Two men – one short, one burly – stood in the thicket and looked down at the deer. The shorter man had shot the animal and was now admiring its ten-point rack. It was a distraction he needed. The burly man, a bodyguard, made sure the deer was dead and then knelt down and began cutting the head off.

"Might as well gut it, too, Russell," Rudolph Scarpattie said. "I know the man who owns this land will appreciate it. Besides, you’ve already got blood all over your new shirt. A little more won’t hurt, will it?"

"You sure this fella's a meat eater?" Russell, the bodyguard, asked, slitting the animal down the middle. "It wouldn’t do to give a couple hundred pounds of venison to a vegetarian."

They both laughed.

"No, he won't eat the meat, but his dogs will."

Scarpattie picked up the head and began strapping it to the back of an all-terrain vehicle. He thought again about the boy he loved and the many beeping, humming machines that surrounded the boy's bed, keeping him alive. Should I really be here in the woods, Scarpattie asked himself, or by my grandson's side? He tied the last knot and patted the deer head. What good could he do sitting beside a dying child?

An echoing voice rang out from behind them: "What are you going to do with Titan’s head?"

The two men whirled around, Russell reflexively snatching a pistol from his pocket.

"Who are you?" the burly man demanded before he even saw the interloper.

The stranger stood tall and calm. Something about his features was unsettling; there was no alarm at having a gun pointed at him. He wore a light linen shirt and pants, and his sandaled, sockless feet showed well-manicured toenails.

"Who are you?" the bodyguard repeated, aiming his gun and stepping between the short man and the stranger. "Where'd you come from?"

But the stranger ignored him. "Scarpattie," he said to the shorter man, "I'll ask you again: what are you going to do with Titan’s head?"

Russell demanded again, "I asking you for the—"

"You can call me Zabar. Now put that weapon away and sit down."

The bodyguard did as he was told and sat cross-legged on the ground. He looked up at his boss like a dog watching its master – just waiting.

"Do you enjoy killing, Scarpattie?" Zabar said. "Does it benefit anyone to take a life in this way?"

"Now wait just a damned minute," Scarpattie started, but the look on Zabar's face froze his tongue and he, too, sat down on the ground--he and his bodyguard cross-legged and ineffectual. A gentle breeze rustled the treetops.

Zabar stepped over to the all-terrain vehicle and stroked Titan's head. "Can you honestly say that a picture of Titan – this animal full of life – would not have served your office wall better than this lifeless head?"

The subdued man glanced at the head, then back at Zabar, locking eyes with him for a moment. A sharp, unbidden image now came to mind – a vision of a small casket being lowered into an empty grave. The image wasn't an idle thought or a passing impression. It was vivid and real, stabbing him like a knife. He began to sob…

An Angel Named Zabar is a collection of short stories about a guardian angel. He's understanding and helpful, but it's not healthy to come between Zabar and his work. A Deer Named Titan is the second story in the series.