretched like a cat waking from a nap. Both slowly adapted to the natural light.

“Still rolling?” he asked the stretching man.

The stretching man nodded.

Then the silver-eyed man turned around to look at her, both arms spread in a welcoming gesture. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been watching you. Yes, I’ve been recording your every move.”

Horrified, the taxidermist looked at the men in the truck. Then she turned to the silver-eyed man. “Why?” she asked, voice cracking.

“For the same reason you did what you did,” he said. “Do you know how much money this will go for underground?” He got excited. “Snuff films are no longer the thing—that’s how I made my fortune. But they’ve become passé. Viewers always know how the story ends. They’ve gotten bored. In most cases there’s no story at all, just senseless killing. It’s lazy . . . amateurish. This however, is going to break new ground. I’ve created a whole new genre.”

 

Overwhelmed, the taxidermist moved closer to look inside the truck. She stared at the monitors. Each one showed a different part of the barn’s interior. On one screen, she saw the pegboard where her tools were kept, the mounted couple on another, the freezer door, the incinerator, the tables and drying racks. She even saw the bed she slept in every night. Alone.

 

“You’ve ruined my life,” she said, struggling for breath.

He smiled his half-smile. “You’ll be fine. The industry’s very discreet. Faces of the guilty are always blurred in post production. Of course my copy will be unedited.”

“You’re a maniac!”

“And you can keep the money,” he said, calmly. “We’ll get everything out of here now so you can get on with your life like none of this ever happened.”

 

She sat down in the empty chair at the card table, across from the mounted woman. The two men exited the moving truck, the younger one with an ten-foot step ladder—he removed electronic devices from corners, beams, and light fixtures while the other loaded the furniture and taxidermy.

“Be careful,” they were instructed. “I have a special place for these two.” He rubbed his hands together. “A masterpiece,” he reassured her. “You’ve earned a seat at the table with the great ones.”

She stood slowly and walked to her bed as the three finished loading the truck. She laid down—empty.

 

“You have all traces?” she heard the silver-eyed man ask the others.

She didn’t hear a response.

He yelled to her, “Like it never happened!” Then he slammed the barn doors shut.

 

She stayed in bed for three days. During that time she thought about how she’d spent the last two months. She imagined what the couple was like when they were living. She felt guilty about what she’d done, but willingly fantasized about the man . . . his athletic build . . . his smooth skin . . . his gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder, wishing it were on hers . . . she did not like the woman.

 

When the taxidermist was finally able to rise, the first thing she did was search the barn half-heartedly for cameras and anything out of the ordinary. She knew she wouldn’t find any equipment even if it was there. She felt more alone than ever. She looked at the money he’d given her—just faces, unable to keep her company. So in an attempt to regain a feeling of normalcy, she did what came natural. The taxidermist went to the freezer to thaw out a deer she’d killed during her last hunt.

 

And there was the delivery driver.

 

The taxidermist stared blankly, too numb to panic. She decided to incinerate the driver and be done with all of it. “Like it never happened!” she imitated the silver-eyed man. She found the buck and ran her right hand across the frozen carcass, leaving it lay. She visualized the mounting as she stood over the animal. She’d done hundreds of them over the years. I can do this in my sleep, she thought, no longer fulfilled by what she saw. She placed her left hand on the deer, then turned to the frozen driver. How much to stuff a human being?, the silver-eyed man’s voice played back in her head. The taxidermist removed her hands from the animal, then walked over and placed them on the human being.

 

“I’ll do this one for free,” she said, no longer feeling alone.