Jennifer Pettigrew sat in her car,

Jennifer Pettigrew sat in her car, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself down. She was only a few steps from Alec Ramsay's door, only a few steps from the interview she'd worked so hard to get. It was nearly noon. Carmen Brown had told her Mr. Ramsay was a better talker in the afternoon. She gathered her notes, questions she'd worked a week writing, and her long yellow legal pad, then got out of the car. After she'd locked the door, she had to reopen it when she saw her tape recorder on the back seat.

She strode with determination to the door of Mr. Ramsay's small condo. She rang the doorbell. A smooth, southern voice came over the loudspeaker beside the mailbox.

"Mr. Ramsay's home, who is there?"

"Jennifer Pettigrew, Mrs. Brown," Jennifer answered.

"Oh, just give me a minute, hon," Carmen said.

Seconds later, the nurse was opening the door, inviting Jennifer in. Carmen was a thin African-American woman with a bright smile. Over her clothes she wore an apron with the words "LexCare Home Assistants" embroidered on the pocket.

"Mr. Ramsay has been quite eager to see you today, Miss Pettigrew," Carmen informed her.

"Please, just call me Jennifer."

"Certainly, Jennifer, he has so much to say. And you asked him so nicely over the telephone. Not like that Mr. Wills. I really didn't like that man. Mr. Ramsay hated him; you know he had him arrested!"

Jennifer couldn't help laughing at her colleague.

"I work with Mr. Wills. He was the first one to tell me not to come here."

Carmen led Jennifer through the living room, which was richly decorated in horse paintings and trophies. Over the small fireplace was painting almost too large for the room. Jennifer stopped to admire it. In the center of the piece was a firey black stallion. His neck was arched, black mane flowing over his mighty crest. The horse's eyes were so lifelike that it seemed to Jennifer they would blink at any moment. The horse was posed in a prance, his tail flagged and billowing over his back. It was an Arabian, a majestic, proud Arabian. The desert sands blew around him. Jennifer stood transfixed. The painting was housed in an elegant gilt frame with carved eagles on the corners. A plaque in the center read: SHETAN -- THE BLACK.

"This is Mr. Ramsay's horse," Jennifer said in awe.

"Yes, that was his pride and joy. All the other paintings are of the offspring from that one horse," Carmen replied, waving her hand around at the dozens of blacks and bays that crowded the walls..

"I guess I should get to interviewing, then," Jennifer said, snapping back to reality. Carmen nodded. She showed Jennifer to a large glass patio door beside the fireplace.

"Mr. Ramsay is outside. He wanted you to interview him there," said Carmen.

Jennifer carefully slid the door open and stepped outside.

"If you need anything, just holler; I'll be here in a minute," Carmen said, "ya' hear, Mr. Ramsay?"

"Yes, Carmen."

Behind a ficus tree, at the edge of a potter's shelf, was Alec Ramsay. He sat in a wheelchair, his back to Jennifer.

"Mr. Ramsay?"

He slowly turned to face her.

"Miss Pettigrew, come sit down," he said, pointing to a wooden adirondak chair beside him.

"Mr. Ramsay, I just wanted to say how grateful I am for you to do this for me," Jennifer began, her voice full of admiration. "It's nothing," Alec replied.

Jennifer was surprised at how old he looked. The photos she had of a young boy with a flash of red hair were a far cry from the man before her now. His small body was frail, though he still sat up straight, an effect of years of life in the saddle. His once-muscular arms were wrinkled and thin. She didn't want to think about his legs, that had once held him over the strong backs of thousands of horses.

Alec noticed her eyes wander down to his feet.

"I can walk; I just prefer to use this," he said, patting the chair's leather-covered arm.\

Relieved, Jennifer pulled out her tape recorder.

"I'm going to record your responses, so I can go back later and get all your answers right when I get ready to write. I hope you don't mind," she looked hopefully.

"Not at all. I must ask one thing, though, I won't answer questions about Pam Athena," he said, rather forcefully.

"Oh, Mr. Ramsay, I wasn't going to ask about anything like that," she lied, shuffling the page of questions about Pam Athena to the back of the stack.

"Good. That Wills guy tried to pull that stuff on me, and I got him, the old hellion!"

"Now, let's start from the beginning. When did you first see The Black?" Jennifer began.

"It was on a trip with my father on the ship called the Drake . When we were at port, I heard these strange voices yelling; it was scary for me, you know, I didn't know what they were saying. So, naturally, I had to have a look. I saw these Arabs trying to load a black horse. He was blindfolded, and there were about seven or eight men pulling on him with long ropes, maybe 12 feet long apiece. The Black didn't like it at all, and the dock echoed with his screams..."

Jennifer listened intently as Alec Ramsay told his story of a black horse and a ship, of a storm and a deserted island. His wizened face held traces of the boy he once was; his cheerful dimples remained and laugh lines rayed from the sides of his still-youthful eyes. Though now more sparse, his red hair was still vivid. At that moment, his eyes looked far-off, through space and time, to a place where a boy and horse rode happily across the wave-washed sand.

Jeremiah sat in his tiny, cramped office, shuffling through paperwork, trying to take his mind off the daunting task ahead. He'd decided to ask the McBees about entering Dark Strike in a race. It was not just any race, though; Jeremiah had the Dubai World Cup on his mind.

He rumpled the condition books in his hands, trying to find another race that same weekend that would be just as big. Nothing he saw satisfied him. The Dubai World Cup was the biggest race in the world, run at 1 1/4 miles on dirt, and with a purse of $6 million, the richest race ever. The World Cup was the brainchild of Sheik Mohammed al Maktoum of the United Arab Emirates. It was destined to be a classic from the very beginning, for in the first running the incomparable Cigar traveled from the U.S. to take part. It was the 13th race in his 16 win streak, and netted him millions in prizemoney. Since its inception, so many great runners had competed that it was a virtual global who's who of thoroughbred legends.

Jeremiah yearned for the same kind of recognition for Striker. Though the five-year-old was the best horse Jeremiah'd ever trained, Dark Strike did not always show it. In his last three races, Striker had lost two and was disqualified to second in another. That DQ came in the Breeders' Cup Classic, and it was a painful loss for all involved. Jeremiah second-guessed himself every time the Classic was brought up; he watched replay after replay from every angle trying to figure out what went wrong. Jeremiah could tell that the Breeders' Cup loss had taken its toll on Striker, too, for the horse hadn't trained as brilliantly as before; the one-minute mile was a tick off his usual time. He was also less energetic, preferring to spend his time facing the back of his stall rather than neighing at Kiowa from across the barn aisle. A win in the world's richest race would redeem the big black horse on a grand scale.

Jeremiah was shaken from his thoughts by the rustle of the mail carrier outside. He got up from his desk to see what was delivered. In his small brass mailbox were the track announcements, a Racing Form and a neon orange envelope. Jeremiah knew instantly what it was: The McBees had written.

He closed the door behind him and slit open the bright envelope. The card inside had a picture of Graceland on the front. The McBees were from Memphis; greeting card entrepreneurs. Jeremiah sighed as he read the note. He recognized the handwriting as the light scrawl of the McBee's teenage daughter, Georgie.

Dear Jeremiah,

I just wanted to write you that we are coming up to Keenland on Saturday the 23. We want to see Striker and Kiowa, and talk with you about your plans for them for this year. We also have a surprise for you, but I am not telling you anything else about it. You will have to wait until Saturday to find out what it is! Can't wait to see you again!\

Yours Very Truly,

Georgie McBee

"Georgie. They've bought another horse," Jeremiah sighed, shaking his head. "The last time she said they had a surprise it was Kiowa; gosh, I wonder what it will be this time."

Kiowa was the McBees' second colt, a son of War Chant. Like his namesake, Kiowa was not easy to work with. The last thing the trainer wanted was another one with his temper.

As Jeremiah admired at the photo of Graceland, he noticed a yellowed corner sticking out from under the condition books. Setting the card aside, he slid the old paper toward him and studied it.

It was a pedigree, written in a fine calligrapher's hand. At the top of the paper was lettered Geneology of Dark Strike, black colt. He wondered where this had come from, for he had never seen such a paper before.

The first few lines told of Striker's sire, Fusaichi Pegasus. That stallion had won the Kentucky Derby, and had sired the Kentucky Oaks winner, Artemis, the year Striker was purchased. But Jeremiah was not interested in that part of the paper; a name jumped out at him from near the bottom of the page: The Black.

It took a second for this to sink in. The black horse in his barn was not only a son of FuPeg. Striker was a descendant of the famous Black!

Smiling from ear to ear, Jeremiah excitedly grabbed the phone from its hook and dialed. He'd made his decision. As he waited for an answer, his mind raced. The McBees would certainly say yes to his plan. The only question was would he be able to pull himself, as well as Dark Strike, together for an effort of global proportions?