Color Me Confused

By Matt Plotecher

Author’s notes: This story takes place after _Plots_ and before _Swarm_.
Thanks go to Jeff Pierce for pointing out that a gap needed to be 
filled.

     “The bright lights of the big top,” Dale stated with a happy sigh, 
looking out over large tents and brightly-painted signs over the midway. 
This human carnival had just arrived, and like most other human 
carnivals, there was also a strong animal carnival going on as well. 
“This is always the best place to bring a buddy who needs cheering up!” 
He turned with a grin to face his best friend.
     Chip managed a chuckle. Weak, but honest. “Thanks for the boost, 
buddy.”
     “No sweat.” Dale’s face became more concerned. “We all know how 
you’ve been trying to get better after telling us all about Marie’s 
accident.”
     Chip nodded. It wasn’t an easy task fully recovering from the 
ordeal not too long ago, but he was resolute to make it. “I’m getting 
there,” he reassured Dale.
     Dale shook his head. “Not as well as you’d like to think, Chip. 
And what’s worse, you’re trying to do this alone.” His trademark smile 
reappeared. “Haven’t you always told me that the Rangers are a team? 
Huh? That we work *together* to overcome problems, hmmm?” Dale’s light-
hearted lecture made Chip smile wider.
     “Okay, okay, I’m eating my words as fast as I can!” he laughed. 
“Just don’t make me choke on them.”
     Dale grinned. He’d been working hard to help out his buddy for 
weeks now, even though Chip would deny it. Nevertheless, he had been 
able to get Chip to laugh more and more frequently. Getting Chip back 
into a good mood wasn’t too hard anymore. It was keeping him in that 
mood -- before he slipped back into a quiet state of isolation, trying 
to sort out his feelings -- that was the tough part.
     Not that Dale could blame him. The rest of the Rangers were 
justifiably surprised at the depths of Chip’s pain over Marie’s death. 
He had certainly learned to reign it in, and control it, but it wasn’t 
until he received a note from Marie during their time in the celestial 
bureaucracy that he realized he had never properly resolved his feelings 
over her death. The sudden rush of those feelings broke free upon 
reading the note, and knowing that Marie didn’t blame him. It was a 
forceful reminder that he had yet to forgive himself.
     Finally, after breaking down over Marie’s grave, he managed to lay 
those old feelings of guilt to rest, there in the hollowed grounds of 
the deceased. That, however, was just the beginning. He still had a long 
road back from the depths of his emotions, and it was tiring him out 
making the hike. Dale knew this, and was determined to give his friend 
as many doses of “unnecessary help” as were needed.
     “But don’t forget,” Chip said, quickly regaining his old air of 
duty, “that we aren’t here to play. From what Monty told us, Cassandra 
has a case for us.”
     “Yeah,” Dale nodded. “I’m still kinda surprised you’re willing to 
go see her again, considering how much she freaked you out the last 
time.”
     “Ahem,” Chip tactfully replied, “I was not ‘freaked out’, Dale. I 
was merely, uh, disquieted at her accuracy.”
     “Yeah, whatever. You were freaked out.”
     Chip shrugged and didn’t argue the point. They both moved to catch 
up to the rest of the Rangers, who had continued walking when Dale had 
paused to talk with Chip. Foxglove was also up ahead; the friendly bat 
was invited along by Dale, as he (correctly) assumed that she’d like to 
spend some time at a carnival with him. She wasn’t yet aware of the 
case, but knew that the Rangers were here on “business”. Once they were 
done, she and Dale could go off by themselves. She, Monterey Jack, 
Gadget, and Zipper had already reached the modest fortune teller’s tent 
of the humans, and had already entered through a small hole at the 
bottom by the time the two chipmunks caught up.
     The Rangers all climbed up to the tabletop, looking around for the 
gypsy moth, while Foxglove silently flew over to settle next to Dale. 
The red-nosed chipmunk fidgeted a bit, still a bit unnerved at how much 
Foxglove seemed to like him. He wasn’t making any complaints, though.
     “Cassy?” Monterey called. “You here, luv?”
     “Ah, Monterey!” a female voice carrying a smooth Romanian accent 
replied from the ceiling. Foxglove’s keen hearing picked up the sound of 
soft, cloth-like wings beating long before the gypsy moth fluttered down 
into the light and alighted in front of the Rangers. “My friends! I am 
so glad that you could come!”
     “Heya Cassy!” Dale stated with a grin. “Hey, I wanted you to meet 
a friend of ours. This is Foxglove,” he said as he stepped to the side 
and gestured to the bat. “Foxglove, this is Cassandra, *the* fortune-
telling gypsy moth to end *all* fortune....”
     Dale trailed off as he, along with the others, stared at Cassandra 
and Foxglove. For never having met before, Cassandra’s and Foxglove’s 
reaction almost look rehearsed. As one, they drew back from the other, 
in blatant distrust, lightly traced with fear.
     Even their reasons were in sync: prejudice.
     For Foxglove, this was the first time she had been in the same 
proximity with someone who manipulated forces outside of natural 
understanding since she first met the Rangers. While she wasn’t sure if 
fortune-telling was a form of magic per se, the similarities between the 
two were too close for comfort. Her time with Winifred, the witch-in-
training, had revealed more than a bit about the hows and whys of magic. 
After she had deserted Winifred, she took the whole experience as a 
warning to stay away from magic -- she wasn’t to the point of calling it 
(and anyone who used it) evil as a reflex, but all it would take would 
be one more step for her to condemn Cassandra outright as someone not to 
be trusted -- even feared -- based solely on her gift/curse of mystic 
sight.
     Cassandra, too, didn’t take well to Foxglove, but for a far more 
immediate reason: for her, standing in the same space with a bat was 
akin to a human swimming with a great white shark; one hoped that the 
predator wasn’t hungry at the time. Beyond that, too, Cassandra 
remembered many of her fellow moths who had been eaten by bats. Friends, 
relatives, lovers -- so many of those close to her had met their fate in 
the jaws of these airborne predators. How easy it would be to give in to 
that internal instinct to run, or order Foxglove out of her tent. Given 
Cassandra’s intuitive sense, she also knew that accusing Foxglove of 
killing off her fellow moths, for whatever reason, would wound the bat 
far greater than any physical blow. Maybe it might even avenge some of 
her family, somehow.
     But these are rational women. And rational women, while tempted by 
emotions, are not ruled by them.
     Cassandra had a wisdom beyond her years, and with all due respect, 
that was quite an accomplishment. She was well aware that Foxglove ate 
insects and moths without malice or purposeful harm in mind. She simply 
needed to eat, and that was the method that nature had deemed 
appropriate. Also, Zipper seemed relaxed around Foxglove, so Cassandra 
guessed the bat’s character must be very friendly and passive. Most 
importantly, however, Cassandra knew what it was like to be persecuted. 
Many, many times during her life had she been branded as a witch or some 
sort of demon, because of her visions. Such unjust persecution is 
something she would never wish upon another living thing. Ever.
     Likewise, Foxglove was aware that she was letting her previous 
experience with magic seriously effect her judgement of Cassandra. True, 
Winifred was certainly a rather mean woman of magic, but then again, 
Winifred was also a mean woman, period. Foxglove often thought that 
Winifred would have probably been a natural for teaching grade school. 
Also, from what she had learned about magic, Cassandra’s talent, while 
similar, was also decidedly different. First, it appeared to be an 
inborn trait, not something that had to be studied and researched, as 
Winifred had to do with magic. Second, it was completely passive -- 
Cassandra couldn’t throw lightning bolts or dominate people any more 
than Foxglove could. But most importantly to Foxglove, Cassandra was a 
close friend of Monterey, and on good terms with the rest of the 
Rangers. Dale even seemed to admire her a little. And any friend of Dale 
was a friend of hers. Provided, of course, that any female friends 
weren’t competition, but she doubted Cassandra was in that group.
     Cassandra recovered first, giving a polite bow of greeting to 
Foxglove. “Hello, my dear. My name is Cassandra, and I bid you welcome 
to my humble abode.”
     “Oh, uh, hi,” Foxglove smiled in response. She then realized that 
Cassandra was probably as nervous around her as Zipper was at first, and 
respectfully didn’t approach. Instead, she gave a friendly wave and 
stepped next to Dale, hoping that Cassandra would understand it as a 
sign of safety -- Cassandra would not be considered as a possible 
dinner.
     Cassandra nodded in understanding, while Zipper discreetly wiped 
his brow.
     One bullet dodged, he thought with a sigh of relief.
     “So what’s up, Cassandra?” Gadget inquired politely. “Monty said 
you contacted him yesterday about a case for us.”
     “Yeah, Cassy,” Monterey nodded. “Didya spot somethin’ in your 
visions for us? Somethin’ about the future?”
     Cassandra laughed, her jewelry lightly tinkling. “No, no, my dear 
Monterey, I never look into someone’s future unless asked.”
     “You can do that without them being there?” Chip looked ill.
     “Certainly,” Cassandra nodded briskly. “I, however, consider it as 
distasteful as any other form of ‘peeping’, as it’s been put. And, even 
if I did see something in your futures, I certainly wouldn’t feel the 
need to call you all over here to tell you about it. The future is like 
the past: altering it is highly dangerous and improbable indeed.”
     Dale chuckled and whispered to Chip. “You think Cassy knows that 
guy we met in the celestial bureaucracy?”
     “Let’s hope not.”
     “Please,” Cassandra took to the air, hovering a bit over a 
matchstick box serving as a table. “Be seated.”
     The Rangers and Foxglove gathered around the table and sat down, 
Foxglove leaning heavily on Dale. Cassandra noticed with a smile that 
Dale made no motion to move her away, despite his obvious nervousness. 
Some things, she thought to herself, are easy enough to see with the 
sole gift of common sense.
     “So then what’s the case?” Monterey asked once more.
     Some type of robbery or crime like the last time you were through 
town? Zipper’s curious expression conveyed.
     “Yes, but not quite as last time,” Cassandra answered. “Several of 
the rodent performers  of this traveling carnival have had personal 
belongings stolen. All of the thefts have taken place while we were in a 
town for a couple of weeks. Only one person was burglarized in each 
incident. but it happens each time we stop for another set of shows. Our 
own security group has been able to come up with nothing, although I 
fear that their progress is being blocked by their own emotions.”
     “What do you mean?” Chip asked, knowing full well how that felt.
     Cassandra sighed sadly. “Many of the animal performers of this 
carnival have been together for years now, and those that haven’t have 
still been around for at least a year. We all know each other and feel 
more like a family than a group of coworkers. The thought of one of us 
stealing from the others is abhorrent, but seems to be the only 
explanation. Still, I feel that the security team is stalling, hoping 
that some evidence miraculously surfaces which would place the blame on 
some outside person, rather than one of our own.”
     “It could be,” Chip shrugged. “It wouldn’t be hard to follow the 
carnival around, and only steal when it’s stopped. That way, the crook 
would have the most time to grab something valuable.”
     “I know,” Cassandra said. “And it’s the same thing security hopes 
for. Nevertheless, I feel something among us. A discord, if you will. At 
first, I hoped it was merely some bad linguine I ate. Alas, it was not.”
     Chip pulled out his notepad and started to jot down notes while 
the others continued to ask questions.
     Zipper inquired if Cassandra had been robbed, but she shook her 
head.
     “I believe that the crook knows me, and fears that I could track 
any of my possessions, leading me right to him or her.”
     “Hey,” Dale suddenly said, “You could use your visions to look 
back and see who entered the rooms and stole stuff, right?”
     “Smart thinking, cutie,” Foxglove murmured, nuzzling closer.
     “Er... thanks.” Dale swallowed.
     “I am very sorry, Dale,” Cassandra replied with a sigh, “but as I 
said, I will not look in on anyone’s future, and I would not do so with 
their past, either. More importantly, I cannot control my visions. 
Sometimes they come in cryptic signs, sometimes in words, and sometimes 
I can only see brief moments, although they will be crystal clear.”
     “Golly,” Gadget thought carefully, “then that leaves us with 
investigating the rest of the carnival. How many people have been 
robbed, Cassandra?”
     “Thus far, eight. The latest was just two nights ago.”
     “What was taken?” Gadget asked.
     “A pearl. It had belonged to one of the flying squirrel acrobats. 
Shelly, I believe.”
     “Is there a pattern?” Chip tossed out as he flipped to a clean 
page. “Jewelry, trade items, actual money?”
     “No, at least not that I can tell. All are valuable, of course, 
but aside from that the thief has not being too particular.”
     “Well,” Monterey stroked his chin, “how many blokes are here, 
again?”
     “We have over fifty people in our little carnival, Monterey,” 
Cassandra answered. “But we all know each other fairly well.”
     “That’ll make for a lot of interrogations,” Dale mentioned, lost 
in thought.
     Everyone slowed turned to him.
     “Interviewing, Dale,” Foxglove corrected him playfully. 
“Interrogation isn’t nearly as... uh... nice.”
     “Too right,” Monterey chuckled.
     “Well, we’d better get started then,” Chip stated, closing up his 
notepad and standing up. “We might as well split up, to cover more 
ground.”
     The rest nodded their agreement as they got to their feet, then 
followed Chip out the hole in the tent. They divided up sections of the 
carnival among themselves, and, armed with a roster of everyone’s names, 
headed off to get the preliminary investigations done.

*    *    *

     “Okay, thanks,” Chip sighed and nodded as he closed his notepad 
for what felt like the nth time, nodding a farewell to the short 
squirrel he had just interviewed for clues. The squirrel, as all the 
others he had spoken with thus far, and seen nor heard anything of 
importance. Someone might be hiding something, of course, and Chip hated 
to admit it, but he might not have been sharp enough to catch any 
attempt at deception.
     Sighing, he headed down a back hallway behind the stage for one of 
the animal musical acts, hoping to catch one of the musicians in the 
dressing room. As he did he shook his head to clear the funk he was in. 
This was not what he needed for a case. His senses felt dull; diluted. 
He wasn’t able to focus as well as before, or as easily. He knew he had 
finally made peace with his past, but now he seemed to be lost in 
finding his way back to his old form. The disturbing thought that maybe 
he *wouldn’t* be able to flashed through his mind, but he pushed it 
aside. With Dale as a guide, he smiled to himself, being lost was almost 
as much fun as being on the path home. He figured he’d best--
     What was that?
     Chip stopped and glanced back down the way he had come. He wasn’t 
so out of mental shape that he couldn’t notice changes in his 
surroundings, such as the light rattle of what sounded like several 
small wheels rolling across the rough, concrete floor coming from behind 
him. Peering down the dimly-lit passageway, he spotted a mouse at the 
far end, moving away from him. Chip knew he didn’t pass the mouse, so 
where did the mouse come from? Quickly, he began to sprint after the 
mouse.
     “Hey, wait up!” Chip called out as he raced to catch up with the 
jumpsuited mouse. The mouse turned around, looking somewhat surprised. 
As Chip neared the mouse, he was able to spot a fair amount of details.
     The mouse was shorter than Chip first thought, only coming up to 
Chip’s forehead, but the slight graying of fur around his face showed 
that he was well into his middle ages. His fur was dark brown, with a 
slightly lighter shade over his chest and belly, similar to Chip. He was 
obviously the janitor, as in addition to the spotted gray jumpsuit he 
wore, he held a small mop in his hands. Behind him, an old jewelry jar 
on wheels served as a bucket, accounting for the noise Chip had heard. 
He had a quiet air about him, as if he only spoke when spoken to, 
spending most of his time in his own thoughts. Chip wondered if this was 
the same attitude that he, himself, was projecting these days.
     “Yes?” the mouse asked in a subdued tone.
     “Hi, my name’s Chip,” Chip said with a smile, extending his paw 
and shaking the mouse’s hand. The other mouse just looked at it 
wonderingly. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
     “Questions?”
     “Yeah. Is that a problem?”
     “No.”
     “Okay,” Chip opened up his notepad. “Oh, I never did catch your 
name.”
     “Gary.”
     “Okay, Gary,” Chip said, readying his pencil, “you’re the janitor 
here, right?”
     “Yes.”
     Chip was starting to wonder if Gary ever said more than was 
absolutely necessary. Made investigating easier, though. “You ever see 
anyone wondering around back here, when they’re not supposed to be?”
     “No.”
     “And what were you doing here, if I may ask?”
     “Cleaning.”
     “What?”
     “The floor.”
     Chip glanced at the dirt and grime-covered floor.
     “Not here, of course,” Gary clarified, shocking Chip with his 
first use of multiple words in a sentence. “In the passageway under the 
stage. The one that leads to the ticket booth. That’s smooth wood, so I 
mop up in there when I can.”
     “Oh, okay. I was wondering where you came from.”
     “Right over there,” Gary pointed to some spot along the wall where 
no apparent entrance was.
     “Uh...” Chip squinted. “Where?” Was he really in *that* bad of 
shape?
     “Here,” Gary set his mop aside and led Chip over to a small 
section of wall. He pressed up against the side of the baseboard, the 
gently slid a door open. Chip watched with interest. It was practically 
silent, meaning it had to have been lubricated, and on a regular basis. 
More importantly, it was an actual hidden door. The seams were so well 
set that he would never have seen it unless Gary had showed him. With 
disguised interest, Chip turned to Gary.
     “So tell me, Gary,” he said conversationally, “are there more 
doors like this?”
     “Oh, sure,” Gary answered flatly, either half-asleep or bored. 
“All over the place.”
     “Really?” Chip’s mouth turned up slowly in a smile. “And why do 
you guys need all of these?”
     Gary shrugged. “The carnival was built from parts they found 
around a number of human-sized carnivals. A lot of these are probably 
stage magic sets with small hidden compartments and sliding doors. Or 
something. I wouldn’t know.”
     “Well,” Chip chuckled, “you *do* know where all of the secret 
doors are, don’t you?”
     “Makes cleaning easier,” Gary replied without any emotion, then 
shuffled back to his bucket, apparently not considering the conversation 
worth continuing.
     “Oh, hey,” Chip said, catching up. “I had a few more--”
     “I have to start cracking on cleaning out the latest sets of glass 
jars they salvaged,” Gary cut in, not even looking at Chip anymore. Not 
that it mattered -- the mouse’s expression hadn’t changed since Chip 
first started talking to him. “You can finish up later,” he abruptly 
told Chip, moving his mop and bucket on down the hall, not giving a 
second glance.
     Chip watched Gary go without attempting to stop him. Gary seemed 
awfully subdued, to be sure. It could, of course, be attributed to 
working around various chemicals all the time, and the subsequent 
inhalation of the fumes, but Chip doubted that. Something else was going 
on with Gary. Chip’s smile remained as he thought about it, then moved 
on down to the hallway, feeling much more cheerful.
     He would finish up the questions he had for Gary later on. And 
then, he’d start on all the new questions his mind was working on.

*    *    *

     Dale regarded the small newt in front of him carefully. He and 
Foxglove had slowly been making their way down the midway, talking to 
the various carnies, hoping that either some of them had seen something 
or knew of someone around who might be the culprit. Talking to this guy, 
however, Dale’s gut instinct was starting to churn a bit, making the 
usually friendly chipmunk a tad suspicious. The newt ran a small booth 
were the point was to knock the thimbles off the stand -- a traditional 
game, and easily rigged, Dale knew.
     He adopted his best Clint Westwood motif; steely gaze, relaxed but 
ready stance, even tone of voice, and exuding an aura of “no mercy” 
around him. This being Dale, however, his aura was more of “er, I’m 
mean” essence than anything else. Ignoring this, however, Dale pushed 
on.
     Seeing Dale was trying to be the tough guy cop type, Foxglove 
decided that her snuggling up to him now would be a bad thing, even if 
he was so darned cute like that. Instead, she wandered around the small 
booth while her love questioned the carny.
     “So, uh, Bam was it?”
     The small newt nodded. “Yesiree Bob! You betcha! Bam Boozle, the 
greatest carny that ever worked the continental United States! I’ve see 
it all, done it all, and wrote it all off on my taxes!”
     “We don’t have taxes,” Foxglove mentioned from the side.
     “I *would* have written them off if we had them!” Bam replied, not 
missing a beat.
     Foxglove walked over to one of the stack of thimbles set up on the 
small stand. She lightly tapped her wingtip against it experimentally, 
then blinked when it didn’t budge. Curious, she knocked -- again, 
lightly -- against the stack. It did not move. Must be very heavy 
thimbles, she mused.
     “Anyways, Bam,” Dale continued, making his voice gruff again, 
“we’re looking into this string of robberies, see?”
     “Yeah?”
     “Yeah.” Dale paused, not sure what else he should say. He elected 
for the direct approach. “Did you steal anything?”
     “No!” Bam drew back with a frown. “How dare *you* accuse *me* of 
doing anything dishonest! I am of the highest moral fiber! I live and 
breathe good deeds! Not one single sin stains my person, my good friend! 
The only thing I found more abhorrent in this world than someone being 
dishonest is someone accusing someone else of being dishonest!” The 
newt’s brow drew down as he glared at Dale.
     Dale, however, wasn’t quite buying it. “You’ve been accused of 
cheating at your games before, haven’t you?”
     “A slight misunderstanding,” Bam instantly responded. “Everyone’s 
entitled to their fair share of slight misunderstandings over the course 
of a lifetime.”
     Foxglove had been hitting the stack of thimbles for a while now, 
still unable to even shift any of them the slightest bit. She couldn’t 
hit too hard, as she didn’t have the slightest idea how to hit something 
for power. Glancing about, she grabbed a piece of wood and whacked away 
while Dale and Bam continued, oblivious.
     “And how many of these, uh, ‘slight misunderstandings’ have you 
had?”
     “Not enough to make anything out of it.”
     “As many as ten?”
     “No.”
     “Twenty?”
     “No!”
     “Fifty?”
     “Well....”
     Dale blinked. “Well what?”
     “Well, I wouldn’t really count a couple of those, as it was the 
same person making the accusations.”
     “So you only had forty-eight ‘slight misunderstandings’?”
     “Much better than fifty, is it not?”
     “Much.” Dale rolled his eyes.
     Having broken the stick against the thimbles, Foxglove was getting 
officially peeved. This was personal now. She glared at them for a 
moment, almost certain they were laughing at her. She tapped a wingtip 
thoughtful to her lips, then exited out the back of the booth.
     “Well, Bam,” Dale casually leaned against one of the poles, 
completely knocking it over and bringing the overhead tarp down on them 
both.
     “No problem!” Dale called out quickly as he and Bam struggled a 
bit to free themselves from the thick awning. “No problem! I got it!” 
They managed to extract themselves from the tangle of heavy material, 
and stood breathing heavily for a moment, their repartee momentarily 
broken. “Uh,” Dale finally said, “oops.”
     “Oops, indeed,” Bam replied, shaking his head. “C’mon, let’s move 
this to the side.”
     “INCOMING!”
     Dale and Bam stopped and stared out the front of the booth in 
shock as Foxglove divebombed in at them. She held what seemed to be one 
of the strongmouse’s “lighter” weights, although it was still quite 
heavy, especially when it’s being carried around in the air. Foxglove 
had flown up a ways, circled a bit to stabilize her new weight, then 
dived in on the booth with pinpoint accuracy. If this didn’t move those 
accursed thimbles she was going to have to talk to Monterey about 
getting some explosive munitions.
     None of this, of course, mattered to the two males watching in 
horror -- they merely saw Foxglove diving in at an incredible speed on a 
trajectory which would cleanly take their heads off. Both of them 
dropped to the ground instantly, their current conversation not nearly 
as important as their lives.
     Foxglove released the weight, then turned her wings to catch an 
updraft and carry her clear of the booth while her projectile slammed 
violently into the unsuspecting stack of thimbles. The SuperGlue holding 
the thimbles down, however, held fast. Instead, the surface of the stand 
itself broke, the thimble stack being shoved through the back wall by 
the incredible momentum of the weight, crashing into another 
(fortunately, uninhabited) structure.
     Foxglove smiled in satisfaction to herself as she touched down in 
front of the booth, and admired the toppled stand, wood splinters, and 
large hole in the back wall -- all her handiwork! Hah!
     Bam was once again entangled in the tarp on the ground, and Dale 
took the hint that now would be the perfect time to exit this particular 
area.
     “Uh, c’mon Foxy,” he cheerfully said, trying not to hear the 
muffled curses of the covered newt behind him. “Let’s head back to 
Cassy’s, eh? I, uh, I think our work here is done.”
     “You betcha cute stuff,” the energetic bat beamed, stealing 
another glance at the gaping hole in the back of the booth.
     It had been a good day.

*    *    *

     “Uhm, excuse me?”
     The large rat turned to face Gadget, scowling. “What?”
     “Uh, sorry to bother you, sir,” she started, slightly unnerved at 
how large the rat was, easily towering over her by at least an inch and 
a half. “I’m part of the Rescue Rangers, and we’re investigating some of 
the burglaries that have been happening around here, and I was wondering 
if you could help.” She smiled, a disarming gesture that sent most males 
straight into the seventh Heaven of peace and tranquility.
     “So what?” the rat snorted rudely, taking a moment to wipe his 
snout with the sleeve of his stained and blackened mechanics overalls.
     Apparently, this particular male had been rejected at Heaven’s 
gates.
     “Well, I was wonder if you’d seen anything, Mister...?”
     “Knocker. Tommy Knocker,” he yawned in response while he scratched 
one of his huge biceps.
     Gadget waited a moment, then gently prompted, “Have you seen 
anything?”
     “Listen doll,” Tommy grumbled, “I’m too busy workin’ on the rides 
to being looking out for anything more than losin’ a finger when those 
idiot ride operators send one of the cars down the track without givin’ 
a holler.”
     “Golly, you work on the rides all the time?” Gadget couldn’t 
believe that was *all* the rat did, unless he loved working with 
machines as much as she did.
     “Sure as blazes feels like it!” Tommy snapped offhandedly, causing 
Gadget to step back. Since he wasn’t looking at her, she guessed his 
anger wasn’t directed at her, either, but the intensity of it still 
scared her a bit.
     He didn’t seem to love his work, though.
     “I’m... sorry to hear that,” Gadget replied best she could. It 
seemed odd to her to try and question someone who, quite obviously, had 
no desire for it at the time. Before she could muster up another word, 
however, he turned back to her, seeming a bit frustrated.
     “Yeah, I know -- you’re sorry, I’m sorry, the morons in charge of 
this whole thing are sorry... it’s the standard line around here. I’m 
sorry for bein’ stuck in this dead-end job for the rest of my life, 
they’re sorry they don’t have the I.Q. of a fence post to move me on to 
somethin’ more glamourous, and the people paying to get in are sorry 
that the shows stink.
     “And you know what’s really sad?” he said, leaning close, suddenly 
switching to “retrospective reminiscing” mode. “It’s that when I first 
signed up, they told me that there’d be lots of possibilities for 
working elsewhere. Getting on stage, singing, all that stuff -- no 
problems, they said! Easy to move up, they said! Hah, I say! And now, 
now they won’t even consider me for a new act anymore. These golden 
pipes of mine are just rustin’ away....” he sighed deeply to himself and 
closed his eyes, lost in his own thoughts.
     Which was just as well, seeing as how he had lost Gadget over a 
minute ago. She fell back on her standard operating procedure in such 
situations; smile understandingly, give a “doctor’s nod”, and agree with 
a quiet, “Yeah.”
     “Anyway,” he said, returning to his senses, “sorry, but I try not 
to think about this rotten piece of tarpaulin they call a carnival any 
more than I need to, toots. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who’s stupid 
enough to stay here deserves whatever they get. I don’t have any of 
those nice things that have been disappearin’ in the first place, so why 
feel sorry for those overpaid, no-talent showboats that get to sing the 
middle-of-the-road favorites? Serves ‘em right!”
     “Golly, you don’t mean that,” she chuckled, then blinked in the 
silence that followed. “Do you?”
     “Well,” Tommy shrugged, “maybe, maybe not. I don’t know. All I do 
know is that all people ever seem to want me for is my body.”
     Gadget blinked in total confusion.
     “I just want people to respect me for my artistic interpretations 
of the most enduring Adult Contemporary favorites of all time, you 
know?”
     Smile, nod, agree, “Yeah.”
     He frowned and grumbled a bit more, moving off and muttering to 
himself about missed opportunities to tour with Jim Croakee. Gadget 
watched him go with a thoughtful expression. He certainly seemed to have 
his mind on other things besides the current robberies, but he was also 
certainly acting odd. She shrugged and headed off, since Tommy didn’t 
seem to want to be bothered anymore. 
     For some inexplicable reason, she found herself singing an old 
tune her Dad had listened to: “Now I got those steadily depressing, low-
down, mind-messing, working at the car wash blues....”

*    *    *

     “This is the last bloke for the routine questionin’,” Monterey 
mentioned to Zipper as they checked their list. “He’s another bloke 
didn’t get an alibi for during the times of the stealin’, so let’s push 
that angle. See if somethin’ topples over ‘cause of it.” They glanced 
back up at the large and garish painted sign hanging up outside of the 
tent. In huge red and green letters it read: “SEE! The Astounding, the 
Amazing, Master of all Magic and Space and Time, the Astonishing Chris 
Well!” Glancing at some fine print near the corner, the duo noted what 
appeared to be a footnote: “And his trusty assistant, Tore”.
     Zipper glanced at Monterey, then shook his head while exhaling 
deeply. This promised to be anything but routine. Steadying themselves 
for what may lie ahead, they entered the tent.
     Their foresight proved to be wise.
     “Come, my friends!” Chris spread his black cape wide in an overly 
dramatic gesture while he stood somewhat stiffly on the makeshift stage. 
He beckoned Monterey and Zipper inside with the light and smooth hand 
gestures of either a used car salesman or a professional pickpocket. 
“Come and witness the astounding feats of fascinatingly fearful magic! 
My friends, let us amaze the skeptics, lets us baffle the critics! I 
shall bring you such magic acts as you have never seen!”
     “Thanks mate,” Monterey started cautiously, trying to figure out 
if this was an act or a mental illness, “but we’re just here to ask you 
some questions.”
     “Ah, questions!” Chris seemed far too ecstatic at the thought, and 
Monterey and Zipper simultaneously placed him in the One Nut Short Of An 
Assortment Dish category.
     “I absolutely adore questions,” Chris went on, grinning widely and 
laughing just a little too cornily. “For it is questions that I bring 
into existence within your minds; quandaries which I shall create in 
your brains; queries that I shall conjure forth inside your cerebral 
cortex. And how, you may ask?”
     “No,” the Rangers said in unison.
     “With my marvelous demonstrations of mystic prowess!” Chris 
exclaimed, either completely missing their comment or cheerfully 
ignoring it. Zipper had the distinct hunch it was both. “And to aid me 
in these feats of mental might, I call upon my trusty and skilled 
assistant, Tore!”
     The simple curtains in the back parted slightly, and a little bit 
of fog rolled out, accompanied by the sound of a slide whistle from 
somewhere just past the curtains. Monterey and Zipper stared on in 
disbelief at this stunningly inappropriate introductory sound.
     “Some mates get a gong for an intro,” Monterey mumbled.
     And we get a slide whistle, Zipper’s buzzing added morosely.
     Tore stepped through the curtains and looked out at the guests, no 
expression on his face. He was a fairly large chameleon, with dark green 
skin and large, black eyes. Monterey guessed he was one of the wild-
raised reptiles, as Tore’s skin was apparently tough enough to forgo any 
protective clothing. Most reptiles that lived in the wild were similar; 
it wasn’t until they moved to the city that they gained a sense of 
“fashion”, or even the practicality of a layer of clothing.
     “My faithful assistant Tore,” Chris stepped in front of the non-
moving and non-responsive reptile, “will now enter the dreaded Box of 
Doom--”
     “Look, mate, we ain’t here for--”
     “--wherein he shall be confined inside, as I seal the box with the 
blessed chains of Myrovia--”
     Myrovia? Zipper blinked.
     “--and secure them with the sacred lock of the Order of the 
Berobed Monks--”
     “Monks have sacred locks?”
     “--and then, with my control over powers unknown to all but the 
most profoundly wise men of science and magic--”
     Monterey tried a new approach, and cupped his hands to his mouth, 
“WE JUST WANT TO ASK YOU SOME QUESTIONS!”
     Chris blissfully ignored him, Tore slightly shook his head in 
futility, and Zipper merely groaned, running a hand down his face.
     “--I shall make this large reptile of my assistant--” Tore shot a 
sideways glance at Chris. “--vanish into the thinnest of air!” Chris 
proclaimed triumphantly, with his hands raised high to the heavens, feet 
planted firmly on the floor, and mouth wide open.
     Tore moved to the back and pushed out a large trunk, which looked 
more like a footlocker of sorts than a dreaded Box of Doom. It was set 
down with the lid facing the audience, so they could see the inside 
clearly once it was opened. Monterey and Zipper knew they should 
probably just smack Chris around a bit to get his attention, but Chris’ 
whole professional (if they exaggerated and called it that) style was so 
profoundly bad, that the two Rangers could only gaze on in morbid 
fascination -- knowing that they should avert their eyes from such a 
grotesque sight, but were held fast in the clutches of disbelief at 
anyone being *this* wretched of a performer.
     Chris continued on with narration of every detail, apparently not 
thinking that his current audience could comprehend the events 
transpiring as the lizard climbed into the box. That, Zipper reasoned, 
or Chris just liked hearing the sound of his own voice. 
     “And now, Tore shall bravely enter the legendary Box of Doom, 
wherein countless souls have met their untimely fate.”
     Tore blandly swung himself in with a soft thud.
     “And now I shall close the lid to this fiendish device. Fear not, 
my good assistant, Tore, for I shall safely transport you, body, mind, 
and soul, from this realm of existence to the twelfth level of Asgard 
and then back without harm! Yes, my friends, I shall put all of my own 
considerable talent and skill on the line to ensure my good assistant’s 
clear passage!”
     Tore yawned and closed his eyes, and Monterey sincerely believed 
Chris was putting him to sleep, unintentionally. Zipper, on the other 
hand, was starting to wonder if Tore was either mute or just not allowed 
to speak during the act.
     Chris closed the lid and locked it, then wrapped “the blessed 
chains of Myrovia” around it and latched them with the “sacred lock of 
the Order of the Berobed Monks”. He turned his idiotic grin of 
overconfidence to Monterey and Zipper as if daring them to say it wasn’t 
securely sealed. Neither of the Rangers felt the urge to give him 
another reason to talk.
     Stepping back from the box, Chris made a series of melodramatic 
gestures that would have put Sewernose De Bergerac to shame, yelling 
gibberish all the while. “Hockety Pockety Wockety Whack! Abracadabra 
Nabra Nack! Higitus Figitus Migitis Mome! Presti-digia-tone-eum!” He 
stopped the floor once, grumbled, then stomped again with a great deal 
more force.
     Pyrotechnics are fun to watch. Particularly when they malfunction.
     The Zippo lighters on the side of the stage belched forth an 
impressive amount of flame and smoke, taking out the front row of chairs 
with childish ease. Monterey and Zipper had both jumped clear long 
before the flames hit, their muscles and survival instincts honed to 
perfection from the years of surviving Gadget’s various beta-tests. 
Chris paid no heed to the rather splendid bit of destruction he had just 
caused to his own small theater, and went on with his odd dialogue over 
the noise of the burning wooden chairs. He grabbed a couple of buckets 
of sand near the stage -- this was not an uncommon occurrence for him.
     “As you can see, my friends,” he called out as he quickly dumped 
the sand on the fires before they could spread to engulf the entire 
area, “the powers from beyond are gargantuan in scope indeed. Why, were 
it not for my force of will and master of mind, we all might have 
perished, my friends!”
     The potential inferno extinguished, Chris casually tossed the 
buckets aside as he walked back over to the footlocker with the name 
“Box of Doom” painted over the lid.
     “And in addition, my friends, to saving as all from the wrath of 
the otherworldly just moments ago, I have safely willed my willing 
assistant, Tore, through space, time, and the future!”
     Monterey and Zipper shakily crept up from their hiding place to 
see Chris unlock and remove the chains, open the truck, and swing the 
lid up to reveal....
     Surprisingly enough, it was indeed empty within the darkened box. 
A slight haze from the fire still hung in the air, but Monterey could 
see no trace of the inertia-laden lizard. He suspected that there might 
be a trapdoor on stage, but he somehow doubted it -- despite the 
distraction of nearing being incinerated alive, he was fairly certain he 
hadn’t seen any type of that tricky around the stage or footlocker.
     Zipper, however, was not only unimpressed, but also rather 
annoyed. The only person whom he allowed to threaten his life with 
mishaps was Gadget, and in addition, this hack had completely ignored 
Monterey and Zipper’s attempts at questioning him in favor of performing 
his “art”. Hovering over to the center of the aisle, Zipper suddenly 
fired himself in a beeline straight for the inside of the small 
footlocker. Before either Chris or Monterey understood what was 
happening, Zipper reached the inside of the box at full force, his fist 
held out straight in front of him.
     He bounced abruptly off of nothing, and a “Whoosh!” sound was 
heard.
     Monterey squinted, feeling as if he was looking at one of those 
Magic Eye puzzles. He stared for a moment, thinking he saw a slightly 
discolored outline inside the box... and then the picture snapped into 
place.
     Tore was still inside, but had shifted to his skin pigmentation to 
match the interior shades of the footlocker. Zipper could tell from the 
start, mainly because as an insect, if he hadn’t been on to tricks like 
that he would have been some predator’s Happy Meal long ago.
     Slowly, Tore’s skin shifted back to its natural hue while he 
rubbed his stomach, and frowned at Zipper for knocking the wind out of 
him.
     Zipper merely smirked in response and flew back over towards 
Monterey.
     “Oh this will not do,” Chris snapped. “This will not do at all! 
Tore, you must remain motionless, not matter what the cost! Otherwise my 
masterful illusion and eloquent dialogue shall all be for naught.”
     “Get used to it,” Monterey advised as he walked to the front of 
the stage. Chris glared at him, but Monterey pushed on. “Listen, buddy, 
all we want is from you to answer a few simple questions concernin’ the 
robberies recently, and then we’ll be on our way.”
     Chris snorted in contempt. “What? Moi? An artist of my caliber? 
Pay attention to your silly, insignificant, and undoubtedly inherently 
flawed investigation techniques? Nay, I dare say! Nay! My friends, I am 
of the utmost moral fiber, seeking only to bring brilliant 
demonstrations of my never-ending skills and talents to succulent 
fruition! I have no need to engage in petty larceny such as the crimes 
you are accusing me of.”
     “We haven’t accused you of anythin’, mate,” Monterey replied 
tersely, his patience wearing thin.
     We certainly aren’t accusing you of being a magician, Zipper added 
with a nod.
     Chris sputtered indignantly, while Tore expertly bit his lip to 
refrain from chortling. Monterey had no such inhibitions, and chuckled 
appreciably while nudging his old friend in agreement. After a moment or 
two, Chris regained his composure and spoke evenly, albeit still in that 
odd, dramatic way of his.
     “My friends,” he stated through clenched teeth, “let us not make 
such derogatory insults and slandering without having come into 
possession of all the facts, shall we? A minor mishap here does not mean 
I am without my own certified brand of genius.”
     His attention directed at the two Rangers, Chris wasn’t aware of 
Tore’s shoulders, shaking due to his withheld guffaws.
     “Whatever, mate,” Monterey waved it aside. “Point is, these here 
thefts took place durin’ a time when nobody saw your hide about.”
     You have an alibi? Zipper’s arched eyebrow asked not-so-
innocently.
     “Of course I do!” Chris snapped. “A man of my stature and proven 
reputation, not having an alibi? I scoff at the very notion, and shall 
do so now!” He proceeded to make a number of highly disturbing noises 
with his throat, sounding as if he were choking on something still 
alive.
     “Er. Yeah. Right,” Monterey glanced at Zipper questioningly.
     Zipper’s own look of disquietude answered that he didn’t enjoy 
watching other people’s mental illness’ either.
     “Mike was right,” Monterey mumbled with a nod.
     “What?” Chris stopped his impression of a puma with a literal frog 
in its throat.
     “Never mind,” Monterey shook his head, then remembered what their 
original angle was, and decided Chris was hiding something. “So you have 
an alibi, eh? What is it?”
     “None of your business!” Chris replied with a laugh right out of 
an old B-grade horror movie.
     He was just waiting to use that line, Zipper motioned with a sigh. 
This is just plain sad.
     “Too right.” Monterey stepped up closer to the stage. “If you 
ain’t gonna tell us, then you’re gonna remain a suspect.”
     “And what do I care if I am? You think I fear the judgements of 
mentally inferior souls such as yours?” Chris drew back into an 
accusatory gesture. “Nay! I say again, nay! Nay! Nay! Because you all 
have stupid minds! You’re stupid! Stupid stupid stupid!” Chris proceeded 
to jump up and down while he shouted his mantra, in a temper tantrum 
which would have put any three-year old to shame.
     Monterey Jack and Zipper stared on in disbelief. And Chris 
considered *them* mentally inferior?
     Tore yawned, nonplussed by the whole ordeal, and wandered off 
backstage.
     Chris calmed down, settled into his regal pose of a master of 
magic, and looked down his nose at Monterey and Zipper coolly. “Now, my 
friends, if you’ll excuse me, I have more important matters which demand 
my important time and attention. You know the way out.” He stomped on 
the stage again, hard.
     The coiled spring under the stage, which was too tightly wound, 
broke through, showering Monterey and Zipper in splinters while 
catapulting Chris through the tarpaulin roof and out of sight. Rising 
back up, the two friends looked at the hole in the roof, still a bit 
overwhelmed by Chris’ truly eccentric behavior.
     “Think he landed safe?” Monterey asked.
     Think I care? Zipper replied.
     “Point.”

*    *    *

     “So what we have, then,” Chip ticked off the suspects on his 
fingers, “is a reclusive janitor, an unscrupulous carny, a disgruntled 
mechanic, and an eccentric magician.”
     “I wouldn’t give the blighter that much credit,” Monterey noted 
from across the table, and Zipper snorted in support of the Aussie’s 
assessment. “Tore did the only hocus-pocus bit, there. Chris’ talent 
seems to lie in his refusal to shut up.”
     The Rangers and Cassandra were gathered around a small table, 
eating a pasta dinner which the gypsy moth had prepared herself. Each 
Ranger had related their own tales while Cassandra brought out the food 
and beverages. Initially, Dale had attempted to pass over why he had 
left so soon after talking with Bam, but Foxglove was quick to chime in 
with all the details. She even provided accompanying sound effects.
     “Do not be too hard on Chris,” Cassandra commented in response to 
Monterey. “He’s had a difficult time for the past few months. He was 
originally the assistant to What Dini, a truly amazing showman, but What 
Dini retired, and Chris stepped up to take his place. Granted, Chris may 
be concentrating too much on his showmanship--”
     “Hah!” Monterey and Zipper scoffed in unison.
     “--rather than his actual magic skills,” Cassandra went on, “but I 
suspect he feels a great deal of pressure to fill his mentor’s shoes. He 
does act immature at times--”
     “At times?” Monterey asked in surprise.
     “--but we hope he’ll mature soon,” the gypsy moth smiled politely. 
“What Dini was a true crowd pleaser, with both the guests and the staff. 
He knew of all those passages Gary mentioned like the back of his hand, 
and would pop in and out of them in impromptu disappearing acts. Cheered 
up the crew. Chris has used them occasionally, too, and while his acts 
are less... uh... polished, the crew still enjoys a good laugh.”
     “Oh, I bet.” Chip remarked with a wry grin. “I’m still a bit 
suspect of Bam. He actually has a record of dishonesty.”
     “A record?” Dale chuckled. “Try a box set.”
     “Well, not exactly, guys,” Gadget pointed out. “He was never 
actually proven guilty on any of those counts.”
     “All forty-eight,” Foxglove nodded with a smile.
     Gadget shrugged.
     “How’s about this Tommy bloke, then?” Monterey asked as he helped 
himself to another large helping of angel hair pasta. “He doesn’t have 
any type of criminal background, right?”
     “No,” Cassandra answered.
     “He doesn’t have a friendly background, either,” Gadget noted with 
a sigh. “All the people I’ve talked with about him didn’t have anything 
nice to say about the guy.”
     Chip nodded. “He’s bitter, that much is clear. He thinks that the 
carnival owes him for keeping him as a mechanic, rather than a 
performer. His apparent disregard for the thefts makes him suspect right 
out of the gate.”
     Gadget nodded absently. The idea of a mechanic *not* loving their 
work... well, it was something the poor girl just couldn’t seem to 
grasp.
     Zipper motioned that at least Tommy was showing *some* emotion, 
while Gary hadn’t cared for either the victims or Chip’s questions.
     “Yeah, true,” Chip agreed. “He did seem more than a tad evasive.” 
He paused and glanced at Dale questioningly, who was apparently having 
trouble entwining the small fork he was using with the stringy pasta; it 
was like watching one of the Three Stoolies pretending to be a surgeon.
     “Gary likes his privacy,” Cassandra added. “I cannot say that I 
know what he does in his spare time, but he has always seemed harmless 
enough.”
     Acting on some unknown instinct, Gadget ducked as a strand of 
pasta whipped past her head from Dale’s continued efforts while she 
continued to eat nonchalantly.
     “First rule of criminals, Cassy,” Monterey grumbled. “Don’t look 
like one.”
     “Well, with our preliminary investigations done,” Gadget said, 
“what now?”
     Everyone looked to Chip expectantly.
     “Uh...” Chip stalled, quickly stuffing his mouth full with food, 
to buy him some time. The truth was, he wasn’t entirely sure. He was 
having a more difficult time getting back up to speed than he thought he 
would. Those wounds ran deep, and had festered for a long time. Healing 
would be slow, and painful, but necessary. In the meantime, however, he 
had to push himself to do the same things that just came naturally 
before.
     Leaders can not afford to take personal leave.
     Chip carefully wiped his mouth, closing his eyes and taking the 
moment to sort his thoughts. “Now, we wait. No, I take that back.” His 
eyes lit briefly as he remembered something. “What I mean is, while 
waiting for the culprit to make his next move, we can start snooping 
around the areas of the carnival, checking for clues around the scenes 
of the crimes. The thief may have left behind some evidence that the 
security missed. Oh,” the shine in his eyes brightened, “and some of us 
should talk directly to the guys who checked the first time. Try and 
compile our notes. Do some cross-checking. See if something comes up.”
     He felt better, now, for some reason. Like he was doing things 
right. So much so, that he wasn’t angry when Dale’s pasta, wrapped 
unnaturally tight around his fork, snapped -- exploding and showering 
them all in tomato sauce and Parmesan cheese.
     “I think Dale actually has better table manners,” Chip observed 
with a sigh, “when he *doesn’t* use cutlery.”
     The others nodded in unison while Dale shrugged. “Works for me.”
     After dinner (and clean-up) Cassandra decided to remain out of the 
investigation. She wasn’t sure if she could make any particular 
decisions unbiased. The thief, if it was part of the carnival, would 
basically still be part of her family, and she might unconsciously 
overlook something rather than be forced to admit someone here had 
betrayed the carnival’s trust.
     Everyone understood, and agreed. Dale and Zipper, in particular, 
remembered how they felt at the moment that Tham’s true plans came to 
light. Regardless of the circumstances involved, it was not a pleasant 
feeling.
     Thus, while Chip and Dale headed off to speak with the carnival’s 
security, Monterey, Zipper, Gadget, and Foxglove began a search of the 
various locations of the thefts. Foxglove and Zipper worked in the upper 
regions of the areas, while Gadget and Monterey checked about on the 
ground and floors. They knew it was a long shot, since the carnival 
traveled frequently enough that any vital evidence would likely have 
been lost in transit by now. Still, any possible lead was worth 
following.
     Arriving at the security office, they were greeted by the head of 
the force, a mouse named Tad. Although “greeted” was stretching it.
     “What can I do for you?” he asked, in crisp and non-bantering 
tones.
     “Hi,” Dale said, always ready for a friendly conversation and too 
dense to pick up on when the other person wasn’t feeling the least bit 
friendly. “My name’s Dale, and this is Chip. We’re here investigating 
the string of robberies you’ve been having at the carnival.”
     Tad frowned. “And?”
     “Well, we were kinda thinking that you guys could help us out, 
seeing as how you’ve been working on it for the past few months and 
all.”
     “You want us to share months of extensive research with you?” Tad 
asked flatly. “And how long have you been on this case? A day?”
     “Er,” Dale chuckled nervously, “less than that, actually.”
     “So your whopping 12 hours or so of investigation automatically 
entitles you to be privy to all our work on this case?”
     Dale blinked. This conversation wasn’t going as he had planned.
     Chip stepped up and coughed, drawing Tad’s disapproving glare to 
him. “We were contacted by Cassandra. She felt that our years of 
experience may help aid your own investigations,” he explained 
diplomatically.
     It seemed to work, for Tad’s frown shifted to a look of 
reconsideration. “Cassandra called you in? Really?”
     Chip nodded. “Please, have one of your officers go ask her. I 
don’t want any misunderstandings taking place here.”
     Tad tapped a finger to his chin in thought, then nodded. He sent 
one of his men off to check, while the two Rangers waited patiently in 
the office of the security group. As they did, Chip noticed with 
interest how it differed from the one McDugell used with the A.P.F. No 
access to human technology such as computers made the animal security 
force rely on the age-old paper filing systems. Dozens of file cabinets 
lined the walls, and Chip was sure that they only dealt with carnival 
thieves and repeat offenders. Rabble-rousers they got from the crowds 
and other troublemakers who just disturbed the peace or some other minor 
offense weren’t kept track of, in order to conserve space. After all, 
every time the carnival moved, the files had to be packed and shipped as 
well.
     Finally, the officer returned, and confirmed the Cassandra did 
indeed call the Rangers in on the case. She even vouched for their 
effectiveness. And praise from the gypsy moth was not to be taken 
lightly. Most everyone at the carnival considered a her as a 
grandmother, although Cassandra preferred to be thought of more as an 
aunt -- didn’t make her feel as old.
     With Cassandra backing the integrity of the Rangers, Tad 
practically completely reversed his position, treating Chip and Dale 
like long time coworkers, or even family.
     In such a culture as a carnival, however, the two were synonymous.
     Seated around a desk, Chip and Dale were now busy pouring over the 
records and files of the security force. Tad was going over the files 
with them, more than happy to help the Ranger’s investigation.
     Unfortunately, every paperwork lead they had hit a dead end.
     The hope that missing alibis would narrow the field evaporated 
quickly -- the string of thefts had been going on for so long that even 
when there was incomplete or questionable reports, there was no way to 
really go back and double-check. The time that passed and each of the 
moves to another town seemed to be covering the thefts all too easily. 
Tad, especially, was distressed over the whole ordeal, as he pointed out 
that if this continued, the family-like bond holding all the animals 
together would dissolve. Everyone would be a suspect.
     Dale was about as out of his element as theoretically possible. 
Charts and graphs assaulted him from the left, while diagrams and 
witness statements in shorthand attacked his exposed flank. He 
masterfully summoned up his displeasure of paperwork by finally stating, 
“I don’t get it.”
     “Hmm?” Chip asked, his attention on the folder in front of him.
     “I mean, maybe we were wrong, Chipper,” Dale explained. “Maybe the 
crook really isn’t part of the carnival, and just someone who slipped 
in.”
     “I’d like to believe that...” Tad started, but his glum tone made 
it clear he doubted it was the case.
     Chip sensed this, so prompted the security chief. “But?”
     “But,” Tad went on, “the thefts happened too cleanly to count that 
as a possibility.”
     “Cleanly?” Dale sat upright. “Hey! Gary’s a janitor! He knows all 
about cleaning! I bet he’s--”
     “No, no,” Tad quickly corrected Dale. “I meant that the burglaries 
each happened in a manner which would only happen if the thief 
intimately knew this carnival. Knew about the times of shows, where 
people would be, and where they wouldn’t be. Knew how to bypass all the 
locks and barred doors, as there was never any breaking or entering.”
     Chip stroked his chin thoughtfully, remembering how Gary had just 
appeared our of nowhere. “Gary told me that a lot of the animal sections 
were reconstructed from old magician’s sets; who else might have a good 
working knowledge of them?”
     “Anyone who took the time to learn,” Tad shrugged. “I know them as 
well as Gary, maybe even better. It’s not like they’re kept secret or 
anything.”
     Chip removed his hat and ran a hand over his head. “So we are at 
an impasse.”
     “I’m impressed, too,” Dale nodded glumly. Chip didn’t have the 
energy to correct him.
     That was when the dam broke.
     Zipper burst through the tent, sporting a triumphant grin so large 
it put any Anime character to shame.
     “We got ‘im!” he squeaked out with exuberance.
     The other three immediately leaped to their feet, tearing out 
after Zipper as the fly led the way across the carnival grounds to one 
of the back dressing rooms. The four investigators stumbled through the 
open doorway to find Gadget and Foxglove standing by Monterey Jack; the 
large Aussie was currently keeping the culprit pinned securely to the 
floor with an armlock. The mouse caught in Monterey’s grasp had its face 
pressed against the floor, but the gaudy black cape was all the 
newcomers needed to see.
     “Chris!” Tad stated in genuine shock.
     “We were checkin’ out one of the nearby spots,” Monterey explained 
from the floor, “when Zipper spotted this blighter sneakin’ along one of 
the back corridors. Me little pally had a hunch, so we followed the 
joker quietly.”
     “We watched from a distance,” Gadget continued, “while he opened 
this door, and slipped in. We sneaked up to the door, letting Foxy 
listen.”
     The bat nodded proudly. “I could hear the ruffian shuffling around 
inside. Either he was dusting, or snooping for stuff to steal. And 
Gary’s the janitor, so I guessed it was the latter.” She smiled at her 
own infallible deduction skills.
     “He stole a ladder?” Dale asked in confusion.
     “So,” Chip said, ignoring Dale, “this our criminal mastermind.”
     “Use the term loosely, mate,” Monterey advised. “You ain’t seen 
his act yet.”
     And you’re probably better off, Zipper added with smirk.
     Chip glanced down at Chris, who had dropped the small gem he was 
attempting to pocket, back when Monterey rather rudely decked him from 
behind. The amateur magician was apparently still too dazed from 
Monterey’s tackle to reply, as he hadn’t spoken two words since Chip and 
the rest arrived. Indeed, a confused expression seemed to dominate his 
features.
     Not surprising. Most villains had to reboot after a full-scale 
Monterey Jack Apprehension.

*    *    *

     “Talk to us, Chris,” Tad advised in surprisingly friendly, even 
forgiving tones. “Why did you steal all those things? Huh? Frustration 
at your lack of respect? Money? Trying to hone your sleight of hand 
skills?”
     Chris looked up at Tad and the Rangers with the same confused 
expression, and swallowed. “It... it seemed like a good idea at the 
time,” he offered weakly.
     Everyone sighed, sad not only that is was such a stupid reason, 
but also because they believed he would be stupid enough to act on it.
     At least he quit talkin’ in that bloomin’ weirdo speech pattern, 
Monterey thought to himself. Much easier on the ol’ eardrums.
     The others had also noted this, too. And while Tad suspected it 
was because Chris must’ve only been using it as a tool for the persona 
he was trying to portray, the others still firmly believed in Monterey’s 
physical blow taking its toll on poor Chris’ brain. Especially when one 
considered what Chris had to start with.
     Dale glanced at the door of the security office. “I think I’ll 
check up on Foxy,” he mentioned absent-mindedly. “Not like much is going 
on, here.”
     Chip started to agree, only to notice that Dale had already left. 
Chip had to admit, though, even he would let an awaiting loving embrace 
for the woman he loved draw him away from a simple questioning session. 
He stole a glance at Gadget, and smiled to himself. Maybe later, he 
thought, I’ll give her a hug, and thank her for just being here. Her 
smile is always infectious. Like Marie’s.
     And, for the first time since he had broken down over Marie’s 
grave, he remembered his childhood sweetheart with a smile, rather than 
a pensive frown.
     Tad’s continued gentle prodding of Chris brought his attention 
back to the present.
     “Now,” the security chief said again in those comforting tones, 
much like a parent gently scolding a child for some very bad mischief, 
“where are the stolen items, Chris?”
     “I...” Chris started, than dropped his gaze to the floor. “I can’t 
tell you.”
     Chip glanced at the others briefly. “Why?”
     But the same Chris who had been so over-elegant and verbose with 
Monterey and Zipper was dead silent.
     And, as rusty gears in his head were being oiled, Chip had to 
wonder if this was indeed the same Chris as before.

*    *    *

     “Nothing, huh?” Dale asked around a mouth full of cotton candy.
     “Nothing,” Chip sighed in response. “He didn’t talk at all for the 
rest of the session.” He and Dale were enjoying a walk down the 
carnival’s midway. The had spent the night, and now the warm afternoon 
sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, while the laughter of children 
and their parents sounded about them. They were strolling past various 
booths of chance, skill, and -- in Bam’s case -- accusations. Chip was 
enjoying this walk with Dale. His best friend’s satisfaction of the case 
made for a good sounding board for Chip to bounce his concerns off of. 
Dale, master of the obvious, kept Chip’s thoughts from getting too 
convoluted. Some cases really were just as simple as this one was.
     “And it’s weird, too,” Chip went on. “I mean, here’s a guy caught 
red-handed, admits his guilt, won’t turn over what he’s stolen, and 
everyone at the carnival is more disappointed with him than angry.”
     Dale shrugged. “Chris is a nice enough guy, I guess. Maybe he 
would’ve turned himself in if we hadn’t nabbed him. He sure is acting 
different now, I mean. Maybe he’s building a coincidence.”
     Chip grinned involuntary. “Conscience, Dale.”
     “Yeah, that thing.”
     Shaking his head, Chip turned his head to his friend, who grinned 
back and nudged Chip’s arm good-naturedly.
     “C’mon, buddy,” Dale reassured his best friend. “Buck up. The 
crook is caught. The case is solved. Happy ending, right?”
     “Right. Well, aside from the missing goods, that is.”
     “True,” Dale shrugged as he chomped some more of his sugar-rich 
snack. “Still, considerin’ how worked up we were over the whole thing, 
it was a pretty neat wrap-up.”
     “I know,” Chip’s smiled faded. “And it bugs me for some reason.”
     “Hmm?”
     “Well... it was a little *too* neat, I guess.”
     “You?” Dale gave Chip an expression of mocked astonishment. 
“Complain about something being neat?”
     “Ha ha, Dale,” Chip replied flatly, but still his smile was 
returning. It was doing that easier now. “What I mean, o’ master of 
sarcasm, is that it feels like in fell into place just a tad too easily. 
We’re looking for the thief, and then he suddenly drops in our lap. He 
even attempts a theft the night we’re still here! Granted, from what I 
heard, Chris’ act was a bomb, but he never struck me as a particularly 
stupid type. Especially if he hadn’t been caught for so long.”
     Chip sighed, then chuckled. “If we had unmasked him as Old Man 
Withers, who ran the old fishing boat, then the whole case would have 
been something right out of Scooby-Do.”
     Dale dismissed it with a wave as he swallowed his mouthful. “He 
couldn’t have been too bright,” Dale pointed out. “He didn’t use those 
secret passages, did he? Zipper never would’ve spotted him otherwise, 
right? Uh, Chip?”
     Dale glanced about for a moment, then turned behind, surprised to 
see that Chip was standing still, a blank look on his face. Dale bit his 
bottom lip and hoped he hadn’t accidentally triggered another fit of 
bawling angst. He was getting sick of those.
     “Uh, Chip?” He waved his hand in front of the immobile chipmunk’s 
eyes.
     “Dale?” Chip finally asked at length.
     “Yes?” Dale replied cautiously.
     “You know that gut instinct you’ve told me about before?”
     “Yeah?”
     “I think I just had one.”
     Before Dale could quite understand what was happening, Chip had 
grabbed his friend by the shirt and was dragging him down the midway in 
a run. Parents and children watched with interest. The children asked 
their parents what was happening. The parents explained that the 
chipmunk with the red nose was being hauled off to court by a member of 
the fashion police. The children shivered and swore off loud Hawaiian 
shirts for life.

*    *    *

     “Chris?”
     Chris glanced up from his cot in the small cell of the security 
office. There were only a few holding cells in here, normally for the 
drunks and rowdies they would sometimes get on the weekends. He spotted 
Chip, Dale, Tad, and some older mouse standing outside his bars. The new 
mouse had bald head (hair thinned out so his head fur was showing), 
white mustache, large glasses and a white coat. He smiled at Chris, 
which, for some bizarre reason, was strangely relaxing.
     “Chris?” Chip repeated, his tone cautious and wondering.
     Chris silently rose from his cot and walked over to the bars, 
gripping them loosely. “What?” he asked, his throat oddly dry.
     Chip smiled disarmingly. “We have a special guest who’d like to 
talk to you. We flew all the way back into the city to get him.”
     Chris turned a wary eye at the older mouse, who extended a paw for 
a friendly handshake.
     “So,” the mouse said as they shook paws, “I’m told you’re Mr. 
Well?”
     “Yes,” Chris replied, still a bit disoriented. “Who are you?”
     “My name’s Dr. Speck, my boy,” Dr. Speck answered with a polite 
nod. “Chip and Dale stopped by my office a little while ago and flew me 
over here to ask you a flew questions. But first...” he trailed off as 
he turned around a grabbed a large piece of posterboard, with a picture 
of the color wheel on it, except the colors all blended together 
perfectly when they touched.
     Dr. Speck smiled again. “I’d like for you to take a simple eye 
test.”

*    *    *

     “Okay, I’ll bite,” Tad finally said as he walked up next to Chip 
and Dale, who were leading the small group of Rangers and security 
personal. “How’d you know?”
     “Something was bugging me about how convenient it was for Chris to 
attempt a burglary while we were still here,” Chip replied. “Monterey 
and Zipper had already spoken to him, so he knew that we were looking 
for the thief, and that he was a suspect. Common sense would be to lay 
low, right?”
     “Right,” Tad admitted. “Still, Chris has done some pretty 
eccentric things before. No telling when his common sense machine is on 
or not.”
     Chip nodded. “It’s what was keeping me from making a connection. 
Then Dale mentioned that Chris hadn’t even been using those secret 
passages behind the walls. Now, I know he’s used them before -- 
Cassandra told us about his attempts at emulating What Dini. So why 
would he be sneaking down a hallway when he could just use a passageway 
hidden behind it? Add in his confusion over why he did the whole thing 
and adamant refusal to tell us where the items were stashed, and I 
realized that he might have made so many mistakes not only because he 
wasn’t thinking straight, but because he was innocent.”
     “Still,” Tad scratched his chin, “hypnotism seems like a bit of 
leap for me.”
     “Trust me,” Dale said, rubbing his head absent-mindedly, “I’ve 
felt the effects of it personally, before.”
     The small group stopped outside of the room where their target 
resided. The night air was filled with the sounds of the carnival, but 
with them being tucked behind the scenes, the outside noises were 
muffled, casting things in a somewhat uneasy tension.
     “You sure he’s in there?” Gadget asked quietly.
     Tad nodded. “He sleeps here, and as far as he knows, Chris has 
taken the fall, so he has no reason to suspect our late visit.”
     Foxglove motioned for everyone to quiet down, then placed her ear 
lightly against the wall. She turned back and nodded to the others, 
confirming Tad’s assessment.
     Monterey stepped to the front -- loving this part of the job too 
much to let anyone else do it -- and fiercely kicked the door in. He did 
so with such impact that the door actually snapped off of its hinges. 
That served to only make a much more impressive entrance, pleasing him 
to no end.
     Tore snapped awake at the noise, and seeing the Rangers and 
security force at his door, didn’t have to think twice about what they 
wanted. Wordlessly, he darted out of bed, slipping through a trap door 
in the floor.
     “Blast it!” Tad grumbled. “After him!”
     But the Rangers were already through the opening before he 
finished, their reaction times to escaping criminals adequately 
sharpened from years of experience. They were inside the small passage 
underneath the building almost instantly, right behind the criminal 
chameleon and in hot pursuit. It was too cramped for most of them to 
move quickly, but Zipper had no problem speeding after their quarry.
     Tore, knowing how to move swiftly in the passages, had already 
outdistanced all the other Rangers something fierce when Zipper finally 
caught up to him. It was then that Zipper realized that he didn’t have 
the slightest idea of what to do next. He really didn’t like the idea of 
just arbitrarily attacking Tore, lest he become nothing more than an 
after-dinner mint to the reptile.
     His problem was solved for him, however, when Tore reached the end 
of the passage and popped through the door leading out. Zipper had to 
work to push the door open enough for himself to slip through, but was 
still able to spot Tore running off to his left.
     The door emptied out into one of the backstage areas of the actual 
carnival. On one side was a flat, metal wall, and opposite of it a long 
row of wooden scaffolding and rigging to hold up the human’s stages and 
sets. Zipper flitted out, keeping a sharp eye on Tore, who could easily 
blend into any number of hiding places back here. As the others finally 
emerged from the passageway, Zipper squeaked to signal them. This also 
signaled Tore, however, that he was being followed. He weighed his 
options, then leapt up on to one of the wooden support beams, heading 
towards the upper rafters.
     As he expected, Zipper, and now Foxglove, were quick to fly right 
up after him. As they approached, he stopped in front of a dead end, 
looking dejected.
     “Hold it right there, mister!” Foxglove announced as 
authoritatively as she knew how.
     Tore raised his hands in a surrendering position.
     “Fine,” he said, in a surprisingly deep and resonate voice. “I 
guess you captured me, huh?”
     Zipper hovered just out of reach, keeping his eyes firmly on Tore, 
in case the chameleon attempted to blend in with the surroundings. 
Foxglove turned and yelled back to the others.
     “We got him, fellas!” she announced cheerfully, tickled pink she 
had “cornered a crook”. The rest of the Rangers still had a bit of a jog 
in order to catch up to the base of the beam, let alone climbing up to 
where she was.
     “Great, Foxy!” Dale yelled back. “We’ll be up in a minute!”
     Keep an eye on him, Foxy, Zipper buzzed. This guy might still try 
to pull a disappearing act.
     “A nice idea,” Tore shrugged, “but not quite feasible. My skin 
pigmentation doesn’t work fast enough to suddenly vanish from view. 
See?” Slowly, his skin shifted from dark green into a deep red. 
“Although it is nice for making patterns,” he admitted amiably as he 
altered the pigmentation to reflect a more tie-dyed pattern, spreading 
from his belly outward, all the while changing colors.
     Foxglove smirked, but was still carefully to keep an eye on him, 
as was Zipper.
     “Neat trick,” she commented.
     “It is, isn’t it?” Tore chuckled, low and deep. “Comes in handy at 
parties, get-togethers, and other social gatherings. Really a handy tool 
for the magician’s assistant who has to vanish in the box, as I’m sure 
the fly remembers. Not that Chris ever had the intelligence to pull off 
the illusion with any degree of grace or professionalism, I’m afraid. 
But some people are like that. Weak. Pliable. Putty in my hands....”
     Zipper was starting to suspect that Tore was up to something, and 
felt like he should be telling the performer to shut up. Foxglove, too, 
doubted that Tore was just making idle conversation. But neither of them 
took their eyes off of Tore.
     They couldn’t if they tried.
     The slow, melting colors locked their attention, while his smooth 
voice was fogging up their consciousness. Foxglove’s keen hearing was a 
curse in this case, picking up every decibel of Tore’s perfectly pitched 
tones.
     In the back of his mind, Zipper knew they’d both be totally 
incapacitated in seconds, too long for the others to arrive in time. He 
remembered how Dr. Speck had hypnotized him and Chip that one time, 
using colors the same way that Tore was doing now. He mentally yelled at 
himself to snap out of it, to wake up, to do something.
     Finally, through an immense effort of will, he snapped his eyes 
shut and leapt back, knowing only that he needed to put a safe distance 
between him and Tore. He was disoriented for a moment, then his senses 
snapped into focus. He opened his eyes and stabilized himself in the 
air, turning back to Tore and Foxglove.
     Tore had stopped talking, and had dove for Zipper when the fly 
jumped clear of the rafter, but the chameleon wasn’t fast enough. His 
hypnotism attempt interrupted, Foxglove blinked her eyes, slowly coming 
to. Before she had a chance to recover fully, however, Tore swung his 
tail swiftly about, knocking her feet out from under her, and sending 
her toppling over the edge. She was still too confused to remember who 
she was, let alone that she could fly.
     Fortunately, she bounced off of Chip, who had been the first to 
start climbing up to the rafter, then Monterey, Gadget, and Dale, 
stealing enough momentum that she thudded on the ground relatively 
softly. Having the rest of the Rangers fall on top of her didn’t help 
matters, but they weren’t up far enough to do any harm.
     Tore leapt from the rafter into the darkness, away from them and 
Zipper. Zipper darted after him, but in the shadows, Tore could hide all 
too easily. Fuming, the determined fly darted back to the rest of the 
group.
     Foxglove’s operating system was running smoothly again by now, so 
Zipper was quickly able to explain that with the shadows stealing their 
hopes of spotting Tore visually, it was up to her to pick him up 
audibly.
     “Right,” the female bat nodded eagerly, her heart beating a bit 
faster than normal over the danger she was in moments ago. And the 
Rangers did this kind of stuff *all* the time? No wonder they’re so 
high-strung. She launched herself back into the air expertly, swooping 
over into the dark recesses of the backstage area. She assumed that Tore 
was like most non-echolocation creatures, and wasn’t counting on hiding 
from her echolocation skills. Sure enough, she picked up Tore moving 
rather nosily -- in a rush, no doubt -- farther down the back of the 
sets, about to emerge on the other side of the backstage area. Spinning 
in midair, she flew back to the Rangers.
     “He’s gonna escape on the other side!” she explained. “We could 
lose him in the crowd of people!”
     “Foxy! You and Zipper follow him, but don’t let him know,” Chip 
ordered. “We still don’t know where he hid the loot. He’s probably going 
to get it now, so just track him, and we’ll catch up!”
     The airborne squadron saluted and fired off after the fleeing 
villain.
     “This way!” Chip called to the others as Foxglove and Zipper took 
off. He raced back to where they had first emerged, meeting Tad and the 
rest of the group just as they stepped out.
     “Quick,” Chip said, “where’s the nearest exit to the outside?”
     “This way,” Tad answered, running over towards a hole in the 
opposite end of the backstage area.
     “Come on!” Dale yelled the moment they were outside, spotting 
Foxglove soaring gracefully over the heads of the humans. “It’ll be 
tough to keep ‘em in sight!”
     As Dale predicted, they had a hard time of it keeping up, both 
being limited to the ground, and having to dodge around the crowd 
milling about at the carnival.
     Far ahead, Tore knew he was likely being followed, but couldn’t 
spot any sign of them offhand. Not that he was about to stand still long 
enough for a good look. He had to reach the loot and get out of here. He 
had been hoping to milk this place for a bit more, but figured what he 
had would provide adequate resources for his upcoming projects. He had 
an old friend to visit....
     Ducking inside a tent, he never spotted Foxglove and Zipper high 
above, signaling to the others below.
     Tore didn’t slow his pace for a moment, running down the planks of 
wood under the carnival’s trailers. He finally skidded to a stop by one 
of the tires, throwing aside clumps of grass and leaves, and pulling out 
the small wooden box buried within. Inside the box was his loot, and at 
the moment he was very glad indeed that he had stuck to light, portable 
items to steal. He quickly opened the lid and with drew a small belt 
which he fastened on, then stuck a small whistle in it before closing 
the box and latching it. Balancing it on his shoulder, he proceeded at a 
frantic run down the planks, to a hole within one of the smaller 
buildings. Running down the hardwood floor of a human’s back hallway, he 
headed towards the closest exit from the fairgrounds.
     And halfway there slipped and went flying, crashing back down with 
tremendous force and pain.
     Gary poked his head around from a corner near the end of the 
hallway. “Careful,” he said in his normal, dry tone. “I just mopped 
there.”
     Groaning, Tore winced as he regained his feet. The chest had 
skidded farther down, but as the injured chameleon limped several feet 
to it, he realized his accident would leave him too weak to haul the 
chest the rest of the way. Not fast enough, at least.
     As if on cue, he heard Chip yell, “Hold it right there, pal!”
     Spinning around, he spotted the Rangers and security guards 
closing the distance.
     Tore merely took a moment to catch his breath while his pursuers 
barreled down towards him.
     “Oh, you might want to watch your step--” Gary began.
     Chip was the first to get airborne, and everyone else soon 
followed suit, landing, like Tore did moments earlier, hard and 
painfully.
     Foxglove and Zipper, who had been flying and couldn’t care less 
about a slippery floor, sped down at Tore, but the staggering reptile 
wasn’t as badly injured as they took him to be. Stepping to the side, he 
snagged Foxglove by the wing and used her own momentum to spin her 
around, catching Zipper broadsided and slamming them both into the side 
wall.
     “You guys like working together so much,” Tore grunted, yanking 
the two dazed flyers out into the middle of the freshly-mopped floor, 
“I’m going to help you!” He shoved Foxglove and Zipper down the slick 
hallway, sending them careening into the mass of Rangers and security 
guards, knocking them all back down into a heap once more.
     “Strike,” Tore allowed himself a grin, albeit a bit painful one. 
He breathed deep, then started to carefully run towards the exit, 
pushing the trunk along on the freshly-mopped floor.
     Gary sighed and shook his head, upset at everyone messing up his 
clean floor. As Tore ran past, not bothering to acknowledge the lowly 
janitor, Gary simply stunk his mop handle out, tripping the chameleon 
once more, sending him skidding into the end wall with the chest.
     Even Gary had to admit he was impressed with Tore’s resilience, 
however, as the hypnotist panted slightly, then rose to his feet. He 
didn’t bother with the trunk this time, realizing his only hope for 
escape was to leave it behind. It would mean months of careful work were 
for nothing, but that was better than getting stuck in the jail here at 
the carnival. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
     Back down in the mound of heros, Gadget finally managed to 
untangle herself from the throng of people around her. “Golly,” she 
wondered aloud in a confused voice, “I wonder if this is what an 
autograph session is like....”
     “Everyone okay?” Tad asked as he helped a few other security 
guards up. The responses were positive, if slightly shaken.
     “He went through here,” Gary called out to them, pointed to the 
small hole Tore had just slipped through.
     “Why didn’t you try to stop him?’ Chip asked as everyone carefully 
trotted towards the exit.
     “You saw what kind of punishment he could take,” Gary replied with 
a shrug. “I’m not Jackie Chance, pal.”
     Chip just gave him a look as he and the others poured out after 
Tore.
     It seemed Tore was more confused than everyone thought, as he had 
raced as fast as his body would let him to the top of a empty hill, 
blowing on the whistle from his belt like a maniac.
     “You can stop signalin’ us, mate!” Monterey called out as they 
neared him. “We can see you just fine!”
     Tore ignored him and continued to blow on the whistle a number 
more times before his wind gave out, and he kneeled to the grass, 
exhausted.
     Foxglove and Zipper circled above, in case he decided to try and 
make one last break for it. The rest of the group slowly encircled him 
on the ground, relieved it was finally over. There was nowhere left to 
go.
     “I gotta hand it to ya, mate,” Monterey said, catching his breath. 
“That was a humdinger of a race ya led us on.”
     “It’s over, Tore,” Tad stated as forcefully as his labored breath 
would allow. “You left the stolen items back in the hallway, we know you 
hypnotized Chris--”
     “Careful!” Foxglove yelled from above. “He changes his skin color 
to do it!”
     Zipper buzzed loudly, confirming what Foxglove said, and pointing 
out it was the same method used by Dr. Speck.
     “Two things,” Tore explained between gasps, “First, like Yogi Bera 
once said, ‘It ain’t over ‘till it’s over’. And second,” another gasp 
for breath, “my name is not Tore. That was Chris’ idea. And therefore, a 
bad one.”
     In the dark of the night, it was only Foxglove’s superior hearing 
which gave them any warning.
     “FALCON!” she screeched, hearing the bird of prey moments before 
it swooped in from nowhere. Everyone ducked for cover, their desire to 
capture Tore -- or whoever he was -- dwarfed by their natural instinct 
to stay alive.
     The falcon dived in, snatched up Tore with pinpoint precision in 
its claws, and flew off into the night sky. The rest of the group slowly 
rose, looking out after Tore with horror at the fate that awaited him.
     But, like so many other things today, it was merely an illusion.
     “Farewell, ‘my friends’,” Tore called out with a laugh, mocking 
Chris’ catchphrase. “I leave you with the knowledge I won’t forget this 
transgression against me.” His deep voice echoed eerily from all around 
them. “When next we meet, perhaps you’ll know the true power of the 
adversary you faced off with tonight! Give my regards to the local 
A.P.F.!”
     Then, all was silent.
     Foxglove landed next to Dale, a bit depressed. She had hurt her 
wing in that earlier slam against the wall, but wouldn’t have been to 
catch up with a falcon even if she was perfectly heathy. Zipper, too, 
landed with a sigh on Gadget’s shoulder. She turned an understanding 
face to him, lightly rubbing his brow. Everyone remained staring out 
after where they last saw “Tore” vanish, until Dale finally stated what 
no one wanted to admit.
     “He got away, Chip.”
     “I know, Dale.” Chip slowly answered with a frown. “I know.”

*    *    *

     “Nonsense!” Cassandra sternly scolded the Rangers. “You did a 
*marvelous* job!”
     The Rangers and Cassandra were at the gates of the carnival, which 
was being dismantled, packed up, and being made ready to move to a new 
town.
     “The stolen items were all recovered, you proved Chris was 
actually innocent, and uncovered Tore’s plans in time to prevent any 
real damage.”
     “Yeah, I guess,” Chip shrugged. “Tore still got away, though.”
     “Or whoever the blighter was,” Monterey grumbled.
     But Cassandra dismissed with a wave of her hand and a soft 
tinkling of jewelry. “My dear Rangers, he may have escaped, but I do not 
need any otherworldly senses to tell you of your own ability to twist 
fate around you.”
     “Come again?” Dale asked, his face the textbook example of puzzlement.
     “You have a greater effect on lives than you can perceive,” the 
wise female replied. “And somehow, through forces we cannot see nor 
understand, events you become involved in come to some type of 
completion. Not always as we’d prefer, but completion nevertheless.” She 
smiled knowingly at them. “I will venture to say it is a very good 
chance that your paths may cross with Tore’s yet again. And that time, 
you will be prepared for his trickery.”
     Monterey grinned at that, “Ah, ya shoulda been a cheerleader, 
luv.”
     Cassandra laughed lightly. “Thank you Monterey, but I fear I do 
not have the figure, nor the limberness, for such athletics anymore.” 
The rest of Rangers chuckled with fortune teller.
     “Feel better, Chip?” Gadget asked her friend with honest interest.
     Even if he didn’t beforehand, her smile more than corrected that. 
“Yes,” Chip replied, returning her smile. “Thanks, Gadget.”
     And then, as he promised himself earlier, he gave her a strong 
hug, holding her close. She blinked in surprise at this sudden show of 
affection, friendly though it may be, and felt her cheeks start to grow 
warm. Chip could feel her heartbeat through his chest, and as she 
wrapped her arms around him to return his hug, he felt it beat faster.
     A wonderful, warm feeling filled him to the core, and he knew he 
was starting to get addicted to the taste of it.
     The rest of the Rangers and Foxglove politely remained quiet, 
Foxglove herself taking a cue and giving Dale another strong hug from 
behind. Dale grinned, stroking the wings around his chest that he had 
taken such a fondness of.
     Chip gently separated from Gadget, his paws sliding down her 
forearms and resting gently in her own paws. “Thanks, Gadget.”
     “M-my pleasure, Chip,” Gadget stammered slightly, then abruptly 
cleared her throat and removed her hands from his, fidgeting slightly, 
as she remembered that they weren’t exactly in the most secluded of 
locations.
     “In any case, Cassy,” Monterey said with a smile, giving Chip and 
Gadget a chance to regain their composure, “thanks for lettin’ us in on 
this. It was rip-snorter of time, that’s for sure!” He lightly kissed 
her hand in respect, and she hugged him in return.
     “Do take care of yourselves, my good friends,” she said as she and 
Zipper hugged each other goodbye, which was an interesting sight when 
the huggers are both flying at the time. “I do wish I could spend more 
time with you, but my life is for the road, as it is for all gypsies, 
moths or human.”
     “Just let us know when you’re back in town,” Gadget replied.
     “Yeah,” Chip agreed, “and this time we can just have a quiet 
dinner at our place for a change.” He glanced at Dale. “No pasta, 
though.”
     The Rangers waved and headed off to where they parked the Ranger 
Plane. They had climbed in and had started for home when Dale suddenly 
asked Chip, “Wait. What do you mean, ‘no pasta’?”
     Cassandra watched them go with a smile, waving once more to them 
before the Ranger Plane disappeared from sight. She then turned and flew 
back to her tent, to finish her own packing.
     The entire carnival was gone within a few hours, and thus 
Cassandra, and the Rangers, never got a chance to meet the small group 
of insects who had headed over to see if any fellow Insecta in the 
carnival would have been interested in joining a budding insect 
coalition called Swarm.
     But as Cassandra mentioned, some fates were destined to cross.

The End

The Rescue Rangers, Cassandra, and all other characters from the series 
are [c] copyrighted by Disney; all other characters and this story are 
[c] copyrighted 1999 by Matt Plotecher. This story takes place in the 
“Chip Noir Dale’s Rescue Rangers” universe, also [c] copyrighted 1997-
1999 by Matt Plotecher. Distribute freely, but do not modify.