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The Black Guardian

Kenosha, Wisconsin. May 11, 1978.

Roger Jeffries held the old woman's hand. For an eight year old, it was a hard concept to grasp- that his great grandmother was dying. She'd always lived in the small house across town, and it had seemed to Roger that she'd always be there, just like the sun or the sky or the bridge across the river. Now no one would be there to cook muffins or tell stories on Saturday mornings, when his mother would drop him off.

"Let me tell you a story about unicorns, Roger," she suddenly said. Despite the thinness of her face and the trembling in her hand, her voice was still clear and crisp, and Roger leaned close over the hospice bed. He loved all her stories, but the ones about the unicorns seemed most special.

"Please do, Grammy," he said in a whisper, as if afraid a loud voice might hurt her.

"This is a very special story, Roger, that you must always remember." She suddenly sounded very serious. "Unicorns are all very powerful creatures, with special magic, and they care about people and horses. But they could not defend themselves against people that were greedy and cruel, since they could not understand these things."

Roger didn't really understand greed or cruelty either. They were words, and concepts, but they were totally alien. "Where are the unicorns, Grammy?"

"Most of them went far away, when humans turned to machines. But a few of them stayed. Some of them stayed..." the old woman coughed, and Roger held her hand tighter as the needles on the monitor wavered. "Some of them stayed, and a few of them were very special. The five Guardians." She smiled despite the pain- Roger was enthralled, as he always was. The other children were dismissive- her own daughter, and granddaughter had put up with the stories, and the other great grandchildren ignored them as the rambling of an old woman. But Roger truly believed...

"What were the Guardians?" Roger wondered aloud. She'd told many tales of unicorns, but never spoke of guardians before.

"There were five Guardians. The red guardian had the power of the sun and could chase away evil. The gold guardian could make things grow and bring prosperity. The white guardian could heal the sick and lame, and the grey guardian kept everything in harmony."

She paused a long moment, and Roger thought she had drifted to sleep. He was about to slip quietly from the room when she opened her eyes and looked at him. "Roger." She took something and pressed it into his hand, a small round orb on a necklace. "Don't tell anyone else about this. It's our secret."

He looked at the small orb- a tiny black unicorn seemed to dance inside. "There's a unicorn inside," he said.

She drew a breath. "Few can see it."

Roger stared at the tiny figure, that seemed to dance and gallop. "What about the fifth guardian?"

"The black guardian." She drew another breath, that seemed almost audibly painful. Should she tell him? Could she?

A nurse burst into the room, accompanied by two orderlies. "You have to leave now. Visiting hours are over."

"Just a minute more," Roger begged. The nurse shook her head, efficiently herding the eight year old into the hallway.

His grandmother closed her eyes and sank back into the pillow.

Southern Wisconsin, 50 miles north of the Illinois border, present day

The Buick's key fob sent sparkling yellow light dancing around the car's front seat and over the windshield. It would have been pretty, Angela Ferris mused, except that the source of the light was the car's 'check engine' light, and the reflections off the windshield made it even harder to see the road through the steady snow that was falling in the darkness.

She slowed down further- it wasn't safe to go the speed limit on the side road she'd taken, and for a moment she regretted not staying on the Interstate. But she hated driving on the crowded road, especially in the dark and especially in winter; the truck drivers never seemed to slow down and her secret fear was one of the huge behemoths ploughing into the back of her car. "I can't see a damned thing," she commented.

Her coworker sat serenely in the front passenger seat, intently studying a map. "If that were true, I wouldn't ride with you," Roger Jeffries replied. "Most blind people aren't given driver's licenses."

She looked back without comment at the windshield, where the wipers smeared dirty snow around. Jeffries was something of a flake- most engineers were, but he was more than others, and it sometimes annoyed Ferris that she'd have to drag one along to business negotiations. Jeffries was an amusing and interesting companion at his best, but his constant cheerful attitude could be grating at times. Such as when driving a defective car late at night in a growing snowstorm. The Buick's engine surged suddenly, then began to sputter. "What's wrong with this thing?" Ferris moaned.

"Most probably a failing component of the ignition," Jeffries replied without looking up from the map. "Did you know that there's a carriage museum near Sheboygan?"

"More horse stuff," Ferris replied. "Don't you get tired of it?" Jeffries was known at the office as being a horse fanatic. Speculation among the business analysts was that the engineer either was gay or was having some kind of immoral relationship with a horse, or possibly both. Ferris doubted it, but wondered at times.

Jeffries looked up at her. "The car's about to stop running. You'd best pull off."

Ferris mashed the gas pedal all the way down, in a futile attempt to keep the car moving. The engine made a last moaning sound then stopped. She eased the car into the snow along the road's shoulder- fortunately it didn't seem too deep. As all of the caution lights on the dashboard began to light up, the car stopped moving and she pushed down the button that activated it's emergency flashers. "Now what?"

"There are several options," Jeffries said. "We can sit here and freeze to death, or call the auto service on a cellphone." He flicked his open, then scowled. "No service. Guess they can't hear me now."

Ferris looked at hers as well, at the 'No SVC' message on the phone's display. "Freezing to death doesn't sound too appealing. Are we near a town?"

"I don't know."

"You've been looking at the map!"

"Well, we aren't on the map, we're on the road." Jeffries pointed at the map. "We're somewhere around here, I think."

Ferris looked out the window. "There's some lights over there. Maybe they have a phone."

"Hope it's not a cellphone." Jeffries pulled on the Buick's door handle and stepped into the snow. Ferris paused a second and opened her door as well, pulling her scarf tight against the cold.

***************************************************************

Most humans that are cruel to animals do not consider themselves so. Carlos Herrera was an exception. The stocky Mexican resented having to work for the wealthy Norte Americanos, who squandered money on pets- dogs, cats, horses, that lived in far better and more comfortable conditions than he had in his home in Guadalupe, ate better than he or his five brothers and sisters had. Now he was paid to watch over a barn full of horses, so that their owners might come out a few hours a week in silly costumes and ride about.

Herrera took another drink from his fourth bottle of Budweiser. The American beer was cheaper than Corona, and Herrera grudgingly acknowledged to himself that he preferred it as well. Pulling a hose, he finished filling one horse's bucket, then moved to the next, placing the hose into the near empty bucket. He was paid to clean the buckets before filling them, but the stable's owner rarely came to the barn except on the first of the month to collect board checks, and the barn had closed for the day an hour earlier, so there was no reason to do it.

The small bay mare in the stall left the hay she was eating and came to drink the cool fresh water from the hose. "Beat it, bitch," Herrera said, flicking the hose against the mare's face. She jerked back, and as her head entered the stream of water it splashed onto the man's shirt, drenching it.

He uttered an obscenity, turning the valve off on the end of the hose and reaching for the mare's halter that hung from a hook beside the stall. "Training time for you."

**********************************************************************

The sign read 'Starwood Stables'. Ferris and Jeffries walked up the drive, still relatively clear from the drifting snow, and pushed up to the building. Yellowish light spilled from the windows, promising that at least someone was indoors. "Is this some kind of a cow barn?" Ferris wondered.

"Horses," Jeffries said. "A riding arena." He could hardly conceal his pleasure- the engineer felt comfortable around horses, and if he were to be stranded in a storm there was nowhere else he'd rather be than in a barn full.

"I'm allergic to horses," Ferris complained. "Do you remember the time you got all that horsehair in my office?

"Every time you bring it up," Jeffries said in reply. "Like every day." He pushed on the door, and they stepped into a warm and comfortable lounge. "Let's see if anyone's around." They could hear a voice, slightly muffled but clearly angry, and the pair walked toward the sound..

***************************************************************************

Herrera looked at the mare with pleasure in his accomplishment, leaning slightly on the heavy pitchfork he'd selected. The pitchfork was old, it's thick metal tines rusty but still sharp. The bay mare stood in the middle of the riding arena, her eyes wide with alarm. Herrera had tied a rope from her left hind pastern to her halter, tight enough that she had to hold the hoof up and hop on her other three, her head and neck bent to her left side. There was no training involved- Herrera didn't really care about anything but making the animal suffer; the water on his shirt was only an excuse, and if not the bay mare some other horse would have fallen victim to his torment. He plunged the fork's tines into the mare's rump- she squealed in pain, but could only spin to the left, and could not flee.

The man laughed. This would be amusing, and by the time the horse's owner came out again, the scars would be blamed on a pasture fight. Herrera was always careful in this regard; most of the owners of the stable's horses either came out only once a week for shows or lessons or were so stupid and ignorant that they'd believe anything that the barn's caretaker told them. He raised the fork again, jabbing the mare's right side this time- hobbled and her head tied, she couldn't even turn away from the pain.

*********************************************************************

The mare didn't understand. She had loved the first human, the one that had spent time, patiently showing her how to be a saddle horse, the one that had brushed her and talked to her and forgiven her mistakes. The next human had brought her here and left her, the woman only coming rarely, to ride her around then put her back into the stall. She hoped the first one would come back someday and take her away from the short man, the one that was now tormenting her, the only human that she saw daily.

She didn't understand- the man wasn't asking her to do anything, just striking her with the pitchfork, and she began to tremble in fear. She couldn't get away, couldn't run to safety, and her only hope was that another horse might come, someone to rescue her from the violent attack. When she'd been a foal, her dam would have come, protected her from the evil predator, but she hadn't seen her mother in years, since the first human had come and taken her away..

The fork dug into her unprotected flank again, and again she screamed from the sharp metal digging into her side. She hopped again, trying to strike out, hearing the man's evil laugh. There was no escape. The mare turned inside herself, trying to shut out the world mentally, remembering things from long ago, memories that were ingrained into her very being, that humans would call legends if they could understand them in the way that horses do, and called out for help in a way that few humans could comprehend, and none explain with their science.

Guardian, help me.

***************************

"At least it's clean," Ferris observed, stepping over a hose. It seemed out of place, left sitting on the floor, a small puddle near the end where water slowly dripped from the not quite sealed valve.

"This is a nice barn," Jeffries said doubtfully as they walked down a pristine aisle way. It was- spotless and clean, but he felt uncomfortable, as he saw the guarded glances from the stall's occupants, the horses warily looking at the pair as if they might be some kind of threat. The walkway led to a large opening, and they walked through into an arena, where fifty feet away a stocky man stood beside a bay horse, a pitchfork in his hand.

The man looked up. "This is private property," he snapped out.

Jeffries stared at the mare, taking in the deep bleeding gouges in her side, the rope tied to her halter and her pastern, as Ferris spoke. "Our car broke, can we use your phone?"

"Out in the lounge," Herrera said, turning back toward the mare.

Ferris started to turn, but Jeffries began to walk slowly toward Herrera. "What are you doing?"

"Roger, let's just use the phone and get out of here," Ferris said under her breath.

"I'm training a horse. Go use the phone," Herrera said coldly.

The mare twisted around, and her soft brown eyes met Jeffries'. He could suddenly feel her pain, as tangible as if the fork had struck him instead, and a feeling of anger bordering on hatred suddenly washed over him, as if he were suddenly filled with liquid fire, and the entire world took on a narrow and awful clarity.

Guardian, help me.

It was tangible and he understood. Ferris was saying something, but it no longer made sense, the words of a human, all blurry. Another horse called out from the stable, his whinny of greeting full of hope from a realization that their suffering at Herrera's hands was about to come to an end.

*********************************************

Herrera looked in annoyance at the two intruders, a black woman and a tall thin man. They looked stupid, and like most Norte Americanos would probably 'not want to get involved'. "I'm training a horse. Go use the phone," he said.

The black woman turned away, but the thin man walked toward him still, a strange look on his face. Herrera started to raise his fork, slightly angry, but his anger was replaced by fear. A dark haze seemed to surround the thin man, not quite like a cloud, but more like there was nothing there- it wasn't something that his senses could quite comprehend, but more of a nothingness, as if the thin man were being pulled into a thousand directions. Like Jeffries, Herrera's world suddenly became narrow, as he looked into the nothingness and saw a dark shape emerge- a large horse, solid black, with a horn on it's forehead, like a unicorn.

Unicorns weren't real...Herrera's hands started to shake, as the beast came closer, it's solid black eyes almost unreal, fixed on Herrera. The black unicorn's nostrils flared, as if smelling Herrera's vile evilness, then the animal tossed it's head., half rearing as it slowly circled the man.

The bay mare was suddenly relaxed, and the unicorn flicked it's head, the sharp horn slicing through the rope that held her immobile, and she touched noses with the unicorn, nickering softly. Herrera began to slowly back away, clutching the pitchfork and staring at the beast, hoping that it might forget his presence.

************************************************

The bay mare was thrilled. You are real, Guardian, and you have come.

The black unicorn drank in the mare's presence, feeling a combination of desire for the mare and a completeness that he had never felt before. Herrera was forgotten for a moment as the guardian experienced his first moments as a unicorn. It was totally strange and totally natural all at once, feeling his weight press against four hooves, seeing the world in a wide panorama through wide set eyes, and the gentle press of a tail- his tail- against his hind legs. He tossed his head and flicked his tail, just from pure exhilaration, and snorted loudly.

Herrera had been around horses nearly all his life. The black creature before him might have a horn on it's forehead but still had to be just a horse. Shouting loudly, he swung the pitchfork, counting on the sudden movement to frighten the animal so it would run away.

The bay mare bolted, squealing, familiar with Herrera's violent gesture. The mare is afraid. She is being attacked. The guardian didn't back away, but met the threat as a stallion would- lunging forward, flicking his sharp alicorn. The pitchfork split in half, torn from the man's hands as his shout suddenly turned to a scream of fear. The black unicorn's pure happiness of being was changed in an instant to a near irrational fury focused on the man. He could see Herrera's cruelty, as tangile as the checkered blue and white shirt he wore. The mare was nearby, still frightened by the Mexcian's shouts, and protecting her was suddenly the most important thing to the guardian. Rolling his weight back onto his hind legs, he plunged forward, feeling a bit surprised at how effortless it was to smash Herrera to the ground. He felt a savage satisfaction as his hooves crushed the man's chest, then he reared again, shrieking out his stallion's call as he came down again and again until Herrera lay still.

There was a woman screaming. The guardian's world opened up again, and he turned his head toward the sound. The human woman stood near the side of the arena. She was somehow familiar, like a half remembered dream, and he walked slowly toward her. She was afraid. The unicorn wasn't sure why she was afraid, but like the mare the guardian wanted to comfort her and protect her- she wasn't evil, not like the man had been. He flared his nostrils slightly, smelling her- she was... who was she?

****************************************************************

Angela Ferris had just had her reality inverted, but was focused on the horselike creature that Jeffries had become, magnificent and terrifying all at once. "Roger, don't hurt me," she said in a shaky voice, backing slowly away.

The human woman was afraid, and the guardian felt compelled to protect her as well. He looked around the arena for the danger she must see, starting to feel afraid himself at the unseen enemy, then calming as he trusted his own instincts. There is no danger here. The human fears me... but why? He turned back to the bay mare, who was regarding him with loving eyes, and forgot the human woman. He snorted, and he and the bay mare galloped to the end of the arena and out the open door.

**********************************************************************************

"Charlie four, dispatch," The radio in Martinez' squad car crackled.

How do they always know when I'm eating? "Charlie four, go ahead."

"We got some kind of disturbance at Starwood Stables, 3407 County Road AH," the dispatcher said. with a bit of a snicker. "Hysterical woman, something about a unicorn."

"Great," Martinez said. It was nearly the end of his shift, and probably some idiot was drunk or some kids were making crank calls. He turned the key in the new Ford- as a sergeant, he rated the newest Crown Vic on his shift- and slapped the gear selector into drive. Steering with one hand, he managed to eat the rest of his cheeseburger by the time he left the restaurant's parking lot. There wasn't much traffic, no reason to turn on the blue lights, and he drove carefully, minding the snow that was deepening despite Wisconsin's efficient and ubiquitous snowplows. Approaching the driveway, he passed a maroon Buick that was on the shoulder with it's emergency flashers on, and he glanced at the car, noting that it appeared empty.

The driveway to the barn was deep with snow, and he had to drive even more carefully as the big police car slipped, losing traction. As he approached the building, a woman ran out. Martinez slammed on the brakes, then stepped out of the car, leaving it running . "Ma'am, what seems to be the problem?"

"He's dead, he's dead," she said, her voice almost hysterical. "In there."

Martinez ran toward the barn, unsnapping the cover of his pistol's holster. As he entered, he could see the bloody and mutilated corpse of Herrera, and he gently pulled out the weapon, holding it so that it pointed at the ground, but could be brought up at a moment's notice. The woman came into the barn, and he turned back toward her, a bit cautious- she seemed too small to have killed the man in the arena, but there was no telling. "What happened here?"

The woman was taking deep breaths as if gulping air. "That man- the unicorn killed him. My car broke down, and Roger and I came here for a phone. And he was hitting the horse, and then Roger.. the unicorn killed him."

"This is Roger?" Martinez asked, pointing at Herrera's corpse and pulling out his walkie talkie. "Charlie four, I need an ambulance and backup. Respond fire rescue to my location, possible homicide."

The dispatcher responded more crisply, the humor gone. "Dispatch to Charlie four, ten-four."

"No, Roger was traveling with me," the woman said, slightly calmer. "He's gone." She suddenly started to cry.

Martinez looked down at the body. "This guy looks like he was stomped by a horse," the deputy said.

Ferris closed her eyes. I must sound like a lunatic. "He was. We came in the barn to use the phone, and this man was hitting a horse, and the horse killed him," she said. "A brown horse."

"Okay," Martinez said, pulling a pen and notepad out of his pocket. "What's your name and address?"

"Angela Ferris. 410B Market Place in Gurnee, Illinois. You have to find Roger," she said.

"Where did Roger go?" Martinez asked gently. He knew that this was the time when he'd get the most reliable information, before the witness had a chance to think it over and rationalize their stories with inaccurate details.

"With the brown horse. He ran outside with the brown horse," she replied, hearing the approaching sirens.

There was something wrong with her story. Martinez knew it, he'd been a cop long enough to know when someone was only telling part of the truth. "Why did he do that?" he quizzed. "Horses are fast, he'd have a hard time keeping up." Keep pushing so she keeps lying, until her story collapses.

Two paramedics ran into the barn, one with an impossibly large aluminum medical kit and the other, a large heavyset man, dragging a stretcher. "Hey, Jose," one called in greeting.

"Crap, this guy looks like he got the shit stomped out of him," the other said, looking at Herrera's body. "He's dead."

Martinez coughed, trying to remind the paramedic of Ferris' presence, but at the same time noting the woman's lack of emotional response. She didn't know the victim. She'd have either got upset or been satisfied, or else she's the coldest fish I've run across in years... but no, she was wound up from seeing this guy killed. So what's she hiding? "Miss Ferris, your friend Roger, what's his complete name?"

"Roger Jeffries. He's one of our staff engineers. I'm not sure of his address," she replied.

The paramedics were removing Herrera's shirt. "No point in doing CPR," the heavyset man said. "This guy has a hole through him you could put your hand through. Look, you can see his backbone."

The other paramedic pushed in, looking with interest. Martinez turned away, noting the bloody sharply pointed broken handle of the pitchfork lying nearby, and suddenly pieces of the puzzle jumped into place. "Did your friend Roger kill this man?"

Ferris didn't answer, but the look on her face answered Martinez. So they came in, this Roger guy kills the man by running him through with the handle of the pitchfork, then makes the horse step on him so it looks like an accident. No motive yet, but that'll spill out. "Miss Ferris, I think we need to go down to the station."

*******************************************************************************

The guardian let the bay mare lead him through the snow filled fields. The night air felt pleasantly cool now, and the guardian shrugged off an unwanted human memory of the cold. The rest of his senses were almost overwhelmed, his ears hearing a thousand whispers in the night, of the snow gently caressing the tree limbs as it fell and swirled, of far off creatures padding through the night on unknown business, of other horses not too distant. He wanted for a moment to turn, go back to the barn and the safety of a herd, but the scent and presence of the bay mare instantly called him back to focus on her instead.

She stopped, half turning her neck to look at him, her ears forward and alert. The guardian walked to her slowly, carefully touching her with his nose, holding his nostrils close to hers and drinking in her breath. She wasn't in heat, but instead seemed content as was he to stand close together, taking comfort in the companionship of another equine. He raised his head, looking back toward the barn where blue and red lights flashed and reflected from the windows, and idly wondered about if they could go back and get hay.

Something danced at the edge of his mind. Angela. The human mare. She needs you as well. The guardian looked over at the bay mare, torn between desire and responsibility as the human thought and memories began to eat into his unicorn self. The being that was Roger Jeffries and the guardian, all at once, struggled to achieve a oneness and decision as to what to do and who to be. Both consciousnesses longed to remain an equine, one driven by instinct and the other by a longing, but both suddenly realized they had much more responsibility than to yield to comfort and pleasure. All at once the two became one; the ancient spirit that was the black guardian and Roger Jeffries ceased to be separate entities. The unicorn nickered softly again to the mare, almost apologetically, then trotted back toward the barn. She hesitated a moment, then followed.

*************************************************************************************

Martinez had a gentle but firm hold on Ferris' arm as he walked her out through the barn's door. "I'll have your car towed. You'll be much more comfortable at the station than waiting here," he said casually.

"Mind if I ride along too?"

Martinez' right hand dropped to the holster as Ferris tensed. "You're Roger Jeffries?" The man stood about twenty feet away, next to a small brown horse.

"Yeah, I caught up with her and she seems all right," he said, stepping forward.

"What happened here?" Martinez asked, his hand resting on the butt of the pistol.

Jeffries shrugged. "The guy with the pitchfork was beating this horse. She ran over him then outside. I followed her and caught her." He stepped forward. Martinez noted that the small brown horse- the color was bay, he recalled, because of the black mane and tail- followed him docilely though Jeffries had no rope or halter on the animal. "She has to go back in the barn. Can't have her running around." Jeffries touched the mare. She looked at him for a long moment, her ears up, then walked into the barn.

The three watched the mare as she went inside, then Martinez let go of Ferris' arm and gestured toward the Ford. "I'll take you two down to the station while your car is repaired. I'll need to get your statements." Damn, ideally they wouldn't be riding together- I don't want them to coordinate their stories. He opened the back door of the Ford, letting them get in, then climbed into the driver's seat and started the police car up. Putting it into drive, the tires spun for a moment on the icy snow, then dug in, and he steered carefully down the driveway to the road.

********************************************************************************

Three hours later, Martinez was comparing notes with Sergeant Vicks, the detective who'd come in to take Ferris' statement while Martinez questioned Jeffries. "So they pretty much match, up to the point where Herrera dies," Martinez said.

"Yeah. Ferris claimed the horse reared up and came down on Herrera, and Jeffries said she kicked him. Ferris said that Jeffries checked Herrera for a pulse, then told her to call 911. Jeffries says he ran out after the horse immediately." Vicks threw his small spiral notebook down on the desk. "Coroner says that neither story would account for the thumpin' great hole in Herrera, and our esteemed CSI says that only Herrera's prints were on the pitchfork, so no murder weapon."

It didn't add up, but most crimes didn't, at least at first. "Motives?" Martinez asked.

"Haven't found any connections yet between either of them and Herrera, or anyone else local either," Vicks replied. "Early though. Car was definitely busted for real. Ignition module failed, they couldn't have faked that. Herrera had numerous citations for animal cruelty, and Jeffries is a member of some of those tree hugger groups. I like him for this so far. They come in, find Herrera beating the horse, and Jeffries wigs out and kills him, then tosses the murder weapon while he's chasing the horse."

Martinez thought for a moment. "You know, the horse seemed real attached to him for having never seen him before. I don't know a lot about horses, but if somebody beat the crap out of a dog they wouldn't be all over a total stranger ten minutes later."

Vick raised an eyebrow. "Maybe that's our connection. Let's check out the horse, see if he owned it before or something." He yawned. "Long night. Let's cut 'em loose. Give 'em the usual, don't leave the country and all that crap."

"So did Ferris say why she said a unicorn was our killer and not the horse when she phoned?" Martinez prodded with a smile.

Vick took another drink of the lukewarm cup of coffee that sat on the desk. "Says she'd just read a story about unicorns, but she couldn't remember the title when I asked her. Doesn't wash."

"I think a unicorn killed him, and they're covering up," Martinez said with a straight face. The two policemen looked at each other and laughed.

**************************************************************************************

"You haven't said anything in an hour," Jeffries said as he turned the rented Chrysler onto the freeway on ramp. The Buick wouldn't be repaired for another day, and they were too far from home to take a taxi, but too close to wait.

Ferris looked back at him. "Roger, you turned into a unicorn." He glanced in the mirror, then stepped on the accelerator to merge into traffic. "Yes, I suppose that I did."

"You could have mentioned it before! Don't look at me, watch the road!"

He turned back toward the windshield. "Sorry. Anyway, I really haven't ever turned into a unicorn before. Really. It was the first time."

Ferris caught her breath. "Roger. You killed that man."

"He wasn't very nice." Jeffries signaled, then pulled into the left lane. "And it needed to be done."

"Don't you feel any remorse?"

"He didn't," Jeffries countered. "I think it's what I was put here to do."

"Kill cruel people?" Ferris asked incredulously.

"Only ones that are cruel to equines, I think," Jeffries replied. "Do you want to stop and get breakfast at the Cheese Castle? I think it's the next exit."

She sunk back into the car's seat. "How can you think about food?"

"I'm hungry." He signaled again, pulling onto the off ramp. "I think they're open this early." He maneuvered the gray car into a space, then shifted to park and turned it off. Ferris got out of the car silently and followed him in.

Like most truck stops, there were several televisions in the dining area, all set to different stations. As they sat in a booth, the commercial break ended on the nearest and a commentator appeared. "And now, in regional news... in Du Page county, police received reports of a unicorn running amok. Carlos Herrera, aged fifty eight, was reportedly gored by a unicorn. Police continue to investigate. Now here' Bob with the weather."

The weatherman appeared, wearing a yellow suit. "Gosh, Jim. With this much snow, we'll probably be seeing the abominable snowman next." The commentator snickered.

"Well. It looks like I'm famous," Jeffries said as he studied the menu. "Maybe I need an agent."

"You need to be serious," Ferris shot back in a low voice. "What are we going to tell people at work?"

"Are you ready to order?" the waitress asked as she came up.

"Coffee. And two eggs- a number three breakfast," Ferris said.

"I'll have a Coke, and cereal. Shredded wheat," Jeffries announced.

"That's not a very balanced diet," Ferris said as the waitress scuttled off.

"It's what unicorns eat," Jeffries replied.

**********************************************************************************

In upstate New York, Gwendolyn Hines sat at her mahogany desk and carefully studied the news article. Like most, it made jest of Ferris' phone call reporting a unicorn killing the stable hand, but Hines was interested in the details. "Black unicorn," she mused. Most stories designated unicorns to be white, and by default humans would think of them as this color. Not that there weren't any white unicorns, she reminded herself, but the detail of one being black... probably yet another dead end, but certainly worth pursuing. "Bentley, call the airport and have my jet readied. I need to go to Milwaukee," she ordered her butler. As heiress to the Hines candy fortune, she had no need to travel on a commercial jet like commoners.

"Milwaukee, madam?" he replied.

"Yes. I'm going hunting." She was already opening a drawer of the desk, removing a plain but old wood box. She opened it, knowing already what she'd find. The pistols were relics of a bygone era, black powder revolvers, a pair of Remington 1858 Army revolvers. There were thousands of replicas now, but these were genuine. She touched the walnut grips, remembering the long dead General who had given them to her as a gift. Ulysses, you would have been a much better President if you'd given up the bottle. But you were cute, when you were so serious. Lincoln had listened to her, promoting Grant to lead the army despite his bad reputation for drinking.

She shook aside the memories, snapping the box shut. She'd been younger then, only four hundred years old, but even then had steadfastly remained cautious and objective, avoiding any deep emotional attachments to the humans she lived among. It had kept her alive, she mused, though at the same time had cost her any chance to experience joy and companionship. She had however abhorred slavery, and had made an exception in the case of Grant, interfering directly in human affairs by tempting the officer away from obscurity and inspiring him to become a great leader, if only for a time. Now she moved from one masquerade to the next. The electronic media had made some things much easier- the sightings of unicorns or other magical creatures were worldwide news almost instantly, even if largely dismissed as hallucinations. At the same time, it was more and more difficult for her to remain in wealthy obscurity, and every few decades she would fabricate her death and move to another persona. The humans were obsessed with knowing every detail of the lives of the wealthy, and respected no privacy.

"The airport reports your jet will be ready in an hour," the butler announced, breaking her reverie. "I have Miss Agnes packing your clothing."

"Thank you, Bentley," she replied politely. She stood gracefully and picked up the box containing the two pistols. She'd let the maid pack her clothes, but the pistols she would carry herself.

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