Big Heroes in Small Packages

by Paul E. Jamison

 

 

It's a nice little clapboard house in a quiet Chicago neighborhood. As we walk up to the front door, we notice the sign: "WINDY CITY FERRET RESCUE – Every ferret deserves a home."

 

We notice a slight musky odor when we walk in, but it's not unpleasant – it's barely there, really. But it's enough to let us know that many animals have come through this place in the past. There are quite a few animals here now, running around the place. They're sleek furry little creatures, and they're busy doing all sorts of things: play-fighting, carrying toys from one place to another, napping, eating, or just running around on some mysterious errand; occasionally some will stop to gaze wide-eyed at the strangers. These animals are ferrets; the shelter exists to give them a home.

 

On one wall is a bulletin board labeled "IN MEMORIAM – Those who have crossed the Rainbow Bridge". On this board are several neat rows of photographs. These are pictures of past shelter residents. In some pictures, the ferret is sleeping; in others, playing. In many the ferret is simply staring at Shelter Mommy and the funny flashy thing she's holding. Sadly, several photos show disease and injury; there hadn't been enough time to get a better picture before they’d left. A tag under each photo gives a name and either one or two dates. In many cases, the birth date is simply "Unknown". The second date is always quite precise.

 

The room we're in now is the playroom. Right now, the permanent shelter residents – the ones with special needs – are out playing. Over there is Goofy Boy. He is a small cinnamon ferret. His body doesn't look big enough to contain a single tumor, let alone three; the cancer is inoperable and is slowly draining his life. For now, though, he runs around and plays for as long as he has the energy. When he tires, Goofy climbs into his favorite red-and-blue hammock, where he enjoys watching his little friends play.

 

Another ferret comes running up to us. This is Little Princess. She's almost totally bald due to an adrenal tumor. She reaches up and puts her front paws on our leg, looking up at us with a question in her eyes. Could we, please? But who wants to hold a hairless ferret? In a minute, she gets back down and with a little sigh runs off to play with her buddies.

 

And over here, another ferret is napping away in a special hammock with a sign that says KOWALSKI WEASEL PATROL – AUXILIARY DIVISION. This is Max, the mascot and "spokesferret" for the Windy City shelter. On the wall above his hammock, an article from the Pets section of the Chicago Tribune hangs in a special frame. The headline reads: "Calling Inspector Gadget – Special Device Lets Handicapped Ferret Get Around". A photo shows Max, looking up at the camera. His hips and hind legs are strapped into an odd device made of straps and chrome tubing – and wheels.

 

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Donald O'connor and Cyd Charisse looked out the door of their carrier at their Daddy.

 

"Hey, Fraser, you found that fuzzbutt yet?"

 

"Yes, I have, Stan." Constable Benton Fraser of the RCMP came out of the other room, holding Gene Kelly in his arms. "He was on top of the wardrobe. I have no idea how he got up there."

 

Detective Stan Kowalski of the Chicago PD nodded. "Yeah, well, that's ferrets for you. I figure they can either – uh – what's the word, Fraze? Means floating?"

 

"Levitate?"

 

"Yeah, that's right – levitate. They can either do that or they've got – what's that they do on Star Trek to get somewhere?"

 

"Instantaneous matter transmission?"

 

"Yeah – they can either do one or another, maybe both. I'm still not sure. C'mere, raisin-breath." Stan took Gene K out of Fraser's arms and turned to the carrier.

 

Just before he opened the carrier door, Stan said, "You in position, Fraze?"

 

"Yes, I am." Fraser was crouched down next to the carrier, with his hands extended forward like a football player ready to receive a pass. Stan did not roll his eyes and berate Fraser for being in such a silly position, because he didn't think it was a silly position at all. They'd played the Put-the-ferrets-in-the-pet-carrier game before.

 

Stan quickly opened the door, placed Gene K in and shut the door again. Then he and Fraser ran off after Cyd Charisse. Once they returned her to the carrier, they went after Donald O'connor. All the ferrets got their turn in the Chase-Me part of the game.

 

Soon all three ferrets were in the carrier. "Five minutes,” Stan said. "Must be a new record."

 

Soon Stan was carrying his ferrets out to the GTO; Fraser followed, carrying food, treats, toys and blankets – all the things a ferret on the go needs to take with him. Stan smiled at the fuzzy faces peeping out of the carrier door. "You kids are gonna have a great time visiting the shelter – you'll see your buddies, and your Shelter Mom is gonna spoil you rotten! Won't that be fun?" He got happy chuckles as an answer; the Kowalski Weasel Patrol loved to travel and go visiting.

 

As he placed the carrier in the back seat, Stan said, "It's a darn shame we can't take 'em with us to the ferret show, Fraze. I think they'd enjoy it."

 

As they got in the car, Fraser replied, "I'm sure they would, Stan. But Max is the main reason we're going to the show, and caring for a special needs animal takes time and energy. I don't believe we could handle three other ferrets as well."

 

Stan buckled up. "Yeah. And with the trip to the grade school as well. There'll be other ferret shows; the weasels can go then. But Max is the Guest of Honor this time."

 

Fraser placed his Stetson on the usual place on the dashboard and sighed. "I just wish Diefenbaker could go along. I know he'd love the show."

 

Stan turned the key and the GTO started right up; his Dad had just tuned it for him. "Too bad he can't – say, Fraze, what is wrong with Dief? You just said something about the vet. Nothing serious, I hope?"

 

"Oh, no, nothing life-threatening – just a digestive problem." Fraser shook his head. "It was the junk food again. Someone found him in the trash receptacle behind a McDonalds. The one close to the Convention Center."

 

Stan put the car in reverse and began to back out. "Right, I know the one you're talking about. I'm sorry to hear about that. I didn't think he climbed into dumpsters, though."

 

"The temptation was too much this time. There was a Weight-Watchers conference in the Convention Center."

 

Stan abruptly stopped the car and stared at Fraser. "Aw, man! That dumpster must've been full of uneaten Big Macs!"

 

"Close, but not quite. It was full of Big Macs with exactly one bite taken out of each one. Or rather it had been full. Dief had been in there awhile."

 

Stan thought about this for a moment, then shook his head and drove away. After a few minutes he said, "Poor wolf…"

 

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The Windy City Ferret Rescue Shelter was in chaos, as usual. It was playtime for several of the residents, and Cyd Charisse and Gene Kelly wasted no time in joining right in, wrestling, tube-racing and generally living it up. Donald O'connor headed right for the red-and-blue hammock and cuddled up with Goofy Boy; Donny O knew that his buddy was ailing and wanted to give what comfort he could.

 

Shelter Mom was running around, packing a few last-minute items and, like all moms do when one of their children is about to go on a trip, fussing. "Alright, Stan, Max seemed to be off his feed for a day or two there, but he's eating fine now. You ought to keep an eye on that. It'll probably be stressful for him, meeting the kids at school and then everyone at the ferret show, so make sure he gets some time alone. And take him out of his wheelchair once in awhile; the straps might chafe him. I've got the name of an emergency vet here –"

 

"Hey, Kim, slow down! Fraze and I, we've got experience traveling with my fuzzbutts, and with Max. He'll be fine; we know what to do."

 

"That's true, Kim. And besides, you know Max loves to meet people. He'll likely eat up all the attention he's going to get. And he always gets a lot of attention!" Fraser was holding Little Princess in his arms. The constable was one of the few people who saw no problem in cuddling a hairless ferret. Princess looked so happy.

 

"No lie, Fraze. Max'll get so many kisses that he'll come home with chapped lips." Stan reached over and scratched Princess under the chin. "How is this kid doing, Kim? You almost have enough money for the operation?"

 

Kim smiled at her little bald one. "She's doing fine. The operation fund – it's slow going, guys. But we're almost to the point where we can start haggling with the vet. Still need a few more donations."

 

"Well, I have a savings account in Moose Jaw –"

 

"You guys have done enough! More than enough! Taking Max to this ferret show for me is a lot of help as it is!"

 

"Well, we can see when we get back, I suppose."

 

"That's right. Speaking of Max, where is the little wheeled wonder? We're due at the grade school in an hour or so and we need to get on the road!"

 

As if on cue, a handsome sable ferret, strapped into his wheeled mobility device, came happily trundling into the room. Max stopped in front of his Sponsor Daddy and did his own unique ferret dance; he was ready to go.

 

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"Hey, Fraze, you're always on to me about safe driving with my fuzzbutts, going on about keeping them in the carrier and stuff like that."

 

"Well, yes, Stan, it's quite important. If they're roaming freely about the car, they might get into a hole under the dashboard or in the upholstery. Cars are very difficult to ferret-proof. And they might get stuck under the pedals. If there were an accident –"

 

"Okay, okay, ease up on the lecture. You're right, of course. So – why isn't Max in his carrier? Should you be carrying him like that?"

 

"Ah." Fraser looked down at the ferret in his arms. "Ah. Well – It's not far to the school, and Max isn't likely to roam around the car. Safety is important, but I figured we can relax the rules a bit this time."

 

"Fraser, you never relax the rules! You just wanted an excuse to hold him! Admit it – you're getting addicted to cuddling ferrets, aren't you?" Stan just barely managed to keep a straight face.

 

Fraser gently massaged Max's ear. "Stan – I love Dief, but it's not the same. I can't do this with Dief."

 

Stan chuckled. "You're hooked, buddy."

 

"I'm afraid so, Stan." Fraser quickly changed the subject. "So – when was the last time you were at your old school?"

 

Stan drove in silence for a moment and finally replied, "Ya know, Fraze, I can't remember. Two or three times, I think, after I got through Sixth Grade, but this'll be the first time in years. Never had a reason before, ya know?"

 

"Understood. What was school like for you, if you don't mind my asking?"

 

Stan shrugged. "Nothing unusual. They hit me, I hit back. Made a few friends. Did good in some subjects, lousy in others. Figured most of the teachers had it in for me. The usual grade-school experience. Everyone goes through it." He glanced at Fraser. "Don't they?"

 

Fraser replied slowly, "Well… in one form or another, I suppose. The details differ. I'm sure you were never hit with a dead otter, for instance." Max made a chirping noise. Fraser said, "a distant relative of yours. Don't worry about it."

 

Stan said, "Well, you're right about the otter, but there were plenty of other things – hey, we're here already! Oh, wow, it hasn't hardly changed at all!"

 

As Stan parked, Fraser said, "I can see some things that must be new – handicapped parking, wheelchair ramps, and the building looks recently painted."

 

"Yeah, but that's detail stuff. The building itself is pretty much the same." After they got out of the GTO, Stan began to point. "Over here, these windows – that's the gym. Over on the other side there is the cafeteria – man, that food reeked! – and I could find the music room and the janitor's office real easy after all this time, I bet!"

 

"Ah, you took some music classes? Singing or playing instruments?"

 

"We all had to take Singing – I wasn't too bad at it. Never did try out for the band." Stan rummaged around in the back seat and pulled out Max's wheelchair. "Once we're inside I want to put this on the kid here. I figure he'll draw a crowd tooling down the hallway. Let's go in!"

 

They walked in the door just before the sirens sounded in the distance.

 

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"Something funny going on here, Fraze. Where is everybody?"

 

"Hard to say, Stan. Perhaps all the students are in a meeting?"

 

"I don't think so. It wouldn't be this quiet. They knew we'd be here about now, so somebody ought to be here to meet us. The school seems deserted."

 

"I believe you're right. Very strange. We'll just have to look around; perhaps we'll come across someone."

 

The two men walked down the deserted corridors. Even Max, wheeling along beside them, seemed subdued; normally he'd be running around as fast as he could go.

 

"Ah – finally!" Fraser had seen a man standing at the end of a hallway. He was holding some sort of machinery in his hands; perhaps he was the janitor. Fraser called out, "Excuse me, sir! We just got here and we were wondering –"

 

The man's head snapped around and he raised his rifle. The shot pinged off of the wall next to Fraser's head. Stan bent down and snatched Max up, wheels and all, and he and Fraser ran down the hallway. Another shot hit the wall just as they turned the corner at the far end.

 

There wasn't much chance for talking; their lungs were busy with the running. After turning another corner, Stan and Fraser flattened against the wall for a breather. Stan managed to say, "'Stan, why don’t you take your gun along?', you said! 'I know it's a vacation, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared', you said! 'Oh, no', I said, 'We'll be all right. Nothing's gonna happen!'"

 

"I hear him coming!" They took off running again, turned another corner and flattened against the wall. Stan went on. "'Don't give me that "Be Prepared" stuff, Fraser! I won't need my gun!', I said! 'What are you, an overgrown Boy Scout?' I thought I was being funny! Next time, Fraser, try a little harder to convince me, willya?"

 

Max whimpered; he could sense that something was wrong and it made him afraid. The spinal injury that had rendered his hind legs useless had also cost him control over other muscles in the lower area of his body. Certain bodily functions could take place at any time, and at that moment, one did.

 

Stan looked down at the results on the floor and said, "Yeah, buddy, I feel the same way."

 

Fraser said, "Stan, you said you could remember your way around the school, didn't you? Where are we headed now?"

 

"Boiler room. Big room with all sorts of heaters and air conditioners and stuff like that in it. Janitor's office at the far end."

 

"Is there an exit?"

 

"No, not that I remember. We could probably hole up in the janitor's office. Lock the door and keep this creep out while we think of what to do next."

 

"Let's go, then." They both rushed off and soon came to the boiler room. As Stan had said, at the far end was a door to a small office.

 

Stan and Fraser went into the office and shut the door behind them. There wasn't much furniture – an old metal desk and some wooden chairs – and a cardboard box marked DEFECTIVE ATHLETIC EQUIPMENT was off in one corner. The janitor was nowhere to be seen. Two other doors led off from the office into what were apparently storage rooms; there was a light on in one of them, and the other was dark.

 

Stan set Max down on the floor as Fraser said, "Well, we're safe for the moment."

 

A voice came from the lighted room. "Who's that out there? What was that shooting all about?" Max ran for the second storage room and disappeared inside just as two more men came out of the first room. They both had guns.

 

Someone could be heard running out in the boiler room. Stan and Fraser were surrounded.

 

"Oh, dear."

 

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Shortly, Fraser and Stan were sitting in two of the office chairs, facing each other, with their hands tied behind their backs.

 

There were at least five men in the gang: the gunman in the hallway, the two from the storeroom and two more who had come in later. These last two were watching Fraser and Stan now.

 

One of the men came out of the storage room now and walked over to Fraser and Stan. He smiled at them. "Well, now, are you two comfortable?"

 

Neither of them said anything. They just looked at each other and shrugged.

 

"Good, good. It's the best we can offer. I've been looking over the stuff we found in your pockets. Interesting. Maybe you can tell me – what business would a Chicago cop and a Canadian mountie have in an elementary school?"

 

Stan replied, "Career day."

 

Fraser, ever the polite one, said, "I can assure you, sir, that we had no idea that there was anything amiss when we came here. Our business here was merely routine."

 

The man thought about this for a moment. "Hm. Could be. Neither one of you were armed. It doesn't matter anyway; you're not in any position now to interfere with our plans."

 

Fraser said, "That's true – whatever your plans are."

 

The man grinned. "Not much to them, really. We've got hostages in the music room – a third-grade class and their teacher, I believe – we've got a bomb, we want money. Lots of money. Granted, we've gone hi-tech, and we've got an added twist, but deep down it's the usual criminal scheme."

 

At this point the other man came out of the storage room. He looked like a cross between a computer geek and a thug. He wore a T-shirt that said COUCH POTATO AND PROUD OF IT, but he was definitely not out of shape. He said, "All set up, Mr. Cheney. Hacked into all of them and the computer's locked down."

 

The man, apparently Mr. Cheney, nodded. "Excellent work, Ash. Thank you. That's the added twist I was telling you gentlemen about. We're using a computer for our timing mechanism for the explosives, and it's also connected to the 'Net. We've hacked into some vital systems and are set up to download a rather nasty little virus that our Mr. Ash has worked out."

 

"Really. And may I ask which systems that you're planning to infect with this virus?"

 

Mr. Cheney shrugged. "Several. Pentagon; New York Stock Exchange; various federal organizations. Frankly, I'm not sure what they all are myself. I left the details in Mr. Ash's capable hands. He is very good at what he does."

 

Ash smiled at the compliment. "I was able to get into a whole bunch of important places. And every one of them will be trashed if we don't get our ransom. This whole country will be in chaos!" He seemed tickled with the prospect.

 

Mr. Cheney added, "Naturally, we're asking for gold bullion. Small unmarked bills will do us no good if the country's economy is shot. Ash, would you lock the door to the storage room? I'll keep the key with me."

 

"Sure thing, Mr. Cheney. And here's the remote. You'll be able to trigger the system or turn it off anywhere in the building."

 

"Thank you. Are you sure about that? Does this have enough range?"

 

"No problem. I smashed a hole in the wall in there and wired the system to a steel girder. This whole building is an antenna now."

 

"Oh, now that's clever! Thank you again." Mr. Cheney checked his watch. "It's been some time since I called the police. I'm sure this building is surrounded by now. We need to get into position. Jeb, you and your brother stay here and continue to guard these two. I doubt they can do anything, but we should make sure. Ash, you'll stand guard out in the boiler room. I'm going to go to the gymnasium. Todd and Sam are already there; they'll serve as my personal guards."

 

Ash asked, "What about Colin – will he need help guarding those third-graders?"

 

"I don't think so. You know how he is with a gun. He'll most likely have no trouble keeping them in line – just threaten them with his gun and they'll keep quiet."

 

Jeb said, "Mr. Cheney, I've been wondering something. We're asking for twenty million bucks in gold, but there's seven of us – how are we going to split it up evenly?"

 

Ash spoke up. "That's a good question. Were you, like, gonna take a little more for yourself, Cheney? You planned all this…"

 

Cheney shook his head. "No, no, we agreed on an even split and that's the way it will be. Splitting it will be awkward, though."

 

Jeb said, "Maybe we can send out for pizza and then split the loot. And get a six-pack, too"

 

Cheney looked at him thoughtfully. "You know, Jeb, that's a good idea, in a way. Perhaps we'll take it a bit further. Once we get out of the country, we'll throw ourselves a private party. All the pizza we want, the best booze, a good stereo system, maybe even some company… If we leave the right amount in tips, the rest will come out even. I'm glad you brought it up."

 

Cheney and his cohorts were quite happy with these plans, until Jeb's brother spoke up. "Hey, when we have this party, do you think we could go out and buy some hamsters, too?"

 

This put a damper on the mood. Cheney and Ash looked very uncomfortable, and Jeb's face turned red. He said, "I'm sorry, guys. My brother…"

 

Cheney said, "I know, Jeb." He turned to the brother. "Listen, George, you've been a big help all through this, but when we started, we agreed that you wouldn't bring up your – your activities with small animals. You know full well how it upsets the rest of us."

 

"Aw, Mr. Cheney, I just like to play with them…"

 

"No. Enough. What you do with your share of the gold is up to you. But I don't want to know about it, alright? And don't bring it up again.

 

"Right, we're all set now. Ash, come with me. You two stay put until you hear from us." He and Ash left the office.

 

Fraser and Stan sat back and remained passive. But they both sneaked glances at the darkness of the second storage room. The situation was bad, and it could lead to a national crisis, but at the moment they were both thinking of one thing. Max.

 

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Max carefully peeked around the edge of the door into the big room. He was careful that he wasn't seen or heard. The situation was serious. His Sponsor Daddy Stan and his Uncle Benny were in trouble.

 

Shelter Mommy was always busy, but she always made a little time in the evening to spend with one of her furkids. She would hold one of ferrets in her arms and rock in her rocking chair and tell stories. When she held Max, she told him about the exciting things Daddy Stan and Uncle Benny had done; he loved hearing those stories. He'd heard a lot about his humans fighting bad men, so he had an idea what a bad man would be like. He could tell these were bad men, all right.

 

Now a couple of the bad men left the room, leaving the other two behind with Daddy and Uncle Benny. Max didn't like the smell of the bigger bad man. When an abused ferret came into the shelter, they'd smell like that, kinda. It was a smell of hurt, of pain and sadness. This bad man smelled a lot like that.

 

Max had to do something to help his Daddy Stan and his Uncle Benny. But what could a little ferret do? Especially one whose back legs wouldn't work?

 

Max looked at his wheel thingy. He loved it because it helped him get around a lot better and a lot faster. But sometimes he wished he didn't have to use it.

 

Max cocked his head to one side. Then he peeked out at the big bad man and turned back to study his wheel thingy. Maybe…

 

Max had figured out long ago how he could get out of his wheel thingy. He'd just watched Shelter Mommy pull on those funny straps she called "velcro", and he knew how the trick was done. The only reason he hadn't tried it before now was because he couldn't figure out how to get back in the wheel thingy later, and he didn't want Shelter Mommy to know he could do it; it would be fun to be able to do something without her knowing it.

 

But this was important – the humans he loved needed his help. He twisted himself around and started scrabbling at the straps with his front paws.

 

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"Maybe they've got white mice or something around here, do ya think, Jeb?"

 

Jeb sighed; his brother bothered him sometimes. "Maybe they do, George. Then again, you might keep an eye out for rats; this place must have rats."

 

"Really? What makes ya think so, Jeb?"

 

"Well, something left that dump in the hallway! The one you almost stepped in?"

 

"I didn't notice anything on the floor, Jeb!"

 

"Of course you didn't! That's your problem, George – you never watch where you put your feet! You trip over the sidewalk all the time and you step on chewing gum… George, I'm really tired of looking after you –"

 

"Hey, wait – you hear something?"

 

"Uh… yeah, I do! Some kinda chirping? It's coming from that other room – well, will you look at that?!"

 

Fraser and Stan were horrified to see Max, in plain sight, at the door to the second storage room. He was no longer in his wheelchair. The ferret was hopping up and down on his front legs and making the wildest yapping noises.

 

George was ecstatic. "Hey – that must be the rat! Oh, boy! He's a big one! Is it okay if I catch him and play with him, Jeb?"

 

Jeb shook his head; when it came down to it, he could never say no to his brother. "Yeah, go ahead. Play with him if you want. But stay in that room and do it! I don't need to see it, all right?"

 

George hooted with joy and headed for the storage room; Max disappeared into the darkness. Jeb said to the prisoners, "I may as well warn you two – the things you're gonna hear won't sound nice."

 

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The room was small and dark; George couldn't see too well. He could make out some shelves and boxes nearby, but not much else. He was looking around for a light switch when he heard a noise. He didn't need much light to make out the rat, jumping around and yipping at him from the corner.

 

George smiled. "You're a pretty animal. I'm gonna have fun with you!" He began walking over to the rat in the corner.

 

As his brother had said, George wasn't one to look where he put his feet. He was about to pay a high price for such neglect.

 

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Jeb was right; it didn't sound nice. But it also didn't sound like anything he'd expected. From the dark room came a loud howl and a quite solid thump. Jeb wondered what kind of rat sounded like that.

 

Then someone in the room shouted "OH, SH--", which was cut off by a series of crashes and clunks. Jeb knew full well that no animal could make a noise like that.

 

Jeb ran for the storage room and looked in; what he saw stunned him. So it's understandable that when somebody tapped him on the shoulder and politely said "excuse me", Jeb was somewhat distracted.

 

Tying the two policemen's hands was a good idea, as far as it went. Tying Constable Benton Fraser’s hands behind his back – where you couldn't see what he was doing with them – well, if you didn't know Fraser, such a mistake was forgivable. Jeb turned around and the last thing he was aware of for several hours was a fist heading directly for his jaw…

 

As Jeb became a secondary concern in the proceedings, Stan strained against his own bonds and demanded, "Max…?"

 

Fraser knelt behind Stan's chair and began working on the ropes. "Max is fine, Stan. Though I suspect he looks a little smug right now. Hold still or I won't be able to get this untied."

 

Once free, Stan rushed for the storeroom. "Max! Are you – whoa… Did Max do that?"

 

Fraser was already at the door to the first storeroom. "It would seem that he did, Stan." Fraser slammed his shoulder into the locked door. "Ouch! This could be a problem."

 

"Door's pretty solid, huh? Let me try." Stan came over and kicked at the door just under the lock. It didn't budge. He kicked again. "Ugh! That's gonna ache in the morning! What's a school need a door as strong as that for?"

 

Fraser massaged his shoulder. "A good question." There was a small window, reinforced with chicken wire, set in the upper door panel. He studied the interior of the room.

 

There was a top-of-the-line personal computer system – minus the speakers – set up in the middle of the storeroom floor. The computer was hooked up to a couple of electronic boxes, and one of the boxes was in turn hooked up to some large crates nearby.

 

Stan looked through the window. "Those crates are explosives, aren't they? Oh, man, that's enough to take out the whole building!"

 

"More than that, Stan – much more. I'd guess this could devastate several square blocks around us." Fraser knelt down to study the lock.

 

"What, can you maybe pick the lock, Fraze? Did Houdini have something in that book that could be useful?"

 

"I'm afraid not, Stan. This was developed after his time."

 

"Damn! We gotta do something, Fraser! Can we maybe break out the window and shoot the computer or something?"

 

"Maybe. But it would be chancy. It would be difficult to get a clear shot, and Cheney would hear the gunshot and trigger the device."

 

"This door's pretty solid, but it doesn't fit too well. There’s a two-three inch gap here at the floor. Could we do something with that?"

 

"I noticed the gap. I'm afraid it doesn't do us any good."

 

"Fraser, what are we gonna do?"

 

"There's only one thing we can do, Stan. We have to stop Cheney and the others. We can't do anything else from this end."

 

"Yeah, you're right. I'll get the perp's gun, then." Stan turned around and stopped. There was a little face peering out at them from the other storeroom.

 

"Aw, man – Fraser, what are we gonna do about Max?"

 

The mountie turned around and looked at the ferret. "I don't know, Stan. There's no place in this building that would be safe to put him. We certainly can't take him along with us."

 

"Aw, no – Max…"

 

"One thing – you could take him with you and escape from the building while I go after Cheney."

 

"No way, Fraser! That's out! We're partners, remember? I'm not gonna let you walk into danger alone!"

 

"Well, then… Our only option is to leave Max here – and go stop them."

 

Stan looked at his crippled little ferret buddy. Max looked back in that wide-eyed, innocent way ferrets have. Stan shook his head. "You're right, Fraze. We got no choice. And the kids…" He walked over and picked up Jeb's gun, and he knelt down to face the ferret. "Max… you gotta stay here. I wish there was something else we could do, but… be careful, okay, buddy? And keep your paws crossed."

 

Fraser began rummaging through the Defective Sports Equipment. "Maybe we can find some useful weapons here – ah!" He held up what looked like two large bowling pins. "Indian clubs!"

 

"Indian clubs – I thought those were casinos."

 

"These are a different type of Indian club. They're used for juggling."

 

"Oh. They look solid enough. What were they turned in for?"

 

Fraser read a slip of paper taped to one. "Oh, dear – 'The company logo is worn off'."

 

Stan shook his head. "Young people these days."

 

Fraser handed Stan a club. "Let's go." And the two men left the office.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Fraser and Stan quietly peered around some machinery into the boiler room. They could see Ash at the other end, carrying a rifle and pacing back and forth.

 

Fraser looked around and picked up a small bolt lying nearby. He held it up for Stan to see, pointed to the other corner of the room and brought his hand back to toss the bolt. Before he could make the throw, Stan held up his hand to stop him; then he indicated that he wanted Fraser to give the bolt to him. Puzzled, Fraser complied.

 

Stan held the bolt in midair in front of him, and dropped it. It clattered on the floor, right at their feet.

 

Ash heard the noise from the far end of the room and turned around. It had to have come from the left-hand corner. He was walking over to check it out, when something occurred to him, and he stopped.

 

Ash then smiled. So, they were being clever, weren't they? Well, he knew what was up! He looked around, and his eyes settled on the right-hand corner, obscured by boxes. He nodded.

 

Quietly Ash crept toward the right-hand corner, his rifle at the ready. When he was abreast of the boxes, he leapt forward and brought his rifle up. "Nice try –" But he stopped, bewildered. There wasn't anyone there.

 

Then the back of his head exploded with pain. And tiny, twinkling particles of Crystal Frostonite floated down in front of him, sapping his mighty Roach powers and Oh, Tinman, Tinman, there's no place like ho hoo hi hummmm….

 

Stan set his club down and helped Fraser turn Ash over. "Well, he's out of it. We got anything to tie him up with?"

 

"I'm afraid not." Fraser looked around and saw a hook set into the wall at just below chest height. "I have a better idea, though." He began to untie Ash's shoes. "I have to ask, Stan – how did you know he wouldn't investigate the sound?"

 

Stan smiled; he was going to enjoy this. "From how clean his T-shirt is."

 

Fraser was in the process of tying Ash's shoelaces together; he stopped and looked at Stan. "Ah. I don't think I quite follow you."

 

"It's like this, Fraze – Now, a T-shirt that says "Couch Potato and Proud of it"? That's the type of crummy T-shirt you wear around the house all the time and get food stains on and all that. But this guy's shirt is clean; he obviously takes care of it, right? What's that tell you?"

 

"That it means something to him. Sentimental value? Help me drag him over here, will you?"

 

"Sure thing – man, he's heavy! I don't think this guy gets sentimental over T-shirts. But he might if it says something that he believes in. So…?"

 

"So he really is proud to be a – uh – couch potato. And that means –"

 

"That means that he's a big TV fan!

 

"Now, one of the biggest clichés in TV and movies nowadays is throwing something into another corner to distract a guard. I've seen it hundreds of times, and he must have seen it even more. So, when he hears a noise coming from our corner of the room, what's he gonna think?"

 

By now, Ash was lined up with the hook, feet toward the wall. Fraser looked at Stan and replied, "That we've thrown it from some other part of the room, and when he investigates, he'll look someplace else than where we really are. Stan, that's brilliant!"

 

Stan grinned. "Elementary, my dear Fraser. Now what do we do?"

 

"Help me lift him up." Stan did so, and Fraser passed Ash's shoelaces over the hook. Once they let him go, his hips didn't quite reach the floor. His body was resting on his back. Even if he did wake up, he wouldn't have enough leverage to get himself off the hook.

 

"Excellent! Now, Stan, do you remember how to get to the gym?"

 

"Yeah, it's pretty much a straight shot from here. The best route also happens to go by the Music Room. Shall we do something about the hostages while we're in the neighborhood?"

 

"It sounds like a good idea." And they left Ash hanging like a trussed-up chicken in a poorly-designed butcher shop.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Max looked over his shoulder back into the dark storeroom. He could be forgiven for admiring his handiwork.

 

Things had gone just as planned. He'd left his wheel thingy right in the middle of the floor, and then he'd lured the Very Bad Man into the room to try and catch him. The Very Bad Man had come in and gone straight for Max, and he hadn't watched where he was going. The man had slipped on Max's wheel thingy, and his foot had shot right out from under him. The Very Bad Man had hit the floor with a real nice thump. It was what Max had wanted to happen.

 

What Max hadn't planned on was all those big boxes toppling over and landing on top of the Very Bad Man. That was a big bonus.

 

The Very Bad Man wasn't going to be doing anything for awhile. Max sniffed. It served him right, calling a ferret a rat.

 

Max was sorry that his wheel thingy was broken now; the Bad Man had squashed it when he stepped on it. But that wasn't important. He'd stopped the Bad Man.

 

Uncle Benny had been able to take care of the other Bad Man; Max had figured that he would. Now Daddy Stan and Uncle Benny had gone out of the big room, to stop the rest of the Bad Men. Max wished he could help them do that, too, but he knew he couldn't.

 

Before they left, though, his Daddy and Uncle had tried to open that door over there. There had to be something important in that other room that they wanted to get to real bad; maybe it had to do with stopping all the Bad Men. Max figured that he should look at the door, and he started across the big room.

 

Max's front legs were strong. Even without his wheel thingy, he could move pretty fast. Soon he'd dragged his useless rear end across the room, and he was in front of the locked door.

 

Max took one look at the door, and he knew getting into the other room would be as easy as raisin pie. The door could keep a big human out, but with the gap at the bottom, it could just as well be standing wide open as far as a ferret was concerned. Max decided that somebody around this place had a lot to learn about ferretproofing.

 

Max scrunched himself down as flat as he could and started working his way under the door. As he was halfway under, he snorted again. Humans, he thought. Great, big, clumsy monsters. They just couldn't do anything.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Colin had been quite confident that he could keep a class of third-graders docile. Just threaten them with his gun and they'd be no trouble at all. Which proved that Colin had no experience with modern third-graders.

 

Once he'd herded the schoolkids and their teacher into the Music Room, Colin had stood in front of them, pointed his gun at the ceiling, and said, "Right, now you youngsters just sit here and be quiet, and nobody will get hurt. If you give me any problems, though…" And he pulled the ammo clip out and slammed it back in again; it made a nice ker-chunk sound. And he'd smiled his best nasty-guy smile at them.

 

Then some kid said, "Hey, guys – he's got a real gun!" Somebody else said, "COOOL!" And a third kid asked, "Hey, mister, can I shoot your gun?" Things hadn't gotten any better.

 

Colin had answered, very patiently, "No, kid, I can't let you shoot my gun. I holding you captive, see? So I can't give you my gun." He kept his patience when the second kid asked. But when the third and fourth ones asked, it started to get to him.

 

They became insistent. "Aw, c'mon, mister! I'll only shoot it once, then I'll give it back! Promise!" "Don't let him shoot it, mister! He don't know anything about guns! My Daddy fought in Vietnam – he knows guns real good and he lets me shoot them all the time!" "Sally, you're a liar! Your Dad's too young! He never was in Vietnam!" "Don't you call my Dad a liar! I'll get you later and make you take that back!" "Hey, mister, I don't wanna shoot your gun – can I just hold it?" "Yeah, sure you don't wanna shoot it!" "He oughta let me shoot his gun!" "No, me!" "Let me!"

 

Colin had been saying "No!" "No!!" "NO!" for each request, but now he was facing a roomful of shouting, arguing children, and he knew that the situation was slipping away from him. Finally he yelled "QUIET!!" They all shut up and looked at him.

 

Colin was done pointing at the ceiling; he waved the gun around to cover the kids. He growled, "Now listen and listen good. I'm not gonna stand for anything from you brats. If you don't shut up – if anybody gives me any trouble – I'll blow ‘em away! Is that clear?"

 

All the children looked at him and said, "Oooooh…" He wasn't scaring them a bit.

 

In desperation, Colin looked at the teacher – a blue-haired old scarecrow with a disapproving scowl. She ought to be easy to frighten. He pointed the gun straight at her. "You! Do something to keep these brats in line, or you'll get a bullet between the eyes!"

 

It didn't even faze her. If anything, she scowled even more deeply and replied, "Young man, I've been teaching in this school for over thirty years. I've confronted far worse than you!" And he knew she was telling him the truth.

 

At this point, Colin knew that he would not shoot these kids. Deep down, he may have had moral qualms about shooting children, but that's not what hit home. What did was the realization that he only had so many rounds in his gun, and there were far more of them. He might take out some of them, but once he was out of ammunition, they'd be on him. That's when Colin realized that he was not in control, and there was no way that he could get control back again. It shook him to the core.

 

The kids were quiet at the moment, thankfully, but he still eyed them warily. His back was to the door, so he didn't see Fraser and Stan. The children saw them, but they weren't about to tell him.

 

There was one little girl near the front. She was a real cutie, with a pink dress and pink ribbons in her hair. She smiled up at Colin; Colin somehow got the urge to smile back. Then she said, "Can I hold your gun, mister?"

 

Colin almost cried. He wearily replied, "No, little girl, I can't let you hold my gun. I just – I just can't…"

 

Whereupon the cute little girl fell back on the floor and started screaming. "I WANNA HOLD THE GUN!! I WANNA! I WANNA! NOBODY LETS ME DO ANYTHING! IT'S NOT FAIR! WHY WON'T YOU LET ME HOLD THE GUN!! I WANNA I WANNA I WANNA!"

 

Colin was on the point of doing something drastic – most likely begging her to be quiet please – when Stan came up behind him and let fly with the club. Colin went down to his hands and knees. He looked up and managed to focus on the face of the little girl in pink, directly in front of him. She'd quit crying and was sitting up now. She said, "I changed my mind, mister. I don't want to hold your gun any more."

 

This called for some sort of reply, and Colin made one. "Yes, Regis, you make some good points. But I believe that we need to study the effects of the Icelandic parliament on World political affairs." Having said that, he collapsed.

 

Once Colin subsided, Stan spoke up. "Is everyone okay? Anyone hurt?"

 

The teacher replied, "I believe we're all fine, Mr. Kowalski."

 

Stan looked at the teacher more closely, and his eyes went wide with recognition. He quickly fell back into old habits, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders. "Hello, Miss Othmar."

 

"Hello, Stanley. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

 

"Yes it has, Miss Othmar."

 

"Well, I can see you've done quite well for yourself. I must say your actions so far today have been quite commendable."

 

"Thank you, Miss –" Stan brought his head up and looked directly at his old teacher. "Do you mean that? Really?" He grinned. "Thank you very much, Miss Othmar!"

 

"You're quite welcome, Stanley. Children, what do we say to the nice men who rescued us from this man?"

 

The children replied in the sing-song cadence of all schools, "Thank you!"

 

"They're very brave men, aren't they?"

 

"Yes, Miss Othmar!"

 

Fraser said, "Stan, we need to get these folks out of here. Is there a nearby exit from the building?"

 

"Yeah, Fraze. There's one not far from here. Miss Othmar, could you see that these kids get out?"

 

"I will certainly do so, Stan. What will you do about this creature?"

 

"Fraser, shall we do the shoelace trick again?"

 

"This hook over here will do nicely."

 

"Right, take care of him, get these kids out of the building, then on to Cheney."

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Max looked at the computer in front of him. This had to be what his Daddy and Uncle were worried about. It ought to be easy for one ferret to take out of commission. Some dumb human had actually put the thing on the floor where any fuzzy could get to it!

 

One of his shelter buddies, Billy Boy, had managed to climb up on Shelter Mommy's desk one day, and had had loads of fun walking on the keyboard. He had managed to send a lot of important file thingies to the trash can; Shelter Mommy had spent a lot of time getting things back the way they'd been. So Max pulled himself up on the keyboard and started hitting buttons.

 

Nothing happened. The computer screen didn't change any. Come to think of it, Shelter Mommy had started locking the keyboard after Billy Boy had done his sabotage work. These humans must have had some experience with ferrets after all.

 

Okay, that was out. Maybe he could do something somewhere else. Max crawled off the keyboard and looked around.

 

It looked more promising behind the computer – wires all over the place leading to other boxes. But which one to pull? Max knew that he had to choose carefully.

 

There was one wire that was always promising, and that was the one that went to the wall. Just about every electric thingy in the shelter had a wire like that. That had to be a good one to work on. Max dragged himself over to the wall.

 

There were two wires attached to the wall, but one was plugged into an electric socket thing; that had to be the one. The plug was close to the floor, so a ferret could reach it.

 

Max looked at the wire. He had to be careful. That electricity stuff could hurt you. One of his other buddies, Roy, had come into the shelter with a hole burned in the roof of his mouth from chewing on an electric cord. The vet man had operated on Roy several times to close the hole up so the ferret could eat properly again. Max didn't need that kind of trouble.

 

Max positioned himself to one side and carefully brought his teeth down on the cord. If he didn't bear down too hard, hopefully he wouldn't get burned.

 

Max began to pull on the cord.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

There were several police and government cars outside the school building by now. Some were Chicago PD – they had to have a SWAT team out there, for all the good it would do them – and some had to be FBI. One man, a Federal agent, was talking through a bullhorn.

 

Cheney leaned out the gym window and listened. When the Fed was done, Cheney politely replied, "I'm sorry, sir, but we won't accept any compromises. As I said before, if we don't receive the gold that we've asked for, people will get hurt. And the entire nation will suffer, for that matter. Now, why don't you talk to your superiors and get things expedited?"

 

Cheney stepped back from the window and stood beside Todd and Sam. They were both heavily armed, though it hadn't turned out to be necessary. Cheney hefted the remote; he felt good about the way things were going. The police and the Feds couldn't make a move; he and his men were in control of the situation. Of course he knew no better.

 

Cheney had trained his team well, but there were some basic lessons that he'd neglected. Such as the importance of watching your back.

 

Behind Cheney and his men, Fraser and Stan sneaked into the gym. Fraser was carrying the two clubs.

 

Fraser looked at Stan and held up the two clubs, then he pointed at Todd and Sam. Stan nodded.

 

Fraser pointed at Stan and then pointed at Cheney. Again Stan nodded.

 

They both got into position. Fraser brought the clubs up and back, while Stan crouched down.

 

Fraser threw the clubs. At the same time, Stan leaped forward.

 

There were two thunks, and Todd and Sam were taken out of the action. Cheney was just starting to turn around when Stan tackled him, and they both went to the floor.

 

The remote flew up in the air. Fraser leaped forward and caught it in midair.

 

Stan was having no problems subduing Cheney; the man wasn't putting up any struggle. Instead, he began to chuckle.

 

He said, "You're too late, boys. I pushed the button just before you hit me. The countdown's started and the system's locked." He laughed a nasty little laugh. "You can't stop it now! The virus is already spreading through the Net and the bombs will go off in less than five minutes! Look at the remote, Mountie! See the timer? It's counting down right now; that's how much time there is left!"

 

Stan pulled Cheney to his feet and looked anxiously at Fraser.

 

Fraser was studying the remote, and he said, "Actually… no, it isn't."

 

Cheney's evil smile froze. "You're lying!"

 

"I'm afraid not. Oh, there is a time readout, but it's only showing Twelve O'clock – Noon or Midnight, I can't tell. And it's flashing." He held the remote out. "See?"

 

Stan looked at the timer and said, "Say, that's what the clock on my VCR looks like! I never have been able to program it right!"

 

"Ah. Would that mean, then, that there's something wrong? What do you think, Mr. Cheney?"

 

Cheney told them what he thought.

 

"Oh, dear. If I'd said something like that when I was a boy, my Grandmother would have washed my mouth out with soap."

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Special Agent Fawks Moldy looked again at the gym window. They'd heard a commotion from inside a minute or so ago, but they could see nothing.

 

He'd just finished talking with the head of the local SWAT team. They were feeling frustrated, and he couldn't blame them. They wanted to do something, but they knew they couldn't move.

 

At least he was in charge and not Ford. That idiot would have shut the locals out and barged right in, guns blazing. That would have been disastrous. Not that Moldy was feeling drunk with power right now. One false step on this one…

 

"Hey, someone's leaning out the window again!"

 

"It's somebody new this time – Good Heavens, what kind of costume party is he dressed for?!"

 

Then Moldy heard a familiar voice call out, "Excuse me! Hello there! It's all right; everything's under control! You may come in now, if you please!"

 

"What the – is that a mountie? Is this guy for real??"

 

Moldy felt a tremendous weight lift off of his shoulders, and he said, "Yes, that's a Mountie, and yes, he's very much for real. Stand down, people – the crisis is over!"

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Stan and Fraser found Max snoozing under the janitor's desk. When he heard them come in, he jumped up and began to do his own two-legged version of the Ferret Happy Dance. In turn, Stan picked the ferret up and gave him a hug and a kiss.

 

The janitor's office quickly got crowded, and Stan and Fraser stood to one side. One group of agents was in the process of opening the door to the first storage room. There didn't seem to be any hurry; the computer monitor was dark and the whole setup seemed dead. Another group was trying to remove the boxes from the second storeroom to get at George. There wasn't much room to maneuver in there, but George wasn't in any hurry either.

 

Agent Moldy came over to Fraser and Stan, all smiles. "Well, you two have been busy! Six perps out cold and the seventh sitting in a corner and sulking! Quite impressive! It certainly made our job easier!"

 

Someone said, "We're in!" The door to the first storeroom was open now.

 

Moldy nodded. "Excellent. Check it out and let me know what happened to it. – It is good to see you two again, Fraser – ah – Kowalski. And who might this little guy be?"

 

Stan held up the ferret in his arms. "This is Max. He's the reason we were here in the first place. Kind of show-and-tell." Max gave a "Hello" chuckle, and Agent Moldy smiled and gave him a scritch under the chin.

 

They'd finally cleared out the second storeroom, and a couple of agents were dragging an unconscious George out. Right behind them came another agent, carrying something; he came over to Moldy.

 

"We can't be sure, sir, but that character must have slipped on this when he went into the room." The agent held up a mangled wreck of tubes and straps and wheels.

 

Stan groaned. "Aw, man – Max's wheelchair! That creep totaled it!"

 

Moldy frowned, "Pardon me, but are you saying that your ferret uses this thing?"

 

Fraser replied, "Yes, he does – or he did. Stan is right – it's beyond repair. Max has hind-end paralysis from a spinal injury, you see, and this device helped him get around."

 

The other agent spoke up. "Hey, that's right! I saw the article in the Tribune! This is that little guy in the paper?"

 

"One and the same. George seems to have this – thing about small animals, and he chased Max into the storeroom."

 

Moldy nodded. "I see. Your Max must have slipped out of this device, and the perp stepped on it and fell. Now that is a stroke of luck! Good thing it wasn't on too tight!"

 

Fraser and Stan looked at one another and smiled. Fraser said, "Well… I'm not so sure about that. Detective Kowalski and I don't believe that it was luck."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

Stan said, "Well, I put it on Max, and it fit pretty snug. No way he could have just slipped out of it. And I'd say it was left in the middle of that storeroom on purpose."

 

Moldy stared at them. "Do you mean – are you trying to tell me that this creature actually planned to take that creep out? Surely he's not that intelligent!"

 

Fraser said, "Oh, I assure you that ferrets are quite intelligent!"

 

Stan said, "Yeah, and Max here is a pretty smart kid!" Max just looked off in another direction as if it all meant nothing to him, no sir.

 

Moldy shook his head and looked at the ferret skeptically. At this point someone came out of the first storage room, carrying a cable.

 

"It's easy to see what happened to the system, sir. Somebody – or something – unplugged it."

 

Moldy's eyes went wide. "What do you mean – something?"

 

"The plug was pulled out of the wall socket. The way things were set up, though, no human could have gotten in that room! But get this – there are teeth marks on the power cable right next to the plug – see for yourself!" He held up the cable.

 

Sure enough, there were teeth marks. Moldy looked at Max, who showed off his teeth with a big yawn, then smiled at the Federal agent.

 

Max's teeth looked like they could match the marks on the cable. Moldy thought of forensics – but there wasn't any point. He knew.

 

Moldy knelt down until he was at Max's eye level. He gravely said, "It looks like I owe you an apology, little fellow. Will you forgive me for doubting you?"

 

Max reached over and gave Agent Fawks Moldy a ferret kiss on the chin.

 

"I'm going to take that as a yes."

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

It's been several weeks since the last time we were in the Windy City Ferret Rescue Shelter. There have been a few changes.

 

The red-and-blue hammock is empty now, and there is a new photo on the IN MEMORIAM bulletin board – a small cinnamon ferret. Goofy Boy's fight with cancer is over; his pain is gone forever.

 

Little Princess comes up to us, as she did the last time, and silently pleads to be held. This time we pick her up, and she's overjoyed. After giving us kisses, she squirms around in our arms until she's on her back. It's as if she's showing off the surgical scar across her tummy. Her skin is dark blue in several places; that's a sign of hair getting ready to grow out. The adrenal operation was a clear success; within a few months Little Princess will have a beautiful fur coat again.

 

And over here, in his very own hammock, covered up by his very own blanket, Max is sleeping peacefully. On the floor nearby is a brand-new wheel thingy, even better-looking than the old one.

 

On the wall over Max's hammock is another newspaper clipping, this time from the Sun-Times. The headline reads “Three Heroes Honored For Their Bravery In School Hostage Incident”. The photo for this article shows Constable Benton Fraser and Detective Stan Kowalski, smiling at the camera and displaying the certificates of commendation that they'd just received from the President of the United States; around their necks, gold medals hang from blue ribbons.

 

Between them, Fraser and Kowalski are holding Max. The little ferret is looking into the camera and holding his head up proudly. And around his neck, hanging from its own blue ribbon, is a small gold medal.

 

In a frame next to the newspaper clipping is Max's own commendation from the President. Just below it, his medal hangs in a shadow box.

 

And, yes, it is real gold.

 

THE END

 

DISCLAIMER

 

This story is for entertainment purposes only and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications Corp., CBS and CTV or any other copyright holders of "due South".

 

I guess Max is copyright Paul E. Jamison 2000.